“And what’s more,” Orry said importantly to a new group of listeners, “they’re not going to let him get away with it. There’s talk of breaking into the jail and stringing him up.”
Soon word flashed through town and into the farming district that a crowd had gathered in front of the country jail for the purpose of lynching Claude Warren. This story in itself created the crowd which previously had not existed. Men, women and children flocked into the square facing the jail and waited expectantly for something to happen. Nothing happened. The crowd had no purpose or direction and they lacked leadership. Each individual member of the throng considered himself not a potential participant in whatever was about to take place, but merely a spectator to what the others were going to do.
An hour passed and it began to grow dark and the crowd grew more and more restless. They were in the mood of an audience that has paid out good money to see a show, the opening curtain of which has been delayed too long. If they had been in a theatre they would have stamped their feet and whistled. As it was they milled about and looked questioningly at one another and began to murmur, at first petulantly and then angrily. Finally, the shrill piping voice of a small boy rose above the murmur: “We want Claude Warren!” Others eagerly picked up the cry and, as they began to roar in unison, they ceased to be individuals and became a mob.
Inside his office, Sheriff Ben sat at a desk with three loaded revolvers before him. He opened a box of shells and began to load a shotgun. Lonnie, the deputy, was nervously pacing the floor.
“You’re not going to be fool enough to resist them, are you, Ben?” he asked.
“Can you figure out anything else to do?” asked the sheriff.
“It’s crazy,” said Lonnie. “They’ll tear us to pieces. I ain’t going to risk my life for no lousy killer. That ain’t what I’m being paid for as a deputy.”
“And you’re not a deputy anymore,” said Sheriff Ben. He ripped the badge off Lonnie's shirt front, unlocked the door and shoved him out. “Now go howl with the rest of the jackals.”
He locked the door again and went back and sat at his desk. He listened to the growing roar from outside and he began to tremble and the palms of his hands were moist. In electing Ben Hodges sheriff, the citizens of Green Valley had not bestowed on him superhuman courage. Sheriff Ben was afraid.
The mob had now achieved purpose and direction and it was not long before they obtained leaders. The people of Green Valley had long looked to certain men for leadership in politics, civic enterprises, and church affairs. It was only natural that, in this current project, they looked to the same men for guidance. And those men, out of long habit, accepted the responsibility. Orders were given and eagerly obeyed and soon a heavy timber had been produced and was aimed as a battering ram at the door of the jail.
“Sheriff Ben,” yelled Dolph Hardy, one of the leaders, “we’ll give you one last chance to deliver Claude Warren before we come in after him.”
There was a moment of waiting and then the door opened and Sheriff Ben appeared. Orry Quinn, who was in the forefront of the mob, yelled an obscenity at him and the Sheriff made a move toward him. Orry scurried back into the crowd.
“If I lay my hands on you, Orry,” said the sheriff, “I’ll slap your face to pulp.” Then he looked over the mob. “I am quite willing, however,” he said, “to discuss matters with responsible members of this community.”
“Cut out the talk,” said Dolph Hardy. “We want Claude Warren.”
The mob surged forward but Sheriff Ben held his ground.
“Who said you couldn’t have Claude Warren?” He held out his hands placatingly. “Take it easy, boys,” he urged. “I’m a reasonable man.” As the men in front fell back a little and stared expectantly at him, Sheriff Ben continued to speak in a soothing voice. “The thing is,” he said, “I don’t want any mob tearing through my jail and ripping things apart. This is your own property and if you destroy it, you’ll have to replace it out of your own pockets.”
At this there was an angry, impatient murmur from the mob. The sheriff held out his hands for silence.
“I’m not saying you can’t have Claude Warren,” he declared. “I’ll deliver him to whichever one of you wants to come in an orderly and decent manner to get him.” He looked at Dolph Hardy. “How about you, Dolph? You’ve been hollering your head off for him. Supposing you come in and get him?”
Dolph gave the sheriff a startled look and tried to press himself back into the mob. The others urged him on, however, and finally and reluctantly he came up the steps toward the sheriff. Sheriff Ben shoved him inside and then locked the door.
“There he is,” Sheriff Ben said to Dolph, pointing to a corner of the office. “He’s all yours.”
Dolph turned and faced Claude Warren, who was sitting in a chair, his wrists bound by handcuffs and his face swollen and discolored from the beating administered by his captors. Claude looked up at Dolph and his eyes were alive with hopeless, helpless terror. Dolph stared into those eyes and then his mouth dropped open and he shifted his feet and seemed to be at a loss as to what to do next.
“Funny thing, Dolph,” said the sheriff musingly, “but Claude looks a lot like your youngest son, Willie, doesn’t he? Same size and age. Want to sock him a couple of times before you deliver him to the mob Dolph? Go right ahead. He can’t hit you back, he’s handcuffed.”
Dolph cringed and turned his face away from the look of animal fear in Claude’s eyes.
“Better yet,” said Sheriff Ben, placing his hand on Dolph’s arm. “Why don’t you kill him right here and now, Dolph?”
Dolph stared unbelievingly at Sheriff Ben and began to back toward the door.
“Why not?” asked Sheriff Ben. “You were so all-fired blood-thirsty a while ago. You were willing to help kill Claude. Do you mean to say you haven’t got the courage to do the job all by yourself? And, look, Dolph, if you do, someday those people out there will be awfully grateful to you. If they kill Claude collectively tonight, someday they’re going to have to answer for it individually to whatever God they believe in and, if they happen to believe in hell, why, they’re going to have to roast for it. If you take sole responsibility Dolph, think what a terrible load you’ll lift from the conscience of your neighbors in Green Valley.”
He took Dolph by the elbow and led him over to the desk where the guns were.
“Would you like to shoot him, Dolph?” he asked. “Help yourself. Which do you prefer — a shotgun or a pistol?” As Dolph stared in horror at the array of weapons, Sheriff Ben opened a drawer and picked up a blackjack. “Or maybe you’d rather take this and beat his brains out,” he said.
He extended the blackjack toward Dolph and Dolph stepped back, his face beaded with perspiration and his eyes sick with dread.
“Of course,” went on Sheriff Ben, “your original intention was to hang him, wasn’t it?” He turned and looked about him. “Now, let’s see,” he said, “where can I find a really good sturdy rope?”
Dolph turned from him and rushed to the door, clawing at the lock with shaking hands. Sheriff Ben unlocked the door for him and shoved him out into the opening in the face of the tensely expectant mob.
“It seems,” said Sheriff Ben in a loud voice, “that Dolph doesn’t want Claude Warren any more.”
Dolph looked over the mob and it seemed that suddenly he hated every individual in it.