Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 273, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 17 November 1915 — THE LYNCHING BEE [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

THE LYNCHING BEE

By H. S. WATSON.

“Come out, sheriff! Give up your prisoner!'* yelled the mob. John Artemus looked out of the window of his little home The mob had already battered down the flimsy doors at the entrance to the prison yard. They stood without, an infuriated crowd, awed temporarily only by the fear of the unknown. John Artemus was as much feared as he was respected. He was the man to spring a surprise on them. They hesitated, but they did not cease yelling. It was six o’clock in the afternoon. The militia, for which the sheriff had telephoned upon receipt of news that the mob was on its way, could not arrive till midnight. John Artemus looked out. Two rooms away his little daughtei accustomed to the cries of the prisoners, and knowing nothing what this new outburst portended, was playing with her dolls. A wonderful collection Dorothy had, ranging from life size to the regular ten-cent doll, but all were equally cherished by her. She was the heart of the sheriff's life, and had been since her mother died in giving birth to her. “Come out!” the mob was howling. John Artemus unlocked the door and stood upon the steps of his house, confronting the mob boldly. “Boys,’ - he began, “you want Jim Sandford?’ “Yes, and we mean to have him!” shouted their spokesman “Beat up old Mrs. Rogers and stole her ten dollars. We’ll fix him!” “There has never been a lynching In Custer county," the sheriff began. “We’h have one now,” said the other. The crowd had shrunk back at first, thinking the sheriff was armed, but now, concluding that he was not, they began to press forward about him. They saw the look of indecision on his face. John Artemus was cowed. A yell arose again. The sheriff held up his hand. •‘l’ll bring him out to you,” he said. “No tricks, mind! The Jail’s surrounded. You’d better play fair, or we’ll burn down the place.” “Give me five minutes.” “We’h come and get him.” “There’ll be no jail-breaking when I’m in charge,” retorted Artemus, his face assuming that look which had cowed the mob before. “I’ll defend it

to the last. Be sensible, men! If I bring your prisoner out to you—” "You can have five minutes, then,” retorted the leader, taking out his •watch. In his cell the wretched negro, hearing the clamor and knowing what it portended, cowered in terror. He heard .the cries cease and begin again. Then he heard footsteps, the door of his cell snapped open, and Artemus appeared. “Save me!” pleaded the wretched man. / “Come with me,” answered the sheriff. He rushed him along the passage and through his house into the little garage where his car was waiting. He pushed the negro inside. “Crouch down, and not a sound!” he whispered. He went back into the house, where his lit de girl was still playing. "It’s time for you to go to bed, Dorothy ’ he said. The little girl began to put her dolls together. “.Never mind. I’ll do that tonight,” he said. Outside the crowd was waiting. Their leader, watch in band, counted the half-minutes. The time seemed to pass with incredible slowness. At last the five minutes were up. The' mob advanced. “Come along, sheriff!” shouted their leader again. There was no answer. He hammered upon the door. “Time’s up!” he yelled. And, as no reply came, he began battering at the panels. The mob, suspicious of trickery, brought forward the plank with which they had smashed down the outer doors. “Watch the back!” yelled their leader, as the sudden sound of a cranking engine reached their ears. A concerted rush to the back doors was made. But before the mob reached them they swung wide open. There was a moment’s pause—and out sped the sheriff’s machine. In it the sheriff and the grotesque form of the panloetricken negro.

So sudden was this AU&suver that the mob was taken aback. The rush of the automobile scattered them; shots were fired, but in the darkness they went wide. The machine, gathering momentum, sped down the road. For a moment or two Sheriff Artemfis breathed freely as he sped down the road. Then the cries, which had grown faint, began to become louder again. Casting a hurried look back he saw the headlights of distant cars pursuing him. So the mob had come in automobiles! Everything seemed to have been foreseen. He let out his machine to the full. He believed that he could outdistance his pursuers. He heard faintly the crack of revolvers behind him, but the bullets did not reach him. He was distancing them. At the bend of the poad, five miles from the prison, he saw only tiny, distant flashes of light, Indicating the presence of the pursuing machines. He slowed down until he saw their lights swiftly approaching, and, with a roar and a rattle of his engine, started again. Yells of triumph pursued him. The bullets clove the air about him. He put on speed. The distance remained about the same. Then slowly he began to draw ahead of them. He led them a dance that night that was never forgotten. Mile after mile was reeled off, until the gasoline began to fail. 'Three counties were crossed. Still the sheriff sped on, and the pursuers, trailing off, began to lose hope. Then the sheriff would slow down and wait for them. They caught him at dawn. Only one car had followed him, but in it were the leader of the lynching party and three of the most determined. By the faint light they saw the sheriff and their victim. “Surrender!” they yelled, and Sheriff Artemus held up his hands. A rope was brought out and, looped, flung round the throat of the grotesque figure in the car. One end was fastened to a limb of a water oak. Amid a chorus of yells the figure, Jerked from its place at the sheriff’s side, swung swiftly aloft. The revolvers were emptied into it. Sheriff Artemus suddenly pulled a revolver with either hand and covered the little group of four. The leader turned to him with a puzzled look. "Say, what’s the game, sheriff?” he asked. “It’s over now.” “Get into your car and drive slowly ahead,” answered Artemus. “I can outrace you, and I’ll shoot every man who doesn’t sit quiet. You’re going to drive to the jail at Ransome First, look at that tree again.” They looked, and, in the gathering light, saw the grotesque figure of Dorothy’s rag doll with the negro face swinging sardonically from the limb. “I dropped Jim Sandford twenty miles back,” announced the sheriff softly. “Hop in, gentlemen, if you want to get to Ransome alive.*' (Copyright, 1915, by W. G. Chapman.)

Cowered in Terror.