"Christ! Have you no pity in your soul? Think what you are doing! This is murder—cruel, bloody murder!"
"It's a shore-enuff proper-conducted lynchin'," growled the cowboy.
"What have I done to you? Lord God! What have I done? Free my hands and I'll fight you square, anyhow you like! Anything but this, this—this horrible death. I ain't fit to die. Lemme free an' have a chance in a square fight."
"I don't fight wi' skunks o' your breed!" came the scornful answer.
At this the wretch broke down utterly and exhausted himself in wild oaths of abuse; but after a string or two of these Broncho cut in impatiently:
"I allow you'd better throw off any prayer-stock you-alls wishes to cut loose. Your time's gettin' some scarce."
With a moan of terror the doomed ruffian threw himself down on his face, howling like a cur, and casting to the winds all further efforts at self-control.
Unmoved by this pitiful display of a cowardly soul, Broncho stepped up to the writhing form and pulled him to his feet; then, with a slow, deliberate care, adjusted the noose round the condemned man's neck, and called to the others to haul in the slack of the rope.
All this time, Jim, crouching behind the brushwood and shaking all over with fright, puzzled his poor head in a desperation as to how to act.
At the last moment the thought came to him. Already the three men were preparing to lay back on the rope, when right over their heads came a weird, unearthly voice: