Frightened
black faces began to peer out. Low exclamations and guttural ejaculations
were heard as the armed men scattered, one to each cabin, while the sheriff
hammered at the door where the dogs were jumping.
"It's the sheriff!" he called, "come to get Abram Washington. Bring him out
and you kin go back to your beds. We're all armed, and nobody need to try
runnin'."
The door opened cautiously, and an old negro looked out. "Abram's my son,
Mr. Partin," he said, "an' 'fo' Gawd he ent yer."
"No lyin', old man; the dogs brought us straight here. Don't make me burn
the house down; open the door."
The door was closing, when the sheriff, springing from his horse, forced it
steadily back. A shot came from within, but it ranged wild, and in an
instant the sheriff's pistol covered the open room, where a smouldering
fire gave light. Two of the men followed him, and one, making for the fire,
pushed it into a blaze, which revealed a group of negroes--an old man, a
young woman, some children, and a young man crouching behind with a gun in
his hand. The sheriff walked straight up to the young man, whose teeth were
chattering.
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