Chadbourn had dallied briefly with the Republicans and then backed off when the party fused with the Populists and the Negroes. He had no use for white supremacy, but he believed in civil order. It was Chadbourn who, leaving the Board of Audit and Finance to become postmaster, had turned over his vacant seat to a Democrat, setting up the current stalemate between the two boards.

“All hell’s breaking loose, George,” he said. “They burned out Manly. They say there’s fires all over the north side. They say the Negroes are marching on city hall.”

“Those goddamn cowboys! This puts everything in jeopardy.”

“Too late for the fine points, George. Go home. Protect your family.”

Rountree was thinking fast. “We’ve got to stop this foolishness. Can you get Mayor Wright to resign?”

“I can try.”

“Can you get the board to go along?”

“I told you, I’ll try.”

Rountree grabbed his friend’s arm. “If they don’t, this city won’t be here by nightfall.”

Rountree hurried back home and searched the front hall closet for one of the Winchesters he had bought wholesale for the Businessmen’s Committee back in August. He’d never fired it. He hadn’t fired a gun in years. He couldn’t remember whether he’d loaded it or not. He pumped the lever, and a bullet sprang up from the magazine into the open receiver. But it was already loaded, ready to be cocked and fired. The round in the chamber didn’t eject, and the gun jammed. He swore. For five minutes, breathing hard and fighting panic, he worked at the jam with a silver pocketknife. At last, the jammed bullet popped free, and he carefully closed the lever. Then he let down the hammer, so he wouldn’t accidentally shoot his foot off.

He banged out the front door and walked to the corner of Red Cross and Nutt streets—across from the offices of Sprunts’ Champion Compress—with the gun on his shoulder, feeling like a damned fool. He loitered on the corner, watching in every direction for some sign of a mob, a riot. Nothing. He fished out his watch and checked it: ten o’clock exactly.

What was going on? Where was everybody? He thought he heard the report of a rifle, but it might have been a hammer. Down Nutt Street, the yard of the compress seemed quiet enough. Empty freight wagons were parked in a neat row, tailgates to the iron fence, tongues raised like a line of stubby, raked masts. The machinery in the long shed clattered and droned—business as usual. At the end of Red Cross, on the river, steam tugs charged back and forth, hauling fat barges up and down the river.