Ричард Деминг - Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 6, June, 1953

“Sheriff Ben,” yelled Dolph Hardy, one of the leaders, “we’ll give you one last chance to deliver Claude Warren before we come in after him.”

There was a moment of waiting and then the door opened and Sheriff Ben appeared. Orry Quinn, who was in the forefront of the mob, yelled an obscenity at him and the Sheriff made a move toward him. Orry scurried back into the crowd.

“If I lay my hands on you, Orry,” said the sheriff, “I’ll slap your face to pulp.” Then he looked over the mob. “I am quite willing, however,” he said, “to discuss matters with responsible members of this community.”

“Cut out the talk,” said Dolph Hardy. “We want Claude Warren.”

The mob surged forward but Sheriff Ben held his ground.

“Who said you couldn’t have Claude Warren?” He held out his hands placatingly. “Take it easy, boys,” he urged. “I’m a reasonable man.” As the men in front fell back a little and stared expectantly at him, Sheriff Ben continued to speak in a soothing voice. “The thing is,” he said, “I don’t want any mob tearing through my jail and ripping things apart. This is your own property and if you destroy it, you’ll have to replace it out of your own pockets.”

At this there was an angry, impatient murmur from the mob. The sheriff held out his hands for silence.

“I’m not saying you can’t have Claude Warren,” he declared. “I’ll deliver him to whichever one of you wants to come in an orderly and decent manner to get him.” He looked at Dolph Hardy. “How about you, Dolph? You’ve been hollering your head off for him. Supposing you come in and get him?”

Dolph gave the sheriff a startled look and tried to press himself back into the mob. The others urged him on, however, and finally and reluctantly he came up the steps toward the sheriff. Sheriff Ben shoved him inside and then locked the door.

“There he is,” Sheriff Ben said to Dolph, pointing to a corner of the office. “He’s all yours.”

Dolph turned and faced Claude Warren, who was sitting in a chair, his wrists bound by handcuffs and his face swollen and discolored from the beating administered by his captors. Claude looked up at Dolph and his eyes were alive with hopeless, helpless terror. Dolph stared into those eyes and then his mouth dropped open and he shifted his feet and seemed to be at a loss as to what to do next.

“Funny thing, Dolph,” said the sheriff musingly, “but Claude looks a lot like your youngest son, Willie, doesn’t he? Same size and age. Want to sock him a couple of times before you deliver him to the mob Dolph? Go right ahead. He can’t hit you back, he’s handcuffed.”

Dolph cringed and turned his face away from the look of animal fear in Claude’s eyes.

“Better yet,” said Sheriff Ben, placing his hand on Dolph’s arm. “Why don’t you kill him right here and now, Dolph?”

Dolph stared unbelievingly at Sheriff Ben and began to back toward the door.

“Why not?” asked Sheriff Ben. “You were so all-fired blood-thirsty a while ago. You were willing to help kill Claude. Do you mean to say you haven’t got the courage to do the job all by yourself? And, look, Dolph, if you do, someday those people out there will be awfully grateful to you. If they kill Claude collectively tonight, someday they’re going to have to answer for it individually to whatever God they believe in and, if they happen to believe in hell, why, they’re going to have to roast for it. If you take sole responsibility Dolph, think what a terrible load you’ll lift from the conscience of your neighbors in Green Valley.”

He took Dolph by the elbow and led him over to the desk where the guns were.

“Would you like to shoot him, Dolph?” he asked. “Help yourself. Which do you prefer — a shotgun or a pistol?” As Dolph stared in horror at the array of weapons, Sheriff Ben opened a drawer and picked up a blackjack. “Or maybe you’d rather take this and beat his brains out,” he said.

He extended the blackjack toward Dolph and Dolph stepped back, his face beaded with perspiration and his eyes sick with dread.

“Of course,” went on Sheriff Ben, “your original intention was to hang him, wasn’t it?” He turned and looked about him. “Now, let’s see,” he said, “where can I find a really good sturdy rope?”

Dolph turned from him and rushed to the door, clawing at the lock with shaking hands. Sheriff Ben unlocked the door for him and shoved him out into the opening in the face of the tensely expectant mob.

“It seems,” said Sheriff Ben in a loud voice, “that Dolph doesn’t want Claude Warren any more.”

Dolph looked over the mob and it seemed that suddenly he hated every individual in it.

“Go home, you fools!” he cried. “He’s only a kid!”

And then his large shoulders shook with sobs and he stumbled into the mob, pushing aside or striking at anyone who stood in his way and crying out loudly for all to go home.

The stunned mob milled about uncertainly for awhile, and then the rumor started and swept through the ranks that, in an adjoining county, the real murderer of Henry Rankins had been captured and was being held in jail. The mob became a group of shamefaced individuals and the individuals hurried from the scene as if fleeing from some nameless terror. Soon the square in front of the jail was deserted.

Of course the rumor that had dissipated the mob was as unfounded as the one that had created it, but, later that night, Doc Doran, the coroner, came into the office and found Sheriff Ben sitting at his desk, now cleared of weapons.

“I just finished the autopsy on Henry,” Doc announced. “He died of heart failure. He must have been pitching hay up in the loft when the stroke hit him and, in falling, he sustained those head injuries.” Doc looked curiously at the sheriff, who seemed not to be listening to him. “Say, what’s this I hear about a mob forming in front of this place?”

“They went home,” said Sheriff Ben. “Their kids were sleepy.”

Sheriff Ben sat slumped over his desk long after the coroner had left. He had, he realized, no more reason to be proud than any member of the recent mob. At first, in his abject fear of personal harm, he had wanted to hand Claude Warren over to the mob. Then he had decided that, no matter what he did, his days as sheriff of Green Valley were ended and his fear had turned into blind, unreasoning hatred and he had felt the urge to turn his guns on the mob and to kill as many of them as possible, not in the interests of justice, but to avenge himself against the others for having placed him in such a predicament. He had been spared having to make a choice between the two alternatives only because, out of his desperation, a third expedient had occurred to him.

That is why I say to you that a lyncher is neither tall, nor short, nor young nor old, nor male nor female, and he is faceless, but, under certain circumstances and conditions, he is you and you and you and, yes, even me.

I am Ben Hodges.

I spent four hours with Lucille Gilian and never made a pass at her. It took a bit of doing. I had to keep a tight lid on my impulses, which must have been a novel experience for a woman with her assets. Those assets made her as solvent as the Federal Reserve Bank.

She was a tall, sleek, graceful creature, with ebony hair piled high over a pale forehead and coal black eyes rimmed inside a fringe of curled lashes. Her face was oval, her smile provocative, the movements of her body a little wicked. It was a pleasant evening. She knew how to dance and how to talk.