Taylor paid him slight courtesy. He was
irritated with this devilish Negro problem; he was making money; his
wife and babies were enjoying life, and here was this fool trial to
upset matters. But the sheriff talked.
"The thing I'm afraid of," he said, "is that Cresswell and his gang will
swing in the niggers on us."
"How do you mean?"
"Let 'em vote."
"But they'd have to read and write."
"Sure!"
"Well, then," said Taylor, "it might be a good thing."
Colton eyed him suspiciously.
"You'd let a nigger vote?"
"Why, yes, if he had sense enough."
"There ain't no nigger got sense."
"Oh, pshaw!" Taylor ejaculated, walking away.
The sheriff was angry and mistrustful. He believed he had discovered a
deep-laid scheme of the aristocrats to cultivate friendliness between
whites and blacks, and then use black voters to crush the whites. Such a
course was, in Colton's mind, dangerous, monstrous, and unnatural; it
must be stopped at all hazards. He began to whisper among his friends.
One or two meetings were held, and the flame of racial prejudice was
studiously fanned.
The atmosphere of the town and country quickly began to change. Whatever
little beginnings of friendship and understanding had arisen now quickly
disappeared. The town of a Saturday no longer belonged to a happy,
careless crowd of black peasants, but the black folk found themselves
elbowed to the gutter, while ugly quarrels flashed here and there with a
quick arrest of the Negroes.
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