“I guess you needn’t tell me,” he said. “When is it to be?”
“To-morrow,” said Grant, and it seemed to Breckenridge that his voice came from far away. “At the town—as soon as there is light enough to see by.”
The prisoner turned without a word, and when he had gone the men, as if prompted by one impulse, hastened out of the room, leaving Grant and Breckenridge alone. The former sat very still at the head of the table, until Breckenridge laid his hand on his shoulder.
“Shake it off, Larry. You couldn’t have done anything else,” he said.
“No,” said Grant, with a groan. “Still, I could have wished this duty had not been laid on me.”
When they next stood side by side the early daylight was creeping across the little railroad town, and Breckenridge, whose young face was white, shivered with more than the bitter cold. He never wished to recall it, but the details of that scene would return to him—the square frame houses under the driving snow-cloud, the white waste they rose from, the grim, silent horsemen with the rifles across their saddles, and the intent faces beyond them in the close-packed street. He saw the prisoner standing rigidly erect in a wagon drawn up beside a towering telegraph-pole, and heard a voice reading hoarsely.
A man raised his hand, somebody lashed the horses, the wagon lurched away, a dusky object cut against the sky, and Breckenridge turned his eyes away. A sound that might have been a groan or murmur broke from the crowd and the momentary silence that followed it was rent by the crackle of riflery. After that, Breckenridge only recollected riding across the prairie amidst a group of silent men, and feeling very cold.
In the meanwhile the citizens were gazing at a board nailed to the telegraph-pole: “For murder and robbery. Take warning! Anyone offending in the same way will be treated similarly!”