"Things are getting interesting," he said, coming up beside me. "Will there be a scrimmage, think you?"
I made him no answer, my attention being fixed upon Bethel, who was entering the stable and dragging Carnes with him. When he had ascertained the exact spot where the tools were found, he came out and turned upon the raiders.
"Go on with your farce," he said, with a sarcastic curl of the lip. "I am curious to see what you will find next."
Then turning upon Briggs, who had scrambled to his feet, and who caressed a very red and swollen eye, while he began a tirade of abuse —
"Fellow, hold your tongue, if you don't want a worse hit. If you'll walk into my house I'll give you a plaster for that eye – after I have cared for your better."
And he turned toward his horse, whistling a musical call. The well-trained animal came straight to its master and was led by him into its accustomed place.
And now the search became more active. Those who at first had been held in check by the doctor's manner were once more spurred to action by the sight of those earth-stained tools, and the general verdict was that "Bethel was bluffing, sure." When he emerged again from the stable, they were scattering about the garden, looking in impossible places of concealment, under everything, over everything, into everything.
Briggs, who seemed not at all inclined to accept the doctor's proffered surgical aid, still grasping in his hand the pick, and followed by Carnes, to whom he had resigned the spade, went prowling about the garden.
Bethel, who appeared to have sufficient mental employment of some sort, passed our group with a smile and the remark:
"I can't ask you in, gentlemen, until I have set my house in order. Those vandals have made it a place of confusion."
He entered the house through a rear door, which had been thrown open by the invaders, and a moment later, as I passed by a side window, I glanced in and saw him, not engaged in "setting his house in order," but sitting in a low, broad-backed chair, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands loosely clasped, his head bent forward, his eyes "fixed on vacancy," the whole attitude that of profound meditation.
The finding of the tools, the manner of Bethel, both puzzled me. I went over to Jim Long, who had seated himself on the well platform, and asked:
"How is this going to terminate, Jim?"
"Umph!" responded Jim, somewhat gruffly. "'Twon't be long a comin' to a focus."
And he spoke truly. In a few moments we heard a shout from the rear of the garden. Tom Briggs and his party had found a spot where the soil had been newly turned. In another moment a dozen hands were digging fiercely.
Just then, and unnoticed by the exploring ones, a new element of excitement came upon the scene.
Mr. Beale, the father of the missing child, accompanied by two or three friends, came in from the street. They paused a moment, in seeming irresolution, then the father, seeing the work going on in the garden, uttered a sharp exclamation, and started hastily toward the spot, where, at that moment, half a dozen men were bending over the small excavation they had made, and twice as many more were crowding close about them.
"They have found something," said Harris, the elder, and he hastily followed Mr. Beale, leaving his son and myself standing together near the rear door of the house, and Jim still sitting aloof, the only ones now, save Dr. Bethel, who were not grouping closer and closer about the diggers, in eager anxiety to see what had been unearthed.
In another moment, there came a tumult of exclamations, imprecations, oaths; and above all the rest, a cry of mingled anguish and rage from the lips of the bereaved and tortured father.
The crowd about the spot fell back, and the diggers arose, one of them holding something up to the view of the rest. Instinctively, young Harris and myself started toward them.
But Jim Long still sat stolidly smoking beside the well.
As we moved forward, I heard a sound from the house, and looked back. Dr. Bethel had flung wide open the shutters of a rear window, and was looking out upon the scene.
Approaching the group, we saw what had caused the father's cry, and the growing excitement of the searchers. They had found a tiny pair of shoes, and a little white dress; the shoes and dress in which little Effie Beale had been buried.
And now the wildest excitement prevailed. Maddened with grief, rage, and sickening horror, the father called upon them to find the body, and to aid him in wreaking vengeance upon the man who had desecrated his darling's grave.
It was as fire to flax. Those who have witnessed the workings of a mob, know how swiftly, mysteriously, unreasonably, it kindles under certain influences.
How many men, with different, often opposing interests, make the cause of one their common cause, and forgetting personality, become a unit for vengeance, a single, dreadful, unreasoning force!
The air resounded with threats, imprecations, exclamations, oaths.
Some of the better class of Traftonites had followed after the first party, joining them by threes and fours. These made some effort to obtain a hearing for themselves and Mr. Harris, but it was futile.
"Hang the rascally doctor!"
"String him up!"
"Run him out of town!"
"Hanging's too good!"
"Let's tar and feather him!"
"Bring him out; bring him out!"
"Give us a hold of him!"
"We ain't found the body yet," cried one of the most earnest searchers. "Let's keep looking."
As some of the party turned toward the house I looked back to the open window.
Dr. Bethel still stood in full view, but Jim Long had disappeared from the pump platform.
The search now became fierce and eager, and while some started to go once again through the house and cellar, a number of Briggs' cronies began a furious onslaught upon a stack of hay, piled against the stable.
But those who approached the house met with an unlooked-for obstacle to their search, – the rear door was closed and barred against them. Failing in this quarter they hastened around to the front.
Here the door was open, just as they had left it, swinging on one broken hinge; but the doctor's tall form and stalwart shoulders barred the way.
"Gentlemen," he said, in low, resolute tones, "you can not enter my house, at least at present. You have done sufficient damage to my property already."
The men halted for a moment, and then the foremost of them began to mount the steps.
"Stand back," said Bethel. "I shall protect my property. I will allow my house to be inspected again by a committee, if you like, but I will not admit a mob."
"You'd better not try to stop us," said the leader of the party, "we are too many for ye." And he mounted the upper step.
"Stand down, sir," again said Bethel. "Did I not say I should protect my property?" and he suddenly presented in the face of the astonished searcher a brace of silver-mounted pistols.
The foremost men drew hastily back, but they rallied again, and one of them yelled out:
"Ye'd better not tackle us single-handed; an' ye won't get anyone to back ye now!"
"Jest allow me ter argy that pint with ye," said Jim Long, as he suddenly appeared in the doorway beside Bethel. "I reckon I'm somebody."
Jim held in his hand a handsome rifle, the doctor's property, and he ran his eye critically along the barrel as he spoke.
"Here's five of us, an' we all say ye can't come in. Three of us can repeat the remark if it 'pears necessary."
Then turning his eye upon the last speaker of the party, he said, affably:
"I ain't much with the little shooters, Simmons; but I can jest make a rifle howl. Never saw me shoot, did ye? Now, jest