confession.

"We're going to get young Black Jack!"

That was it. The speech came out like the crack of a gun, clearing the
atmosphere. It told every man exactly what was in his own mind, felt but
not confessed. They had no grudge against Terry, really. But they were
determined to hang the son of Black Jack. Had it been a lesser deed, they
might have let him go. But his victim was too distinguished in their
society. He had struck down Joe Minter; the ghost of the great Black Jack
himself seemed to have stalked out among them.

"You're going to get young Terry Hollis?" interpreted Gainor, and his
voice rose and rang over them. Those who had slipped past him on either
side came back and faced him. In the distance Elizabeth had not stirred.
Vance kept watching her face. It was cold as ice, unreadable. He could
not believe that she was allowing this lynching party to organize under
her own roof--a lynching party aimed at Terence. It began to grow in him
that he had gained a greater victory than he imagined.

"If you aim at Terry," went on Gainor, his voice even louder, "you'll
have to aim at me, too. There's going to be no lynching bee, my friends!"

The women had crowded back in the room. They made a little bank of stir
and murmur around Elizabeth.

"Gentlemen," said Gainor, shaking his white hair back again in his
imposing way, "there has been no murder. The sheriff is not going to die.
There has been a disagreement between two men of honor. The sheriff is
now badly wounded. I think that is all. Does anybody want to ask