IN THE BACKYARD I FOUND the old checker players from Hemple’s store tying up Byram Chaney, the retired teacher in whose wagon I’d been taken to the Klan rally. That rally and the lynching that followed seemed to have taken place a hundred years ago.
I heard an odd glunking sound behind me and turned to see two men with kerosene cans working their way along the side of Abraham’s house, splashing fuel on the foundation.
The one nearest me was the renowned legislator Senator Richard Nottingham, Elizabeth’s husband. The military jacket he wore for this night’s action was too small for him; the fabric gaped open around the buttons.
“Bring a match to that fuel,” I called out, “and I’ll shoot you dead. Be my pleasure.”
The other man was bent over, facing away from me. He whirled and pulled a handgun. To my horror, it was Jacob Gill.
“Drop your gun, Ben,” he said. “I would shoot you dead too.”
Around us swirled a madness of yelling, fighting, and dust, screaming, cursing, and gunfire. Yet at that moment it felt as if Jacob and I were facing off all alone in the middle of a giant, empty room.
“Why, Ben?” he croaked. “Why’d you have to come back and ruin our nice little town?”