"Take him down; give him fifteen minutes with his wife, and see she doesn't untie him."
"Take him down; give him fifteen minutes with his wife."
The man in the tree loosened the rope, Bowney was lifted off and placed on the ground again, and the woman threw herself on the ground beside him, caressed his ugly face, and wailed pitifully. The judge and jury fidgeted about restlessly. Still the horses stood on the alert, and soon three came through the oats—three children, all crying.
As they saw the men they became dumb, and stood mute and frightened, staring at their parents.
They were not pretty—they were not even interesting. Mother and children were alike—unwashed, uncombed, shoeless, and clothed in dirty, faded calico. The children were all girls—the oldest not more than ten years old, and the youngest scarce five. None of them pleaded for the prisoner, but still the woman wailed and moaned, and the children stood staring in dumb piteousness.
The major stood quietly gazing at the face of his watch. There was not in Southern California a more honest man than Major Burkess; yet the minute-hand of his watch had not indicated more than one-half of fifteen minutes, when he exclaimed:
"Time's up!"
The men approached the prisoner—the woman threw her arms around him, and cried: