“He killed your friend.”
“I know he did; but I pity the poor wretch. I suppose he ought to be punished; but I don’t want to see it.”
“You’re too soft-hearted; but just as you like.”
An impromptu gallows had been erected, and a rope was soon forthcoming. Henderson was dragged to it, pale and trembling, imploring mercy at every step. But there was no mercy in the hearts of the rough men who had him in charge. He had foully murdered one of their number, and they were determined that he should pay the penalty. Among the hundreds who participated in the scene, there were others perhaps as reckless and criminal as he, who, exposed to the same temptation, would have acted in the same manner. But they, too, heaped execrations upon the guilty man, as he cowered under the gaze of the vindictive mob, and were apparently as anxious as any that justice should be done. It might have been from policy, but, at all events, Henderson, as he glanced despairingly from one face to another, did not encounter one kindly or pitying look. The only one who pitied him was the boy whose friend had been stricken down at his side, and he was not present.
I shall not linger on the details of the execution. No one of my readers, I am sure, can take pleasure in such a scene.
Half an hour after, as Harry still lay in his tent, a miner came to him.
“Is it all over?” asked Harry, sick at heart.
“Yes, it’s all over. Henderson won’t prowl round any more.”
During the day Bush was buried. The funeral ceremonies were slight. A grave was dug on the hill-side, and the body was lowered down, and hastily covered over. Harry procured a piece of board, which he set up for a gravestone, cutting on its surface, as well as he could, his friend’s name in rude capitals,—JOHN BUSH.