I was in a bad way. My horse had poll evil, and my pistol would not shoot without the use of an oaken plug. I had seen Jim kill rabbits on the run many a time, and, adding this to my grief at my friend Scott’s death, I was working up a great case of true tenderfoot fright. I was so scared that I would not have recognized Jim if I had seen him, but I kept on. Finally, the Texan saw that I was rattled and stopped and drew me behind the others. To think of anyone noticing my condition drew the tears of mortification to my eyes.
“Go up the hill,” he said, handing me a Winchester, “and watch and see that Jim does not leave the valley.”
This was a diversion, and I was certainly glad to get away from the others. I must have stayed up there several hours, and all the time the hunt was going on there was an accompaniment of wails from women and children of the Indian camp near by. They would moan and cry to an even rhythm, and then all of a sudden there would be a pause. The silence was extraordinary.
At last the Texan called me to come down from my vantage point. Jim had sent a deputation of squaws to say that he would give himself up if we would promise not to lynch him. An Indian is afraid of hanging only because he believes—as the Greeks did—in the Animus. The breath is the soul, and he will never get to the happy hunting grounds if he is killed by cutting it off.
We accepted his surrender and began the journey to Johnston’s. Jim’s legs were tied under his horse, and I can see the procession now, the Western sun hitting them as they rode on ahead of me. The smell of sweat, saddle leather, and alkali comes back to me as pungent as if it were yesterday. The two Carricks seemed to be loath to leave us, and the old man kept crying repeatedly:
“There is a good hill. Hang him now. What is the use of waiting? Hang him to onct.”
He tried to be jocular, but he overdid it. He was talking too much.
I, being the scribe, was delegated to take down Jim’s confession. His hands were tied and lying listless on the table while I rolled him cigarette after cigarette. In a corner of the room sat his sister, who was a girl of the town, lolling back on a cot and looking over the whole scene with a contemptuous curl to her lips. Jim told his story with the utmost composure. It was no more to him than killing a deer. He was a chief of his tribe and had been educated, but the seventy-five dollars and a horse which Carrick had given him to commit the murder were more than he could withstand.
He told how he had sneaked up behind Scott, shot him, and, taking his own boots off, ran away. Gaining courage after a while, he crept back. “He wasn’t bawlin’ no more,” so he took the trace from the harness and dragged the body into the woods. All this time the boys were outside, making ready for the hanging—it was impossible to keep him from them—so I was truly relieved when I heard the loud beat of horse hoofs and a deputy sheriff arrived on the scene, saying:
“Christ! I’m too soon!”