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September 29-Oklahoma-John Foreman, murder.
September 29-Oklahoma-F. Powell, murder.

October 4-Georgia-Mary Conley; her son killed his employer.
October 6-Texas-Will Spencer, wounding a policeman.
October 7-Georgia-Charles Smith, shooting a sheriff.
October 10-Arkansas-Frank Dodd, for "annoying a white woman."
October 16-Kentucky-Brack Kinley, hanged and burned for assaulting a white woman.
October 16-Kentucky-Luther Durrett, hanged and burned for saying he "intended to get some white man."
October 21-South Carolina-Anthony Crawford, for striking a white man.
October ..-Mississippi-Allen Nance, for firing at automobile party.

November 5-Texas-Joe Johnson, accused of murder. 
November 16-Louisianna-James Grant, alleged murder.
November 29-Texas-Buch Thomas, alleged assault.

By States.
[[4 Columned Table]]
|Georgia|15|Mississippi|2|
|Texas|9|South Carolina|2|
|Florida|9|Kentucky|2|
|Arkansas|4|Alabama|1|
|Oklahoma|4|Iowa|1|
|Louisianna|3|Missouri|1|
|Tennessee|3|Kansas|1|
|North Carolina|3|Washington|1|

By Race.
[[4 Columned Table]]
|Negro|55|White|3

By Sex.
[[4 Columned Table]]
|Male|56|Female|3

By Alleged Crimes.
[[2 Columed Table]]
|Murder|23-(3 whites)|
|Attacking and attempting to attack white females|10|
|Alleged complicity in the escape pf a criminal|5|
|Assault and attempted assault|4|
|Wounding white men|4|
|Rape and attempted rape|3|
|Unknown|2|
|Threat|1|
|Entering a house|1|
|Striking a white man|1|
|Firing at automobile party|1|
|Accidentally brushing against a white woman|1|
|Chasing white boys|1|
|Wounding a white woman (Mexican)|1|
|Burglary|1|

Method of Torture.
[[4 Columned Table]]
|Hanged|49|Shot|8|
|Burned|1|Shot and burned|1|

Number of Negroes Lynched.
1885-1916
[[4 Columned Table]]
|1885|78|1902|86|
|1886|71|1903|86|
|1887|80|1904|83|
|1888|95|1905|61|
|1889|95|1906|64|
|1890|90|1907|60|
|1891|121|1908|93|
|1892|155|1909|73|
|1893|154|1910|65|
|1894|134|1911|63|
|1895|112|1912|63|
|1896|80|1913|79|
|1897|122|1914|69|
|1898|102|1915|80|
|1899|84|1916|55|
|1900|107| |---|
|1901|107|Total|2,867|

SHERIFF GRIFFIN
By FRANKLIN O. NICHOLS

The main street of the little southern town was alive with excited voices; yelling urchins hurled stones at terror-stricken Negroes who slunk away to hide in their shanties. Stern-visaged men gathered in groups, then silently left the town. Some led bloodhounds, other trailed long, clack-barreled rifles. All hurried to the creek situated in the middle of the woods, a half-mile distant, where the little half-witted daughter of a "poor white" had been found-violated and strangled to death. 
Old Jaspard Allen, the town ragman, had made a short cut through the woods that morning and had suddenly come upon the little girl, stretched on her back, quite naked, her face nearly black, tongue protruding, eyes bloodshot, with the awful stare of death in them.
Horrified he had rushed through the trees to Sheriff Griffin's house on the other side of the woods.
Pale and nearly exhausted, rag-bag in hand, Jaspard found the sheriff standing on his porch smoking.
He was a tall, raw-boned man; dark complexioned, strong as an ox and greatly respected in the district. Very nearly forty years old, and a widower, he lived alone, employing an old colored woman to do his housework. 
The sheriff asked:

"Well, old man, what's the matter now?" 
"My God! Sheriff, I have found a little girl dead in the woods. It looked like rape."
The sheriff stiffened up, all the color gone from his face.
"A little girl, you say?"
"Yes sir, a little girl, stark naked, on her back-dead."
The sheriff gave vent to an oath:
"By God! I'll bet it's Sally Craddock's crazy girl. I saw her mother hunting for her last night. Where did you find her?"
Jaspard pointed out the exact spot and offered to conduct him there.
But the sheriff suddenly became brusque:
"No, I don't need you; but go to the coroner's office and tell him to come out here immediately. He'll find me waiting."
So Jaspard hurried to town, to the coroner's office. TO everyone he met he described the crime.
He ended:
"Nothin' but a damn nigger would a'don' it."
That night five hundred white men, women and children howled and danced like five hundred unloosed fiends as tongues of fire leaped and licked and devoured three screaming blacks. "Suspects" tracked to earth by bloodhounds.
As the fire died out little barefooted children prodded the human ashes, then they fought like demons for pieces of the charred bodies. 
That same night Sheriff Griffin sat in a heap in his arm chair before a table. He was sobbing with his hands clasped over his forehead.
He remained crying for a long time; then wiped his eyes, lit a lamp, with a red shade, and looked at the clock. It was nearly midnight.
Suddenly, he got up, went to a closet, took out a bottle of white liquor and placing the neck in his mouth, drank with a great gulp.
Replacing the bottle, he went back to his table and began to write. After finishing the letter, which he addressed to the governor, he places a glass weight on top of it. 
He thought:
"They'll find it in the morning after it is all over."
Then he pulled out a drawer in the middle of the table, and taking from it a revolver, held it in his hand under the soft light of the lamp. The barrel of the firearm glittered and cast reflections which resembled sparks of fire.
He stared at it for some time with an uneasy glance, then slipped it in his coat pocket, blew out the light and went over to an open window. He stood there gazing into the blackness of the night, toward the mass of woods, twenty yards distant, where the little girl had been found, and three human beings burnt alive.
In a few moments he stepped over the sill of the window, which was built low to the ground, and entered the woods. He went direct to the spot on the bank of the creek, the scene of the crimes. And he silently paced up and down over the soft moss with one hand in his pocket tightly grasping the revolver.
Soon it began to rain, gradually increasing to a steady downpour. it drenched the sheriff to the skin; but he did not stop his steady pacing, the place holding him as one fascinated. He could not leave those charred tree-stumps, the gruesome reminders of the day's tragedies. Sometimes, when a gust of wind swept over the tree tops, the rain grew heavier and the almost imperceptible mutter, the ceaseless whisper, gentle and sad, of the rainfall, seemed like a low wail of the tall trees mourning and weeping, perhaps over the souls of those murdered at their feet-the little "poor white" and the three Negroes.
He shuddered as a flock of crows suddenly arose and rushed through the woods uttering horrible and terrifying shrieks.
"Good God!" he exclaimed, "how human they sound-how much like hers."
Gradually a calm came over him, as one feels when resigned to a terrible fate. He went over to one of the blackened tree stumps, and, sitting down, drew out his revolver. He tried to look at the end of the barrel, at that litte black hole that spits out death. He thought of the surprise of the townspeople-wondered what they would think of their respected sheriff when his body was found and everything was known.
In a few moments he heard the town clock mournfully toll two and he suddenly