At last the moment had come!
"Lay back on it!" hissed the cowpuncher, as the two executioners drew the rope taut.
In another second Hawksley would have been dangling in space. Already he was on the tips of his toes, when "Crack!" and the rope was cut through just above his head, and down he fell in a heap.
"Hold! What the devil are you doing?" cried a panting voice, and the next moment Jack burst into the open, a smoking pistol in his hand, followed by Jim and Loyola.
"You ain't wanted here, Jack Derringer," roared the baffled cowpuncher. "He's my steer, an' rope him I will! I'll take it kind if you'll quit blockin' up the scenery an' obstructin' this here execution."
"Why, Broncho, what's taken you? My old bunkie isn't going to turn into a butchering desperado, is he? Come, old son, this little game of yours has gone far enough."
"I stands a corralful from you, Jack, as you-alls knows; but you're playin' mighty near the limit. I asks you again to vamoose," returned the cowboy, sticking desperately to his guns; then he added more softly, "It's for your own good, pard."
"No good's going to come to me by any man's murder in cold blood."
"It's a fair an' square lynchin', Jack, and a sight easier death than the skunk desarves."
"Chuck it, Broncho, chuck it!" cried the rover. "It's no use. I can't allow it. The thing's impossible."