“Well, no,” returned the captor. “Sheriff an’ judge mean well, I s’pose; but they’re slow—mighty slow. Besides, he’s got friends, an’ they might be too much fur the sheriff some night. We tuk him to the Broad Oak, an’ we thought we’d ax the neighbors over thar to-night, to talk it over. Be thar?”
“You bet!” replied the first speaker. “And I’ll bring my friends; nothing like having plenty of witnesses in important legal cases.”
“Jus’ so,” responded the other. “Well, here’s till then;” and the two men separated.
The Broad Oak was one of those magnificent trees which are found occasionally through Southern California, singly or dispersed in handsome natural parks.
The specimen which had so impressed people as to gain a special name for itself was not only noted for its size, but because it had occasionally been selected as the handiest place in which Judge Lynch could hold his court without fear of molestation by rival tribunals.
Bill Bowney, under favorable circumstances, appeared to be a very homely, lazy, sneaking sort of an individual; but Bill Bowney, covered with dust, his eyes bloodshot, his clothes torn, and his hands and feet tightly bound, had not a single attractive feature about him.
He stared earnestly up into the noble tree under whose shadow he lay; but his glances were not of admiration—they seemed, rather, to be resting on two or three fragments of rope which remained on one of the lower limbs, and to express sentiments of the most utter loathing and disgust.
The afternoon wore away, and the moon shone brilliantly down from the cloudless sky.
The tramp of a horse was heard at a distance, but rapidly growing more distinct, and soon Bowney’s captor galloped up to the tree.
Then another horse was heard, then others, and soon ten or a dozen men were gathered together.