The hand of God

It was very hot when the sheriff sucked meditatively at his pipe in the county jail and listened abstractedly to the buzzing of the mob outside. It was dark, of course. Mobs do not often form in daylight—not mobs who propose to lynch one not especially reputable citizen for the murder of another still less reputable one. The jail was dark and more than a little malodorous. A darky in one of the rear cells whimpered a little in entirely unreasoning terror. A moth blundered heavily about the yellow-flamed lamp. The only other sound was the sucking, bubbling sound of the sheriff’s pipe. He rapped it out and rammed out the stem with a broom straw. There was a knock on the thick outer door. “Huh?” said the sheriff heavily. “Has he come to, yet?” “Not yet,” said the sheriff. He refilled the pipe with care, and struck a match. He had to shift a heavy, blued steel revolver on his desk to get at the matches. He rearranged the matches and the revolver and the box of shells—already opened, so that all three articles would be equally convenient. He leaned back in his chair and smoked and sweated. He left the window of the office down, though. His forehead was creased in an irritated frown. The buzzing of the mob outside the jail kept up. The pounding and thumping of a secondhand car came down the road, growing louder as it came nearer until it stopped with a squealing of brakes. There were voices, new voices and loud ones. “... What in hell difference does that make? ... Might’s well go on an’ get through with it ... Ain’t no diff’rence whether he’s come to or not....” The buzzing rose louder. The sheriff mopped his face and looked speculatively at the blued steel gun. He wished it weren’t undignified to fan himself. Any jury on earth ’ud convict Sam Blake an’ send him to the electric chair. Just cost the county a lot o’ money convicting him an’ the State a lot more electrocuting him. An’ with election comin’ on, an’ a lot o’ folks thinkin’ about votin’ Republican again, an’ all—— It was mighty foolish to try to keep ’em from gettin’ Sam. A banging on the door again. The sheriff hitched himself upright. “He ain’t come to, yet,” he said irritably. “I ain’t lyin’. I ain’t goin’…