"Ladies, please don't interrupt the course of the law by staying around here any longer than's necessary—for hang he will!" he added.
Still no one showed the slightest sign of complying with his wishes. The situation was becoming intolerable.
"Ladies," he began again, and this time rather peremptorily, "you'll greatly oblige us by retiring at once."
"We'll not move a step until you take the rope from that man's neck," said Blanch firmly and unabashed, still holding her ground. Her words acted like a challenge. His temper was thoroughly roused, it being a question whether he or a lot of women should have their way. He, Jim Blake, overpowered by a mob of sentimental, hysterical women—not while he lived!
"Then, ladies," he answered curtly, placing his hat firmly on his head, "if you won't go into the house, you'll have to see him swing, that's all!" and quickly detailing half his men who lined up before the spectators with cocked rifles, he shouted to the others behind them holding the rope: "Boys, when I count three, do your work!" There was no mistaking his words. The prisoner uttered a half-articulate groan.
"One—" slowly counted Blake.
The Mexicans crossed themselves and began to mutter prayers. Women screamed.
"Two—three—" but simultaneously with the word three, was heard the report of a pistol, and the men pulling on the rope rolled on the ground, a hopelessly entangled mass of arms and legs. The rope had been severed just above the prisoner's head, and when the smothered oaths of the men mingled with the screams of the women had subsided, Dick Yankton with pistol in hand was seen leaning out over the veranda rail.
"I reckon there won't be any hanging at the old Posada this morning, Jim Blake," he said, calmly covering the latter with his weapon.
"Well, darn my skin!" gasped Blake. "Where did you come from?"