Winter Evening Tales

by Amelia E. Barr

"Yes, you will, father. It is the last favor I shall ask of you."

The request was indeed a bitter one; so bitter that David had not dared to voice it. It was this—

"Father, be my executioner. Do not let me be hung. The rope is all I dread in death; ere it touch me, let your rifle end my life."

For a few moments Lorimer sat like a man turned to stone. Then he rose and went to the jury. They were sitting together under some mulberry trees, smoking. Naturally silent, they had scarcely spoken since their verdict. Grave, fierce men, they were far from being cruel; they had no pleasure in the act which they believed to be their duty.

Lorimer went from one to the other and made known his son's request. He pleaded, "That as David had shot Whaley, justice would be fully satisfied in meting out the same death to the murderer as the victim."

But one man, a ranchero of great influence and wealth, answered that he must oppose such a request. It was the rope, he thought, made the punishment. He hoped no Texan feared a bullet. A clean, honorable death like that was for a man who had never wronged his manhood. Every rascally horse thief or Mexican assassin would demand a shot if they were given a precedent. And arguments that would have been essentially false in some localities had a compelling weight in that one. The men gravely nodded their heads in assent, and Lorimer knew that any further pleading was in vain. Yet when he returned to his son, he clasped his hand and looked into his eyes, and David understood that his request would be granted.

Just as the sun dropped the sheriff entered the room. He took the prisoner's arm and walked quietly out with him. There was a coil of rope on his other arm, and David cast his eyes on it with horror and abhorrence, and then looked at his father; and the look was returned with one of singular steadiness. When they reached the little grove of mulberries, the men, one by one, laid down their pipes and slowly rose. There was a large live oak at the end of the enclosure, and to it the party walked.

Here David was asked "if he was guilty?" and he acknowledged the sin: and when further asked "if he thought he had been fairly dealt with, and deserved death?" he answered, "that he was quite satisfied, and was willing to pay the penalty of his crime."

Oh, how handsome he looked at this moment to his heart-broken father! His bare head was just touched by the rays of the setting sun behind him; his fine face, calm and composed, wore even a faint air of exultation. At this hour the travel-stained garments clothed him with a touching and not ignoble pathos. Involuntarily they told of the weary days and nights of despairing flight, which after all had been useless.

Lorimer asked if he might pray, and there was a simultaneous though silent motion of assent. Every man bared his head, while the wretched father repeated the few verses of entreaty and hope which at that awful hour were his own strength and comfort. This service occupied but a few minutes; just as it ended out of the dead stillness rose suddenly a clear, joyful thrilling burst of song from a mocking bird in the branches above. David looked up with a wonderful light on his face; perhaps it meant more to him than anyone else understood.