Colonel Cresswell went red, then pale, and leaning forward before the whole court, he hurled:
“You damned scoundrel!”
The Judge rapped for order and fidgeted in his seat. There was some confusion and snickering in the courtroom. Finally the Judge plucked up courage:
“The defendant is ordered to deliver this cotton to Zora Cresswell,” he directed.
The raging of Colonel Cresswell’s anger now turned against John Taylor as well as the Negroes. Wind of the estrangement flew over town quickly. The poor whites saw a chance to win Taylor’s influence and the sheriff approached him cautiously. 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?”