The sheriff sped by and hastily entered the little jailhouse. A few seconds later, a deputy hurried to join him. In spite of his speed, the dust of whatever country road he’d been patrolling covered his bumper.
A contingent from the park marched across the square toward the jail. A larger portion broke off to follow them with less apparent purpose, but boiling with energy. The leaders went straight to the door and nearly walked into it when it resisted opening. A few men were dispatched to bring a bench across from the little green patch in front of the courthouse.
Lenny jumped. I caught on a second later; nearly fell over sliding out of the booth. We both threw money down on the table and ran to the door. We stopped on the sidewalk, frozen with indecision. Even under the striped awning, the air was so humid and warm I was dripping.
I wish I could say there was a hero in my story. There was no Atticus Finch to make a reasoned appeal to higher character. No one spoke up at all and angry shouts prevailed. There was no marshal with jangling spurs and six-guns to quell the unruly. The sheriff and his deputies were locked in the closet of their own jail. There were not singing cowboys to gallop into town and save the day.
The crowd outside the jail parted and men began to pour out through the door. They were greeted with cheers. They led Moon out with his hands cuffed behind his back. They already had a rope around his neck and pulled at it like a leash when he struggled. Someone kicked Moon’s feet out from under him and he fell on the asphalt. More hands took the rope as they dragged him across the street. The onlookers at the park raised a cheer. When they dragged Moon into the park, someone had already climbed into the oak to help pass the rope over one of its thick branches.
The hanging was not a quick execution. They hoisted Moon up with the rope already around his neck until his feet dangled about the level of the heads of the crowd. He kicked and twisted, but each time he flung out a foot, it moved with less speed, it sought the ground with less hope and desperation. We watched until his body quit swinging.
The crowd dissolved slowly. Groups of three or four men would break off and drift away.
Greasy Hair passed us again, this time with a couple of friends. He told them, “S’about time we put some n****rs in their place.”
“I think that boy shit his pants.”
“They’ll all shit themselves when we put them down.”
