"Coloured scion," said Ike Anderson, as though in surprise, "yore broom is damaged.

Kneel down and pray for another." The negro knelt and surely prayed.
On all sides swept the wide and empty streets.

It was Ike Anderson's town.

A red film seemed to his gaze to come over the face of things.
He slipped his revolver back into the scabbard and paused again to think.

A quiet footstep sounded on the walk behind him, and he wheeled, still puzzled with the red film and the mental problem.
The sheriff stood quietly facing him, with his thumbs resting lightly in his belt.