“What time is it, boys?” asked Donald.
“Four o'clock, Mac,” answered Timmins, glancing with difficulty at the watch that shook in his fingers.
“Let me have my pencil and note-book, will you? I want to write a letter or two.” The men hesitated, and the condemned man smiled. “Oh, you needn't be afraid I'll try any funny business at this late date. I give you my word, and that's still good, isn't it?
“It sure is, Mac,” said Buxton, and he brought him the articles required.
When the prisoner had begun to write awkwardly by the flickering light, the men engaged in a whispered conversation.
“Say, Mac—” Timmins began hesitatingly, and paused. Then, abruptly, he continued boldly: “I've got a proposition to make you.”
“What is it?”
“Buxton and me have agreed it's the only fair thing to do. You take my revolver, and bang us both over the head with it, and make your get-away. We'll frame up a good story of a desperate struggle, and all that, to tell 'em when we come to. Then, nobody'll suffer, and we won't all have murder on our souls. But give us time to fix the story up beforehand,” he concluded, whimsically. “You see, we mightn't be able to think alike afterward.”
Donald actually laughed.
“It's no go, boys,” he said gratefully; “but I'll always remember your—” He halted blankly, and Buxton cleared his throat viciously, and spat into the fire. The fact that “always” consisted for him of perhaps four hours, at most, occurred to the man about to die with something of surprise for a moment. Then, he went on writing.