"Don't yer do it, Bill—don't yer do it!" cried Caney, of Texas. "Stick to yer friends, an' die like a man!"
"That's me!" said the prisoner, directing a special volley of curses at the New Englander. "It's ben said here that I wuz sneakin' an' cowardly; ther's one way of givin' that feller the lie—hurry up an' do it!"
"When I raise my hand," said the major, "lead the horse away; and may the Lord have mercy on your soul, Bowney!"
"Amen!" fervently exclaimed the New Englander.
Again there was a moment of terrible silence, and when a gentle wind swept over the wild oats and through the tree, there seemed to sound on the air a sigh and a shudder.
Suddenly all the horses started and pricked up their ears.
"Somebody's comin'!" whispered one of the party. "Sheriff's got wind of the arrangements, maybe!"
"Comes from the wrong direction," cried Caney, of Texas, quickly. "It's somebody on foot—an' tired—an' light-footed—ther's two or three—dunno what kind o' bein's they ken be. Thunder an' lightnin'!"
Caney's concluding remark was inspired by the sudden appearance of a woman, who rushed into the shadow of the tree, stopped, looked wildly about for a moment, and then threw herself against the prisoner's feet, and uttered a low, pitiful cry.
There was a low murmur from the crowd, and the major cried: