The guards caught him by the shoulders and threw him back into the chair. The bandage was removed, and just in front of him stood a brass cannon pointed at his head, a soldier beside it holding the string ready to pull. John threw himself backward, yelling:
“Goddermighty!”
When he scrambled to his feet and started to run, another cannon swung on him from the rear. He dropped to his knees and began to pray.
“Yas, Lawd, I’se er comin’. I hain’t ready—but, Lawd, I got ter come! Save me!”
“Shave him!” the Captain ordered.
While the old man sat moaning, they lathered his head with two scrubbing-brushes and shaved it clean.
“Now stand him up by the wall and measure him for his coffin,” was the order.
They snatched him from the chair, pushed him against the wall, and measured him. While they were taking his measure, the man next to him whispered:
“Now’s the time to save your hide—tell all about Ben Cameron trying to hire you to kill Ashburn.”
“Give him a few minutes,” said the Captain, “and maybe we can hear what Mr. Cameron said about Ashburn.”