The Project Gutenberg eBook of The hand of God
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The hand of God
Author: Murray Leinster
Release date: March 2, 2026 [eBook #78088]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Doubleday, Doran & Company, Inc, 1930
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78088
Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HAND OF GOD ***
THE HAND OF GOD
By Murray Leinster
Author of “The Skipper Knows Best,” “The Red Stone,” etc.
It was very hot when the sheriff sucked meditatively at his pipe in the
county jail and listened abstractedly to the buzzing of the mob outside.
It was dark, of course. Mobs do not often form in daylight--not mobs who
propose to lynch one not especially reputable citizen for the murder of
another still less reputable one. The jail was dark and more than a
little malodorous. A darky in one of the rear cells whimpered a little
in entirely unreasoning terror. A moth blundered heavily about the
yellow-flamed lamp.
The only other sound was the sucking, bubbling sound of the sheriff’s
pipe. He rapped it out and rammed out the stem with a broom straw. There
was a knock on the thick outer door.
“Huh?” said the sheriff heavily.
“Has he come to, yet?”
“Not yet,” said the sheriff.
He refilled the pipe with care, and struck a match. He had to shift a
heavy, blued steel revolver on his desk to get at the matches. He
rearranged the matches and the revolver and the box of shells--already
opened, so that all three articles would be equally convenient. He
leaned back in his chair and smoked and sweated. He left the window of
the office down, though. His forehead was creased in an irritated
frown.
The buzzing of the mob outside the jail kept up. The pounding and
thumping of a secondhand car came down the road, growing louder as it
came nearer until it stopped with a squealing of brakes. There were
voices, new voices and loud ones.
“... What in hell difference does that make? ... Might’s well go on
an’ get through with it ... Ain’t no diff’rence whether he’s come to
or not....”
The buzzing rose louder. The sheriff mopped his face and looked
speculatively at the blued steel gun. He wished it weren’t undignified
to fan himself. Any jury on earth ’ud convict Sam Blake an’ send him
to the electric chair. Just cost the county a lot o’ money convicting
him an’ the State a lot more electrocuting him. An’ with election
comin’ on, an’ a lot o’ folks thinkin’ about votin’ Republican again,
an’ all---- It was mighty foolish to try to keep ’em from gettin’ Sam.
A banging on the door again. The sheriff hitched himself upright.
“He ain’t come to, yet,” he said irritably. “I ain’t lyin’. I ain’t
goin’ to let you-all have him, but I’m tellin’ the truth when I say
he ain’t come to, yet.”
There was no direct reply, but voices growling to one another in the
heat outside. Then someone was repeating savagely, over and over: “Want
him to know what’s happenin’ to him--want him to know what’s happenin’
to him----”
The buzzing of the mob absorbed the sound. The sheriff continued to
smoke and frown.
A little murmur, different from the buzzing of the mob. A voice
protesting. The sheriff grunted. Preacher Bayles outside, arguing with
the mob, trying to persuade them not to lynch Sam Blake. His voice was
cool and persuasive. But another voice answered him.
“Hit was the hand o’ Gawd gave Sam Blake away! Hit was the hand o’
Gawd!”
The sheriff lifted his eyebrows. One may be a good church member, but
the business of enforcing the law among ten thousand people, white and
colored, leads to certain skepticisms.
“First time,” grunted the sheriff drily to himself, “I ever knew the
Lord to knock a man cold so much longer’n was necessary.”
A car cranked up and went sputtering away. To get more people, maybe. If
you had half a county mixed up in a lynching, you couldn’t do much about
it. Somebody said you couldn’t indict a nation. Well, you couldn’t hang
a county, either. Or half of it. Especially for lynching a cold-blooded
murderer.
* * * * *
The killing had happened down in Bethel. And the sheriff, just by luck,
had happened to be there, or Sam Blake would have been dead before now,
unconscious or not. It was a clear case. Open and shut. Absolute,
positive, hanging evidence.
The sheriff went over it in his mind. Something of stubbornness made
him want to justify himself for what he was going to do. Get killed,
pretty certainly. Kill some other people, quite likely. And over a
murderer that a jury would send to the electric chair as soon as they
left the jury box.
Nothing special about the killing itself, of course. Kittinger went
into Bethel store to get his mail. He got it, growled at the
storekeeper and went out. He stopped on the store porch to fill his
pipe, leaning against a pile of newly arrived packing-cases that
filled up three-fourths of the porch. And as he tamped down the
tobacco with a horny thumb, from somewhere an incisive, spiteful
_crack_ resounded. Kittinger shuddered suddenly and moved his head
to look astonishedly down at his breast. And then, quite abruptly,
he pitched clumsily forward down the rough plank steps into the
road. Then he was still.
The sheriff had been down in Bethel serving a summons and complaint.
He’d heard the shot as a thin, muted, distant _pop_! They’d sent a
man racing after him, and he got to the spot within five minutes of
the killing. Kittinger’s body was still warm, still flaccid. His face
still wore that expression of blank astonishment that would never be
wiped off it. Never. The sheriff had been peculiarly shocked by the
fact that a dead man’s hand should slip from his own and drop with a
sickening, loose-jointed thud in the soft dust.
And they’d found Sam Blake in the disused blacksmith shop just across
the road from Bethel store. With a gun lying beside him, and his toe
caught on a discarded metal wagon tire half buried in the earthen
floor. He’d fired his shot and turned to run away, and he’d stumbled
over that unimportant obstacle. His head had hit a mass of brickwork
as he fell. There was a great welt on his forehead where he’d struck.
“Open an’ shut,” growled the sheriff, sucking at his pipe.
Two more cars rolled up to the jail outside. The sheriff pricked up his
ears. Sam Blake was still unconscious in the cell to which the sheriff
had rushed him. He was the murderer, all right. Even his motives were
clear. He’d wanted to marry Lucy Sears, and her father was making her
marry Kittinger because Kittinger had more money. He’d have been
lynched before now if he’d come to. But it is one thing to drag a
scared and babbling man out of a smashed-open jail and hang him to a
telegraph pole, riddling his body with bullets to make sure. It is an
entirely different thing to haul a limp and unconscious figure, totally
unresisting, out to the same fate. No mob is especially honorable, but
that last is beneath even a mob.
* * * * *
Words rose above the murmur of the crowd on the courthouse green.
Preacher Bayles was still arguing, trying to convince men that the law
should take its course. The sheriff would take a hand in the discussion
presently, but his argument would be the blued steel revolver lying
handily on his desk, with the open box of cartridges beside it. It was
horribly hot to think of fighting.
“The hand o’ Gawd----”
That was Pete Brown, the nephew of the dead man. He had been the only
one to see Kittinger die. He’d seen the killing from his barbershop,
fifty yards away, and he’d been the first man to reach the body. When
the sheriff got to the spot where the dead man lay in the dust, Pete
Brown was still babbling.
“I was lookin’ at him on the porch of the store, an’ he was fillin’ his
pipe, an’ I heard the shot, an’ he looked down at his chest an’ looked
surprised, an’ then he just slumped over an’ went tumblin’ down the
steps----”
The whole scene came back with the vividness of tragedy. The sheriff
felt the hot breeze on his sweating face; felt the curiously liquid feel
of soft dust beneath his feet; saw the small, scared crowd parting for
him and then seemed to see the still limp figure with the dark spot on
its shirt-front, grayed with the dust of the road. There was no dignity
in a death like that. One was merely a huddled heap in the dust before a
mountainous pile of packing-cases.
“He was fillin’ his pipe, an’ I heard the shot, an’ he looked down at
his chest----”
Something of the sick disgust he had felt returned to the sheriff as he
sat smoking his foul old pipe in the sooty jail office.
He’d bent down over Kittinger in the roadway, and it had been shocking
to find his wrist still warm, still flexible, still limp. He’d stood up.
“Who shot him?”
Nobody knew, but Pete Brown shivered and pointed to the gray and
scabrous walls of the abandoned blacksmith shop across the road. The
packing-cases on the store porch made it inevitable. Kittinger could
only have been shot from directly across the road.
* * * * *
The sheriff waddled over to the place. Five minutes, at least, since the
shooting. No man would be fool enough to stay where he had hidden to
kill another, and the sheriff knew too much about the practical part of
man-hunting to think seriously of tracks, of clues, of betraying signs
left by a hastily fleeing murderer.
It had been almost with incredulity that he saw a man lying on the
sun-speckled dirt floor of the abandoned shed. Sam Blake, sprawled out,
tripped up by a forgotten piece of scrap iron in the act of flight. His
head had hit the corner of a brickwork forge. He was unconscious then,
as he had been ever since, but his rifle lay where it had fallen from
his hands, with a freshly discharged shell on the floor just a little
way off. Hanging evidence. Open and shut. Absolutely positive proof of
his guilt. With just enough of the supernatural about his discovery to
justify that talk of the hand of God that was being circulated among
the members of the mob outside. And enough of the supernatural, too, to
weigh powerfully with a jury.
“Durned fool,” grunted the sheriff to himself in the dismal lamplit
gloom of the jail. “What d’ I want to p’tect him for? Waitin’ theah
till ol’ Kittinger come out, an’ drillin’ him, an’ then turnin’ to run
before anybody came lookin’. He’d ha’ got away if he hadn’t tripped on
that wagon tire an’ cracked his head on the forge.”
He stood up uneasily. He saw heads moving outside of the barred
window. His pose, the revolver, the lamp, had not been arranged at
random. Even the martyrdom of a closed window on a hot night had its
purpose. The members of the mob could see him there with the gun and
cartridges ready. But they could not talk to him. Moral effect. It is
always daunting to see a man with a gun ready, when you cannot reason
with him.
The sheriff waddled back into the jail proper. He unlocked a cell and
went over to the cot against the wall. The fumes of strictly local
moonshine arose to his nostrils. Sam Blake had nerved himself up to
his bushwhacking by copious doses of corn whisky, it seemed. Still
out. No--he was stirring.
“Pete, y’ g’dam fool, gimme ’nother----”
He relaxed. Snores, vast and stertorous, sounded monstrously loud in the
tiny cell. The sheriff grunted.
“So drunk he don’t know what he’s done.”
* * * * *
He went out of the cell again. That fool darky was still whimpering in
the stifling darkness. The mob was still waiting grimly. Cousins and
neighbors and friends of Kittinger, waiting for Sam Blake to recover
consciousness so he’d know he was being lynched. Getting impatient,
too, and getting more numerous all the time. All his kinsfolk gathered.
All of them suspicious of the law and the Democratic Party. Election
coming on, and a proved murderer in the jail, and the sheriff needing
re-election.
He growled stubbornly to himself.
“There ain’t a pris’ner got away from me yet, an’ they ain’t goin’ to
take one now.” He sat down at his desk again, scowling.
A cloud of smoke came irritably from his lips. Perspiration streamed
down his face. It was hot. The mob was buzzing more angrily, now. The
sheriff knew what was needed, of course. Something to puzzle the men
outside. Something to focus their attention somewhere else. A storm. A
house on fire. Anything would do. He heard them puffing and grunting
at something heavy. It wouldn’t do to look out of the window. His job
was sitting here where all men could see him, with a revolver on the
desk before him, making of himself a threat.
But it would be hard to kill men in defense of a murderer as low-down
as Sam Blake. Lying there in ambush, waiting until a man stood still
as a fair target----
The squeak of a wheel, outside. The sheriff grunted to himself, tucking
his handkerchief inside his collar. Half of a log cart. They’d swing a
ten-foot section of log to it and grab the shaft. Rush it against the
jail door. It would break in. Then they’d come in and it would be time
for the sheriff to start shooting.
“Gawd!” growled the sheriff disgustedly, “shootin’ them damn fools so’s
a blasted murderer can be ’lec-trocuted instead o’ hung! That’s all it
’mounts to.”
It hurt. He didn’t like lynchings. Never had believed in them. Never
would. But Sam Blake was the coldest-blooded murderer in the history
of the county. And Kittinger’s kinfolk had a right to see that he
died. If they’d shot Sam dead there in the blacksmith shop, with his
empty gun beside him, nothing would have been done about it. Talk,
maybe, but everybody’d have said it served him right. And there
wasn’t much difference between that and coming and getting him out
of jail.
“Huh!” snapped the sheriff to himself. “Am I gettin’ scared?”
Pounding on the door again. Something definite, final, something
resolved in this pounding.
“Sheriff! Open up! We ain’t goin’ to wait all night!”
* * * * *
The sheriff reached over to his desk and picked up the blued steel
revolver. He squinted at the shells in the cylinder. He was hot and
angry and stubborn and irritated.
“Listen heah t’ me!” he snapped. “I ain’t aimin’ to kill you folks, but
I’m goin’ to do it if yuh try breakin’ in that door! If Sam Blake comes
to an’ confesses, maybe it’ll be another matter. But I ain’t goin’ to
let anybody take an unconscious man outer my jail an’ hang him. If he
confesses, a’right. But if he don’t----”
A momentary silence, while the sheriff raged in sudden shame. He
deliberately cocked his revolver. Moral effect. The click would carry
through the door. Murmurs.
“... Want him t’ know what happens, anyways.... The bloody louse’ll
confess all right. The hand o’ Gawd’s on him.... Doc’ll bring him
to.... Pete, you take yore car an’ get the doc....”
Men went back. More murmurings. Grim satisfaction outside. Somebody
cranked up a car. The sheriff swore bitterly.
“Losin’ my nerve, maybe,” he growled. Then with a harsh disgust: “They
forgot I got a telephone.”
He sat down at his desk again. He replaced the revolver within easy
reach. He knew Sam Blake was guilty. Empty shell on the floor of the
blacksmith shop. Empty gun almost in Sam Blake’s hands. The sheriff
looked over at the killer’s rifle on a table by the wall in his
office.
And then, quite suddenly, the sheriff swore a tremendous oath. He’d
seen---- He thrust himself out of his chair and to the rifle with one
movement. He picked it up. He snapped open the bolt.
An empty, discharged shell flicked out of it and went spinning to the
floor.
The sheriff stared at it for seconds. His pudgy figure was stiff. The
stem of his pipe snapped between his teeth.
“Hand o’ Gawd,” said the sheriff grimly to himself.
He picked up the empty shell. He went back to his desk and rummaged
in the drawer. A little cardboard box. Another empty shell. A brass
shell--the one that had killed Kittinger.
The sheriff set them up, side by side. He’d looked at Sam Blake’s gun.
He’d looked in the barrel for fouling, for proof--which he hadn’t
needed--that it had been recently fired. His handkerchief had fouled
in the bore. Sam Blake’s gun had been fired. The sheriff hadn’t looked
in the breech, however. Hadn’t there been the empty shell on the dirt
floor? What need to look in the breech?
But--a rifle shoots one shell at a time! The killing of Kittinger had
been done with one shot. And now he knew there had been _two_ empty
shells at the scene of the murder! One snapped out of a rifle after
being fired, one left in. Two empty shells in the deserted blacksmith
shop--and only one shot had been heard and only one bullet had been
found.
* * * * *
The sheriff mopped off his face. Stubbornness suddenly intensified
in his rather pudgy figure. This was funny stuff. Nobody was goin’
to take Sam Blake out o’ the jail tonight! Funny stuff. Wheah’d that
extra shell come from? Wheah’d the bullet from it go? Why wasn’t the
other shot heard? Sam Blake must ha’ killed Kittinger, but--why the
other extra shell? The hand of Gawd?
“Ef Gawd’s han’ is in it,” grunted the sheriff stubbornly, “an’ Him
havin’ thunderbolts handy, theah wasn’t any need to waste a
thutty-thutty shell.”
He stared at the two bits of brass in the yellow lamplight. Sweat poured
down his face, but he forgot it. The mob outside the jail was merely
murmuring now. It was waiting. Doc Paulson had been sent for. He would
come. He would be passed into the jail. He would bring Sam Blake back to
consciousness. Maybe Sam would confess. Maybe he wouldn’t, when the mob
would take him. The mob was waiting in a patient deadliness for what it
was going to do.
“Time,” said the sheriff, sweating in an agony of impatience. “I got to
have time to think hit out. Ef Gawd would send a thunderstorm, or set a
house on fire, or somethin’ to get these folks thinkin’ about somethin’
else----”
Two brass shells where there should be only one! Small, insignificant
things for a man’s life to rest upon. The sheriff had been wavering.
Hard to think of killing men so that a proved murderer could be
electrocuted instead of hung. Mighty hard. But something was wrong.
Kittinger had been killed with one shot. The sheriff had heard it.
And here were two empty shells--one from Sam Blake’s gun, and the
other---- Where did the other come from?
The sheriff had to guess, and guess quickly. Doc Paulson would be
back soon. When he was passed in, some members of the mob would force
themselves in too, unless the sheriff started shooting. And when the
mob once got in the jail, Sam Blake would go out with it. Confessing
or not confessing, praying to Gawd or screaming he hadn’t done it.
When Doc Paulson came something was going to happen. Sam Blake was
going to get lynched. And there was something wrong---- Two shells,
instead of one----
“I got to think. A thunderbolt, or a house on fire--even a haystack,
Lord!” said the sheriff helplessly. “Somethin’ t’ gain me time!
Somethin’s wrong!” He beat his forehead with a pudgy fist. “Wheah’s
the hand o’ Gawd?” he demanded despairingly. “Ef Sam Blake ain’t
guilty, why don’t the hand o’ Gawd show up?”
Rumblings. A car coming. The sheriff’s hand closed convulsively.
“I’m goin’ to get killed,” growled the sheriff defiantly, “an’ I’m goin’
to kill some other folks too, an’ Sam Blake’s goin’ to get lynched. This
heah looks wrong t’ me. Ef he’s guilty an’ innocent folks get killed, it
ain’t my fault!”
* * * * *
He gripped the blued steel revolver, full of defiance of some supreme
power on which he had thrown all responsibility.
The car came nearer. Then the sheriff realized that it couldn’t be Doc
Paulson. Too soon for him to get here.
“More folks for the party,” said the sheriff, setting his teeth. “What
happens from now on ain’t my fault. It’s up to the hand o’ Gawd.”
The telephone rang.
The sheriff took down the receiver. It was his deputy talking, half a
dozen miles away--asking fearfully if the sheriff wanted him to come
in to the jail.
“No,” replied the sheriff savagely. “It ain’t up to me, what happens.”
He was in a mood to clutch at straws. “But looka heah! You git to Doc
Paulson’s. Quick! Theah’s a carload of Bethel folks hustlin’ theah to
wake up the doc an’ bring him heah. They want him to bring Sam Blake
to, so’s they can make him confess to the killin’ an’ lynch him. You
git Doc Paulson outer his house if yuh have to drag him out in his
nightgown. He’s to leave word he’ll be back ’most any minute. An’ then
you keep him off somewheres. I’m playin’ for time. Keep him outer his
house until the Bethel crowd leaves. When they come back, I’m goin’ to
have to start shootin’. Understan’?”
The deputy, relieved at so tame an assignment, agreed volubly. The
sheriff hung up the receiver and wiped the sweat off his face. He’d been
asking God to bring on a thunderstorm or a fire, something to unsettle
the lynching mob outside. God hadn’t done it. And the sheriff was still
playing for time, hoping rather desperately for a miracle.
It mightn’t need a miracle, at that. Two small crowds are only
one-fourth as deadly as one large one. While the mob was divided its
menace was lessened. And mobs have no patience. Never. Part of the mob
would not attack, because it would be waiting for the rest to return.
And the rest of it might wait a long time for Doc Paulson to come back
to his house. It might. But of course----
“I’m holdin’ on,” said the sheriff grimly. “It’s up to the Lord to build
me a backfire.”
If he could hold off the lynching until morning, he could get help
from the city and rush Sam to a safe jail. But the sheriff felt weak
and shaky. He was dealing in mob psychology, which was not exactly
one of his strong points, and he knew it.
“But there’s somethin’ wrong,” he said stubbornly. “They ain’t goin’ to
hang Sam Blake t’night.”
He sat and stared at the two small cartridge shells without seeing
them. He was listening--to the low voiced, savage murmuring of the
mob--to the infinitely faint rustling of wind in the topmost branches
of the trees on the courthouse green--to the whimperings of the darky
back in the jail and the stertorous snorings of Sam Blake, too drunk
to know what he’d done.
Time passed very slowly. Twice the mob grew restless, as its increasing
murmuring testified. Each time it quieted down. But it was in a deadly
mood when, all of half an hour later, a car came roaring down the road
from Doc Paulson’s. The sheriff was drenched in sweat, but at the sound
he rose and dried his hands grimly and picked up the big revolver. He
was going to bluff, or he was going to shoot. He was going to keep Sam
Blake from being lynched, or he was going to be killed. And he renounced
all blame from the beginning.
He unlocked and flung open the jail door and stood in the opening,
staring stubbornly out at the soft, velvety blackness. Headlights drew
nearer and played upon the surging figures of the mob, moving toward
the car. It stopped.
Voices rose; snarling, babbling voices.
“Doc was theah.... Dep’ty sheriff got theah while he was dressin’....
Talked to the doc.... He wouldn’t come. Him an’ the deputy said we’d
have t’ drag him. The deputy pulled a gun.... Hell! It ain’t that
important....”
The sheriff felt sick all over. The deputy had gotten there too late.
Hadn’t understood, maybe. He’d just understood the sheriff didn’t want
the doc to come. It was a bonehead play. If he’d come on with the
doctor, the two of ’em might have kept the mob out of the jail while
the doc lied and said Sam was dying.
* * * * *
The sheriff licked his lips and lifted the muzzle of his gun as the mob
surged toward the jail.
“You-all lookin’ for the Pearly Gates?” he snapped. He was raging;
wrathful with a supreme power which gave no help to a sorely tried
peace officer in time of need. One last straw presented itself. “I’ll
let two of you men come in heah,” he snapped again, “just so’s yuh
can see I ain’t lyin’ about him bein’ in no shape to know whether he
done it or not. Just two, so’s yuh can see. An’ if more’n that try to
come I start killin’ somebody!”
His gun sent a sudden long streak of yellow flame out into the darkness.
A man had run on ahead and was moving toward the jail door from the
side. The sheriff’s voice cut through the echoes of the explosion as
other guns came out in answer to his.
“I wasn’t aimin’ to hit, then,” he snarled, “but I’m tellin’ yuh! Two
men, no more, can come in this heah jail!”
He was crouched down, deadly and desperate and despairing of help from
above. He was going to be killed. He was quite sure of it. But his tired
brain was clinging desperately to one last shred of hope. If they picked
two men who would listen to him, he could show them the two shells. He
could reason with two men, when he couldn’t with a mob.
The mob was milling aimlessly and angrily. The sheriff’s shout, alone,
would have been useless. The shot, alone, would have been worse than
useless. Together, they halted a mob not quite up to the pitch of facing
hot lead for the sake of a killing it lusted for.
And then two men came forward. One was Pete Brown. The other was Lucy
Sears’ father, raging because he had wanted his daughter to marry
Kittinger.
“We’re heah,” said Sears harshly.
Pete Brown’s eyes were bright when the sheriff let them in the jail,
and brighter when he barred the door behind them. He was fingering a
gun in his belt.
“You try shootin’ him, Pete,” said the sheriff, “an’ I blow yuh to bits!
A lynchin’ is a lynchin’, but one man killin’ another is murder, an’ yuh
know it.”
Pete snarled at him. The sheriff was very weary, and very sick at heart.
He took hold of Sears’ arm.
“Listen heah, Mistuh Sears----” began the sheriff desperately.
But Sears wasn’t listening. He was looking savagely after Pete
Brown. And Pete Brown had gone on, and was staring into a cell--then
he turned, with the smoky lamplight disclosing his teeth. Pete Brown
looked remarkably unhandsome, just then.
“Y’ damned liar!” he snarled at the sheriff. “I seen him! He was sittin’
up! He flopped down an’ he’s pretendin’ to be passed out now. Shammin’!”
* * * * *
And suddenly the sheriff saw everything. Everything. Pete Brown was
lying! He said he saw Sam Blake, but he didn’t, because the cell into
which he was looking was empty. Sam Blake was in another cell entirely.
And that little lie, of Pete Brown’s contriving, made two little brass
shells mean----?
Pete Brown was shouting:
“Come in, folks! He’s up an’ about, only shammin’!”
And the sheriff’s voice cut like steel.
“The hand o’ Gawd’s come down at las’! Pete, yuh remembered t’ shoot off
Sam Blake’s gun, but yuh forgot to eject the shell!”
Pete whirled. The sheriff’s big revolver was bearing unwaveringly upon
his body, and the sheriff’s eyes were glowing.
“That cell’s empty,” said the sheriff, very calmly. “Yuh didn’t see
anybody in theah, because it’s empty. But I’m willin’ to believe yuh
did see yore uncle when he was killed. Only--wheah were you when yuh
saw him?”
He went hurtling forward as Pete Brown gasped and jerked something out
of his belt. There was a terrific explosion in the iron and concrete
interior of the jail. Then there were thrashing bodies, fighting madly
between the rows of rusty bars. The bearded Sears stared, stupefied.
And suddenly the sheriff heaved upward, with blood flowing from a cut
on his forehead. Keys jangled. A cell door clanked open and clanged
shut again. There were thunderous, pounding blows upon the jail door.
The sheriff shot through it, deliberately high. The blows stopped. He
shot through it again, lower down.
“I just arrested Pete Brown,” said the sheriff, in a voice that cut
through the thick wooden door. “I ’rested him for the murder of his
uncle. Pete got Sam Blake drunk las’ night an’ shot off his gun
somewheres, but the damn fool forgot to fling out the shell a’terward!
An’ this mornin’, sometime before the killing, Pete banged Sam over the
head--Sam bein’ still dead drunk--an’ dragged him into the blacksmith
shop. Then Pete shot his uncle himself an’ run, leavin’ Sam to take the
blame. But there was empty shells in the blacksmith shop, one where
Pete’d flung out the shell he killed his uncle with, an’ the one he’d
left in Sam Blake’s gun. Pete run along the back of the houses to his
barbershop an’ run out, sayin’ he saw his uncle die. But, listen t’ me,
you folks out theah! The porch of the store wheah Kittinger was killed
is full o’ packin’-boxes. Pete couldn’t ha’ seen a damn thing from his
barbershop! _The only place he could ha’ seen Kittinger die is from the
place the murderer killed him!_”
A pause. One second. Two. Three---- Then Sears, beside him in the jail,
gasped, “By Gawd! Hit’s so!”
He turned, his face working with rage. The sheriff’s gun came up.
“Git out o’ my jail!” said the sheriff grimly. “No matter who’s the
murderer, theah ain’t goin’ to be no lynchin’ tonight! An’ me
thinkin’--me thinkin----” The sheriff swallowed suddenly and went to
the jail door, unbarred it, and stepped out. “Git to hell outer heah!”
he snarled at the still dazed mob. “Git goin’! The lynchin’s off, if I
have t’ kill every rannihan in the county!”
* * * * *
He was ready to kill, then. Quite ready to kill in defense of his new
prisoner, who would have no option but to confess his crime and the lust
for Kittinger’s money that had prompted it. Entirely ready to kill, now,
for the sake of the law alone.
Men are queer things. And so are mobs. Anything that distracts the
attention of a mob--a storm, a house on fire, the discovery that it
was about to lynch an innocent man---- Did not such things show the
hand of God?
A quarter of an hour later the sheriff went back into the jail from the
now deserted courthouse green. He was trembling. He raised the window
and a cool breeze came in and fanned his forehead.
“The hand o’ Gawd----” The sheriff felt suddenly guilty, as if he should
apologize to someone or something for his previous skepticism and for
his hesitation. But an innate stubbornness came to his rescue. “Dawggone
it, hit wasn’t my fault! Anybody’d ha’ got mad!”
[Transcriber’s note: This story appeared in the July 25, 1930 issue
of _Short Stories_ magazine.]
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HAND OF GOD ***
Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.
START: FULL LICENSE
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when
you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works
provided that:
• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
to the owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has
agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation.”
• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
works.
• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.
• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg
Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.
The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516,
Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg electronic works
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.
Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.
This website includes information about Project Gutenberg,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
