Now, two more black men came out of the crowd and took their places beside Norwood—Carter Peamon and the Reverend J. Allen Kirk. Father Christopher Dennen, red hair fiery in the gas carriage lamps mounted on either side of the jail doorway, stood by like a statue of conscience.

They took turns entreating the crowd to break up. A sudden cloudburst that had been threatening all evening began to drench them. The rain was cold and fierce, while it lasted. The Negroes milled around uncertainly, then began to drift away.

“That’s it,” Harry observed. “Don’t give them any excuse.”

The rain passed quickly, leaving the air sharp with lime and earth.

Tom Clawson pulled a buggy up to the curb. “Sam, can I borrow you for an errand?”

Harry said, “You’re a popular fellow tonight. How about a drink later at Poison’s?”

“Right.” Sam climbed aboard the buggy.

Clawson slapped a Winchester across Sam’s knees, then drove fast up Princess to Seventh without speaking. As they crossed Seventh, Sam noticed lights blazing in Hugh MacRae’s mansion. Across the street, Walker Taylor’s house was also lit up so brightly that Sam worried at first it was on fire. Clawson appeared not to notice. He urged the horse down South Seventh toward Free Love Hall. When Sam saw where they were headed, he said, “I hope you don’t expect me to shoot anybody, Mr. Clawson.”

“With any luck, you won’t have to. But you never can tell—it’s a spooky night. I want you to watch my back.”

Sam said, “I don’t get your angle in all this.”

“Makes you think I have an angle?”

“You’re playing fast and loose.” Sam was taking a chance. “But you’re not Hearst—you know better. Yet here you are, drumming up a war.”

Clawson kept his eyes on the road. “Don’t push it. I didn’t like you when I hired you. I’m not sure I like you any better now.”

“That’s your problem. But you can’t fool me. You’re no vigilante.”

“Well, you got one thing right.”

At Free Love Hall, Frank Manly came out of the shadows and approached the buggy from behind. “Mr. Clawson, that you?”

“Look, there isn’t a lot of time. Get Alex, will you?”

“What you got to say to Alex?”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Too fast for Sam to stop him, Clawson was out of the buggy and rapping on the locked front door. “Alex! Come out, I have to talk to you.”

Frank said, “It’s okay, Alex—open up.”

Sam laid aside his Winchester, but he stayed in the buggy. He didn’t want anybody paying attention to him in this neighborhood at this hour of the night. Frank Manly stared at him, arms crossed, blood in his eye.