"That was a strong sermon our minister preached tonight," said yet another. "He said we'd have to stamp out crime and make a warnin'. The preacher e'en--a'most pointed out what we ought to do."

"... We'd ought to make a clean sweep of this whole family," said the same young man, more boldly now. "They're a bad lot--both her son and her."

"... We could break into the jail easy," said someone, after a time.

"Cowles couldn't keep us from it. Maybe he wouldn't want to."

"... The trouble is," resumed the voice of the young man who had earlier spoken, "it's hard to make a law case stick. We've seen how that worked out in the trial yesterday--he came clear--they dropped the case, and nothing was done. Old Eph Adamson had to take all the medicine. But we ought to take our place as a law-abiding community--I've always said that."

"And G.o.d-fearin'," said a devout voice.

"Yes, a G.o.d-fearing community! It's been twenty years now that that woman has flaunted her vice in the face of this community."

"Ain't a man in this town that don't know about her--it's just sort o'

quieted down, that's all," said a gray-bearded, peak-chinned man grimly; which was more or less true, as more than one man present knew, himself not guiltless enough of heart at least to cast the first stone at Aurora Lane.

"In the old times," grinned one stoutish man, chewing tobacco and speaking to a neighbor who held a hand cupped at his ear, "the folks wouldn't of stood it. They'd just 'a' had a little feather party. They rid such people out of town on a rail them days--that's what they done.

And they didn't never come back after that--never in the world. As for a murderer--they made a eend of him!"

"And so could we make a eend of it all right now, this very night, if we had a little sand," said another voice.

For a time all these speakers fell silent, seeking resolve, waiting for an order, a command. But as they became silent they grew more uneasy.

They broke ground, shifted, milled about, still like cattle. Then head was laid to head, beard wagged to beard again.

And then, all at once, it broke!

"_Come on, boys!_" cried a loud voice at last--not that of the young man who first had spoken--not that of any of these others speakers who had hesitated, lacking courage of definite sort. "_Come on! Who's with me?_"

The town of Spring Valley never mentioned the name of this speaker. The report got out in a general way that he was a farmer who lived a few miles out in the country. Indeed, sympathy for Ephraim Adamson's bad fortune in this case was no doubt largely at the bottom of this affair tonight--along with these other things; sympathy for Tarbush; the sermons of the preachers; the emotional spell of the dirge music, still lingering on these crude souls. No mob reasons. It was plain that most of the men, though not all, were farmers. But now they all fell in behind the leader as he started, a motley procession. Some folded handkerchiefs and tied them about their faces. Yet others reversed their coats, wearing them with the linings outside. Others pulled their hats down over their eyes.

Their feet, although not keeping time, none the less caught a ragged unison, in a sound which could have been heard at a considerable distance. Dan Cowles heard it now, and came to the door of the county jail. As he saw the crowd, he drew a long breath.

"They're coming here!" said he to himself at length. "I reckon they'll try to get him. I'll hold him anyways, and they know that." Quickly he darted back into the jail.

The procession debouched at the edge of the jail yard square, halted for a moment, then came on steadily, because someone at their head walked steadily. Perhaps there were seventy-five or a hundred of them in all.

Most of them were neighbors, nearly every man knew who was his neighbor here, even in the darkness. Not one of these could precisely have told why he was here. By some process of self-persuasion, some working of hysteria, some general acceptance of the auto-suggestion of the mob, most had persuaded themselves that they were there to "do their duty."

It sounded well. If, indeed, they had been brought hither merely by the excitement of it, merely under the hypnosis of it, they forgot that, or tried to forget it, and said they were there to do their duty--their duty to their G.o.d-fearing town.... But in the mind of each was a picture out of the past of which we may not inquire. That night far worse than murder might have been done.

"We want him, Dan. Bring him out!" The voice of the leader sounded dry and hoa.r.s.e, but he did not waver, for he saw the sheriff make no move of resistance.

"You can't get him," said Dan Cowles. "You couldn't even if he was here.

But he ain't here."

"What do you mean, he ain't here? We know he is!"

"Come in and see," said Cowles, stepping back. "I just been to his cell and he ain't there. Come in and search the whole jail."

They did come in and search the jail, piling into the corridors, opening every door, looking into every room even of the sheriff's living quarters, but the jail was empty! There was no prisoner there at all.

"We want Don Lane, that killed the city marshal," repeated the husky voice of the leader once more. "Where is he?"

"I don't know," said Sheriff Cowles. "If I did, I wouldn't tell you."

And indeed he spoke only truth in both these statements.

"I know!" screamed a high voice in the middle of the man pack. "He's maybe up at her house--'Rory Lane's. Let's go search the place--we'll get him yet!"

It was enough. The mob, thus resisted, disappointed, began to mutter, to talk now, in a low, hoa.r.s.e half roar of united voices. They turned away on a new trail. Some broke into shouts as they began to hurry down the brick walk of the jail yard. They jostled and crowded in the street, as they came into the corner of the public square. A general outcry arose as they caught sight of the light in the window of Aurora Lane's little home, a half block down the street, beyond the corner of the square.

Aurora heard the sound of their feet coming down the sidewalk. She heard the noise at her gate--heard the crash as the gate was kicked off its new-mended hinges--heard the men crowd up her little walk, heard their feet clumping on the little gallery floor. Her heart stopped. She stood white-faced, her hands clasped. What was it? What did they mean? Were they going to kill her boy? Had they killed him? Were they going to tell her that? Were they going to kill her, too?

"Come on out!" she heard someone calling to her. It seemed to her that she must go. In some strange hypnosis, her feet began to move, unsanctioned by her volition.... She stood at the door facing them all, her eyes large, her face showing her distress, her query, her new terror. On her face indeed was written now the whole story of her despair, her failure, her terrible unhappiness. She had aged by years, these last twenty-four hours. Now sheer terror was written there also.

The mob! The lynchers! The avengers! What had they not and more than once done in this little savage town?... A picture rose before her mind ... a horrible picture out of the past. Wide-eyed, she caught at the throat of her gown, caught at the covering of her bosom--and then went at bay, as does any despairing creature that has been pressed too hard.

She looked down at them. Those nearest to her were masked. Back of them rose groups of shoulders, rough clad, hats pulled down.... No, she did not know one of them; she did not recognize even a face--or was not sure she had done so. They jostled and shifted and pushed forward.

"No! No! Go back! Go on away!" she cried, pale, her eyes starting. And again she called aloud, piteously, on that G.o.d who seemed to have forsaken her.

"Come on out!" cried a voice, thick and husky. "Come on out, and hurry up about it. Bring him out--we know he's here. We want Don Lane, and we're going to git him--or we'll git you. d.a.m.n you, look out, or we'll git you both! Where's that boy, that killed the marshal?"

"He's not here," answered Aurora, in a voice she would not have known to be her own. "I don't know where he is. Believe me, if he's not there in the jail, I don't know where he is. What do you want of him? He's not here--I give you my word he's not."

She still stood, near the door, her hands clutching at her clothing, a mortal terror in her soul, her frail woman's body the only fence now for her home, no longer sanctuary.

"You lie! We know he is here--he ain't in the jail. If the sher'f let him out, he'd come here. You've got him hid. Bring him out--it's no use trying to get him away from us. We want him, and we've come to git him."

The words of the leader got their support in the rumble of fourscore throats.

"I'm telling you the truth," quavered poor Aurora Lane. "Men, can't you believe me? Have I ever lied to you?"

A roar of brutish laughter greeted this. "Listen at her talk!" cried one tall young man. "Fine, ain't it! She's been just a angel here! Oh, no, she wouldn't lie to us about that boy--oh! no, she never has! Why, you ain't never done nothing _but_ lie, all your life!"

They laughed again at this, and became impatient.

"This is her little old place," began the same voice. "I've never been in it before. I bet they's been goings-on, right here, more'n once."

"That's so!" said a man whose mouth corners were drawn down hard. "And in this here G.o.d-fearin' town o' ours, that's always wanted to be respectable."

"Sure we did, all of us!" encored the cracking treble of the same tall, well-dressed young man. "Whose fault if we ain't? She's his mother. This whole business come of her bein' what she is--looser'n h.e.l.l, that's all.

We stood it all for years--but this is too much--killin' the city marshal----"

"I didn't!" cried Aurora Lane, ghastly pale. "He never did. I've tried to live here clean for twenty years. Not one of you can raise a voice against me--you cowards, you liars! My boy--if he were here, not any ten of you'd dare say that! You'd not dare to touch him. Oh, you brutes--you low-down cowards!"

"We'll show you if we don't dare!" rejoined the steady voice of the leader. "Fetch him out now and we'll show you about that. We're goin' to git him, first 'r last, and it's no use trying to stop it. We'll reg'late this town now, in our own way. If that boy's out of jail, he's either skipped or else he's here. Either way, the safest thing to do is to come on through with him. If you don't, we'll see about _you_--and we'll do it mighty soon. Bring him out."

"Oh, h.e.l.l!" shrilled a falsetto voice, "you're wastin' time with her.

Go on in after him--she's got him hid--she's kep' him hid for twenty years and she's keepin' him hid now--and you can gamble on it! Go on in and git him!"

There came a shuffling of feet on the walk, on the gallery floor. Aurora was conscious that the blur of faces was closer to her.... She saw masks, hats, kerchiefs, stubbled chins crowding in, close up to her. A reek of the man pack came to her, close, stifling, mingled of tobacco, alcohol, and the worse effluvia of many men excited.... The terror, the horror, the disgust, the repugnance of it all fell on her like a blanket, stifling, suffocating, terrifying. She no longer reasoned--it was only desperation, terror, which made her spread out her arms from lintel to lintel of her little deserted door, where the last sacred shred of her personal privacy now was periled. The last instinctive, virginal--yes, virginal--terror at the intrusion of man, of men, of many men, was hers now. Home--sanctuary--refuge--all, all was gone. She stood, disheveled, her gown now half loosed at the neck as she spread her weak arms open across her door. Her eyes were large, round, open, staring, her face a tragic mask as she stood trying--a woman, weak and quite alone--to beat back the pa.s.sion of these who now had come to rob her of the last--the very last--of the things dear to her; the last of the things sacred to her, the things any woman ought to claim inviolate and under sanctuary, no matter who or what she is or ever may have been.