flame flickered about it a moment or two. I seemed to catch the sound of
distant hoofs–it grew more distinct–still more and more distinct, more
and more definite, but the absorbed crowd did not appear to notice it.
The match went out. The man struck another, stooped, and again the flame
rose; this time it took hold and began to spread–here and there men
turned away their faces. The executioner stood with the charred match in
his fingers, watching his work. The hoof-beats turned a projecting crag,
and now they came thundering down upon us. Almost the next moment there
was a shout:
“The sheriff!”
And straightway he came tearing into the midst, stood his horse almost on
his hind feet, and said:
“Fall back, you gutter-snipes!”
He was obeyed. By all but their leader. He stood his ground, and his
hand went to his revolver. The sheriff covered him promptly, and said:
“Drop your hand, you parlor desperado. Kick the fire away. Now unchain
the stranger.”
The parlor desperado obeyed. Then the sheriff made a speech; sitting his
horse at martial ease, and not warming his words with any touch of fire,
but delivering them in a measured and deliberate way, and in a tone which
harmonized with their character and made them impressively disrespectful.
“You’re a nice lot–now ain’t you? Just about eligible to travel with
this bilk here–Shadbelly Higgins–this loud-mouthed sneak that shoots
people in the back and calls himself a desperado. If there’s anything I
do particularly despise, it’s a lynching mob; I’ve never seen one that
had a man in it. It has to tally up a hundred against one before it can
pump up pluck enough to tackle a sick tailor. It’s made up of cowards,
and so is the community that breeds it; and ninety-nine times out of a
hundred the sheriff’s another one.” He paused–apparently to turn that
last idea over in his mind and taste the juice of it–then he went on:
“The sheriff that lets a mob take a prisoner away from him is the lowest-
down coward there is. By the statistics there was a hundred and eighty-
two of them drawing sneak pay in America last year. By the way it’s
going, pretty soon there ‘ll be a new disease in the doctor-books–
sheriff complaint.” That idea pleased him–any one could see it.
“People will say, ‘Sheriff sick again?’ ‘Yes; got the same old thing.’
And next there ‘ll be a new title. People won’t say, ‘He’s running for
sheriff of Rapaho County,’ for instance; they’ll say, ‘He’s running for
Coward of Rapaho.’ Lord, the idea of a grown-up person being afraid of a
lynch mob!”
He turned an eye on the captive, and said, “Stranger, who are you, and
what have you been doing?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I have not been doing anything.”
It was wonderful, the impression which the sound of that name made on the
sheriff, notwithstanding he must have come posted. He spoke up with
feeling, and said it was a blot on the county that a man whose marvelous
exploits had filled the world with their fame and their ingenuity, and
whose histories of them had won every reader’s heart by the brilliancy
and charm of their literary setting, should be visited under the Stars
and Stripes by an outrage like this. He apologized in the name of the
whole nation, and made Holmes a most handsome bow, and told Constable
Harris to see him to his quarters, and hold himself personally
responsible if he was molested again. Then he turned to the mob and
said:
“Hunt your holes, you scum!” which they did; then he said: “Follow me,
Shadbelly; I’ll take care of your case myself. No–keep your popgun;
whenever I see the day that I’ll be afraid to have you behind me with
that thing, it ‘ll be time for me to join last year’s hundred and eighty-
two”; and he rode off in a walk, Shadbelly following.
When we were on our way back to our cabin, toward breakfast-time, we ran
upon the news that Fetlock Jones had escaped from his lock-up in the
night and is gone! Nobody is sorry. Let his uncle track him out if he