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 and then into the nearby jail, by means of an underground passage by which prisoners were led back and forth to the court room.

By this time hundreds had gathered at the scene, curious, inquiring, wondering. Hotel corridors were emptied, stores lost their clerks and customers alike, and even some of the proprietors forsook their businesses to crowd over to the vicinity of the brief battle and arrest. In a few minutes the crowd had been augmented into hundreds.

Trafford was in the midst of them nursing a fast swelling jaw and accepting sympathy.

"What's the matter?—What's the matter?" was the question on every tongue of those who were too far on the outskirts of the crowd to know what had caused the excitement.

"Nigger assaulted a white man," answered one man to his neighbor. "They're too damned fresh. Did they kill him?" was the next question.

"No, got away—arrested," the first man spoken to answered.

"They're too durned fresh," commented another bystander.—"Gawd only knows what we're coming to. Getting so there's no living for them. They all ought to be run out of town."

"Who's the man assaulted?"

"Trafford—Jim Trafford."

"Aw—Buck Trafford's son?"

"Yes."

"Huh—Guess the boy must have been meddling 'round