On a moonless night last week a sheriff and two deputies were sitting in an empty warehouse in Wilson, Ark., smoking meditatively and staring at the lantern that yellowed the ceiling above them and the floor at their feet. At one side, in a huddle of shadow, lay a young man. His name was Albert Blazes. He had attacked a white girl; anyway, the girl said it was a Negro who attacked her, and Albert Blazes was a Negro. The bloodhounds had brought him in. Now the sheriff was...
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