"Don't gi'n up, straunger," he had whispered. "We'll hev you free afore long."
"Who are you, and what do you mean?" asked Poynter.
"You'll see. I've sent arter the boys, an' ef nothin' happins they'll be hyar in three hours. But you'll hev to take the hidin', though. We hain't strong enough to prevent that."
Nothing more was said, for Redlaw and Reeves pressed forward, and with several brutal kicks from the mongrel, Poynter was lifted up and his arms unbound, two men clinging to each as though they anticipated an attempt at escape. But if so, they were disappointed.
The prisoner knew that it would be followed by certain death, in the face of the threatening revolvers, and the words of Jack Fyffe had revived his hopes of a speedy rescue, for which he was content to wait, even though he had to endure the fearful torture that had been threatened him.
He was drawn up to the tree, his arms outstretched to their utmost extent, and then his wrists were connected by the halters, another securing his body. By this time the men who had been dispatched after the instruments of torture returned bearing their hands full of long, lithe hickory rods.
And then the torture began. The supple rods whistled through the air, and paused with a hissing crack; the gore started out as the tender skin was torn and lacerated. But although the pain and agony must have been fearful, as the punishment proceeded, not a groan or an uneven breath proclaimed the fact.
The crimson spray fell upon those who stood closest; some of them giving quivers as it touched their skin, as though it had been molten lead; but the majority yelled and cheered at the sight. Their fiercest, basest passions were fully aroused; they were wolves, not men.
Polk Redlaw, Jonathan Green and Alfred Wigan plied the rods, and as may be supposed, they did not spare their strength. But severe as were their blows, they failed in drawing a single manifestation of pain from the prisoner, however slight. And then the one hundred lashes were counted, fairly.
The prisoner was let down from his position, and Jack Fyffe helped him to adjust his garments, managing to whisper a cheering word without being overheard by the mob. Then Poynter spoke, not a tremor or quaver betraying what he had suffered from the fearful ordeal, in his voice: