I hear it 'lowed that Square Kyahtah's too sick ter hol' co'te this
evenin'," said one, "an' that the purlim'nary hearin' 'll haf ter go
over 'tel nex' week."

A look of disappointment went round the crowd.

"Hit 's the durndes', meanes' murder ever committed in this caounty,"
said another, with moody emphasis.

"I s'pose the nigger 'lowed the Cap'n had some green-backs," observed a
third speaker.

"The Cap'n," said another, with an air of superior information, "has
left two bairls of Confedrit money, which he 'spected 'ud be good some
day er nuther."

This statement gave rise to a discussion of the speculative value of
Confederate money; but in a little while the conversation returned to
the murder.

"Hangin' air too good fer the murderer," said one; "he oughter be burnt,
stidier bein' hung."

There was an impressive pause at this point, during which a jug of
moonlight whiskey went the round of the crowd.

"Well," said a round-shouldered farmer, who, in spite of his peaceable
expression and faded gray eye, was known to have been one of the most
daring followers of a rebel guerrilla chieftain, "what air yer gwine ter
do about it? Ef you fellers air gwine ter set down an' let a wuthless
nigger kill the bes' white man in Branson, an' not say nuthin' ner do
nuthin', _I 'll_ move outen the caounty."

This speech gave tone and direction to the rest of the conversation.
Whether the fear of losing the round-shouldered farmer operated to bring
about the result or not is immaterial to this narrative; but, at all
events, the crowd decided to lynch the negro. They agreed that this was
the least that could be done to avenge the death of their murdered
friend, and that it was a becoming way in which to honor his memory.
They had some vague notions of the majesty of the law and the rights of
the citizen, but in the passion of the moment these sunk into oblivion;
a white man had been killed by a negro.

"The Cap'n was an ole sodger," said one of his friends solemnly. "He 'll
sleep better when he knows that a co'te-martial has be'n hilt an'
jestice done."

By agreement the lynchers were to meet at Tyson's store at five o'clock
in the afternoon, and proceed thence to the jail, which was situated
down the Lumberton Dirt Road (as the old turnpike antedating the
plank-road was called), about half a mile south of the court-house. When
the preliminaries of the lynching had been arranged, and a committee
appointed to manage the