WITHIN FIVe minutes after the countrymen found the fire， the people began to gather。 some of them， also on the way to town in wagons to spend saturday， also stopped。some came afoot from the immediate neighborhood。This was a region of negro cabins and gutted and outworn felds out of which a corporal's guard of detectives could not have combed ten people， man， woman or child， yet which now within thirty minutes produced， as though out of thin air， parties and groups ranging from single individuals to entire families。still others came out from town in racing and blatting cars。Among these came the sheriff of the county—a fat， comfortable man with a hard， canny head and a benevolent aspect—who thrust away those who crowded to look down at the body on the sheet with that static and childlike amaze with which adults contemplate their own inescapable portraits。Among them the casual Yankees and the poor whites and even the southerners who had lived for a while in the north， who believed aloud that it was an anonymous negro crime committed not by a negro but by Negro and who knew， believed， and hoped that she had been ravished too：at least once before her throat was cut and at least once afterward。The sheriff came up and looked himself once and then sent the body away， hiding the poor thing from the eyes。
Then there was nothing for them to look at except the place where the body had lain and the fre。 And soon nobody could remember exactly where the sheet had rested， what earth it had covered， and so then therewas only the fire to look at。 so they looked at the fire， with that same dull and static amaze which they had brought down from the old fetid caves where knowing began， as though， like death， they had never seen fire before。Presently the fire-truck came up gallantly， with noise， with whistles and bells。It was new， painted red， with gilt trim and a handpower siren and a bell gold in color and in tone serene， arrogant， and proud。About it hatless men and youths clung with the astonishing disregard of physical laws that fies possess。It had mechanical ladders that sprang to prodigious heights at the touch of a hand， like opera hats；only there was now nothing for them to spring to。It had neat and virgin coils of hose evocative of telephone trust advertisements in the popular magazines；but there was nothing to hook them to and nothing to fow through them。So the hatless men， who had deserted counters and desks， swung down， even including the one who ground the siren。They came too and were shown several diferent places where the sheet had lain， and some of them with pistols already in their pockets began to canvass about for someone to crucify。
but there wasn't anybody。 she had lived such a quiet life， attended so to her own afairs， that she bequeathed to the town in which she had been born and lived and died a foreigner， an outlander， a kind of heritage of astonishment and outrage， for which， even though she had supplied them at last with an emotional barbecue， a Roman holiday almost， they would never forgive her and let her be dead in peace and quiet。Not that。Peace is not that often。So they moiled and clotted， believing that the fames， the blood， the body that had died three years ago and had just now begun to live again， cried out for vengeance， not believing that the rapt infury of the fames and the immobility of the body were both afrmations of an attained bourne beyond the hurt and harm of man。
Not that。because the other made nice believing。better than the shelves and the counters filled with longfamiliar objects bought， not because the owner desired them or admired them， could take any pleasure in the owning of them， but in order to cajole or trick other men into buying them at a profit；and who must now and then contemplate both the objects which had not yet sold and the men who could buy them but had not yet done so，with anger and maybe outrage and maybe despair too。 better than the musty ofces where the lawyers waited lurking among ghosts of old lusts and lies， or where the doctors waited with sharp knives and sharp drugs， telling man， believing that he should believe， without resorting to printed admonishments， that they labored for that end whose ultimate attainment would leave them with nothing whatever to do。And the women came too， the idle ones in bright and sometimes hurried garments， with secret and passionate and glittering looks and with secret frustrated breasts（who have ever loved death better than peace）to print with a myriad small hard heels to the constant murmur Who did it？Who did it？periods such as perhaps Is he still free？Ah。Is he？Is he？
The sheriff also stared at the flames with exasperation and astonishment， since there was no scene to investigate。 He was not yet thinking of himself as having been frustrated by a human agent。It was the fire。It seemed to him that the fire had been selfborn for that end and purpose。It seemed to him that that by and because of which he had had ancestors long enough to come himself to be， had allied itself with crime。so he continued to walk in a baffled and fretted manner about that heedless monument of the color of both hope and catastrophe until a deputy came up and told how he had discovered in a cabin beyond the house， traces of recent occupation。And immediately the countryman who had discovered the fre（he had not yet got to town；his wagon had not progressed one inch since he descended from it two hours ago， and he now moved among the people， wildhaired， gesticulant， with on his face a dulled， spent， glaring expression and his voice hoarsed almost to a whisper）remembered that he had seen a man in the house when he broke in the door。
“A white man？”the sherif said。
“Yes， sir。 Blumping around in the hall like he had just fnished falling down the stairs。Tried to keep me from going upstairs at all。Told me how he had already been up there and it wasn't nobody up there。And when I come back down， he was gone。”
The sherif looked about at them。“Who lived in that cabin？”
“I didn't know anybody did，”the deputy said。“Niggers， I reckon。 Shemight have had niggers living in the house with her， from what I have heard。 What I am surprised at is that it was this long before one of them done for her。”
“Get me a nigger，”the sherif said。 The deputy and two or three others got him a nigger。“Who's been living in that cabin？”the sherif said。
“I don't know， Mr。 Watt，”the negro said。“I ain't never paid it no mind。I ain't even knowed anybody lived in it。”
“Bring him on down here，”the sherif said。
They were gathering now about the sheriff and the deputy and the negro， with avid eyes upon which the sheer prolongation of empty fames had begun to pall， with faces identical one with another。 It was as if all their individual five senses had become one organ of looking， like an apotheosis， the words that few among them wind-or air-engendered Is that him？Is that the one that did it？Sherif's got him。Sherif has already caught him The sherif looked at them。“Go away，”he said。“All of you。Go look at the fre。If I need any help， I can send for you。Go on away。”He turned and led his party down to the cabin。behind him the repulsed ones stood in a clump and watched the three white men and the negro enter the cabin and close the door。Behind them in turn the dying fre roared， flling the air though not louder than the voices and much more unsourceless By God， if that's him， what are we doing， standing around here？Murdering a white woman the black son of a None of them had ever entered the house。While she was alive they would not have allowed their wives to call on her。When they were younger， children（some of their fathers had done it too）they had called after her on the street，“Nigger lover！Nigger lover！”
In the cabin the sherif sat down on one of the cots， heavily。 He sighed：a tub of a man， with the complete and rocklike inertia of a tub。“Now， I want to know who lives in this cabin，”he said。
“I done told you I don't know，”the negro said。 His voice was a little sullen， quite alert， covertly alert。He watched the sherif。The other two white men were behind him， where he could not see them。He did not look back at them， not so much as a glance。He was watching the sherif's face as a man watches a mirror。Perhaps he saw it， as in a mirror， before it came。Perhaps he did not， since if change， ficker， there was in the sherif'sface it was no more than a flicker。 But the negro did not look back；there came only into his face when the strap fell across his back a wince， sudden， sharp， feet， jerking up the corners of his mouth and exposing his momentary teeth like smiling。Then his face smoothed again， inscrutable。
“I reckon you ain't tried hard enough to remember，”the sherif said。
“I can't remember because I can't know，”the negro said。“I don't even live nowhere near here。 You ought to know where I stay at， white folks。”
“Mr。 Buford says you live right down the road yonder，”the sherif said。“Lots of folks live down that road。Mr。buford ought to know where Istay at。”
“He's lying，”the deputy said。 His name was Buford。He was the one who wielded the strap， buckle end outward。He held it poised。He was watching the sherif's face。He looked like a spaniel waiting to be told to spring into the water。
“Maybe so；maybe not，”the sheriff said。 He mused upon the negro。He was still， huge， inert， sagging the cot springs。“I think he just don't realise yet that I ain't playing。Let alone them folks out there that ain't got no jail to put him into if anything he wouldn't like should come up。That wouldn't bother to put him into a jail if they had one。”Perhaps there was a sign， a signal， in his eyes again；perhaps not。Perhaps the negro saw it；perhaps not。The strap fell again， the buckle raking across the negro’s back。“You remember yet？”the sherif said。
“It's two white men，”the negro said。 His voice was cold， not sullen， not anything。“I don't know who they is nor what they does。It ain't none of my business。I ain't never seed them。I just heard talk about how two white men lived here。I didn't care who they was。And that’s all I know。You can whup the blood outen me。But that’s all I know。”