"'Twon't cost the somebody much, then," said the prisoner, firmly; "an' I'd give a cool thousand for a shot at any low-lived coyote that 'ud ax me to do sich an ungentlemanly thing."
"Spoke like a man," said Caney, of Texas. "I hope ye'll die easy for that, Bill."
"The original motion prevails," said the major; "all in favor will say ay."
"Whoever has the tallest horse will please lead him up and unsaddle him," said the major, after a slight pause. "The witnesses will take the prisoner in charge."
A horse was brought under the limb, with the fragments of rope upon it, and the witnesses, one of them bearing a piece of rope, approached the prisoner.
The silence was terrible, and the feelings of all present were greatly relieved when Bill Bowney--placed on the horse, and seeing the rope hauled taught and fastened to a bough by a man in the tree--broke into a frenzy of cursing, and displayed the defiant courage peculiar to an animal at bay.
"Has the prisoner anything to say?" asked the major, as Bowney stopped for breath.
"Better own up, and save yourself and reform, and help rid the world of those other scoundrels," pleaded the New Englander.
"Don't yer do it, Bill--don't yer do it!" cried Caney, of Texas. "Stick to yer friends, an' die like a man!"
"That's me!" said the prisoner, directing a special volley of curses at the New Englander. "It's ben said here that I wuz sneakin' an' cowardly; ther's _one_ way of givin' that feller the lie--hurry up an' do it!"
"When I raise my hand," said the major, "lead the horse away; and may the Lord have mercy on your soul, Bowney!"
"Amen!" fervently exclaimed the New Englander.
Again there was a moment of terrible silence, and when a gentle wind swept over the wild oats and through the tree, there seemed to sound on the air a sigh and a shudder.
Suddenly all the horses started and pricked up their ears.
"Somebody's comin'!" whispered one of the party. "Sheriff's got wind of the arrangements, maybe!"
"Comes from the wrong direction," cried Caney, of Texas, quickly. "It's somebody on foot--an' tired--an' light-footed--ther's two or three--dunno what kind o' bein's they _ken_ be. Thunder an' lightnin'!"
Caney's concluding remark was inspired by the sudden appearance of a woman, who rushed into the shadow of the tree, stopped, looked wildly about for a moment, and then threw herself against the prisoner's feet, and uttered a low, pitiful cry.