He leveled his gun at the unhappy man and took a deliberate sight.
"O, for the Lord A'mighty's sake, don't shoot me down like a dog," screamed Bushrod. "Le'me have a chance to pray, an' make my peace with my Maker."
"All right," conceded Shorty, "go and kneel down there by that cottonwood, and do the fastest prayin* you ever did in all your born days, for you have need of it. We'll shoot when I count three. You'd better make a clean breast of all your sins and transgressions before you go. You'll git a cooler place in the camp down below."
Unseen, the rest of Co. Q were peeping through the bushes and enjoying the scene.
Bushrod knelt down with his face toward the Cottonwood, and began an agonized prayer, mingled with confessions of crimes and malefactions, some flagrant, some which brought a grin of amusement to the faces of Co. Q.
"One!" called out Shorty in stentorian tones.
"O, for the love o' God, Mister, don't shoot me," yelled Bushrod, whirling around, with uplifted arms. "I'm too wicked to die, an' I've got a fambly dependin' on me."
"Turn around there, and finish your prayin'," sternly commanded Shorty, with his and Si's faces down to the stocks of their muskets, in the act of taking deliberate aim.
Bushrod flopped around, threw increased vehemence into his prayer, and resumed his recital of his misdeeds.
"Two!" counted Shorty.