The appeal, which might otherwise have had its effect, was lost in the cries, accusations, and counter-accusations that arose like a babel. Morton made no further attempt. He better than any one realized, I think, the numerical superiority against him.
The preparations were at length completed. Danny Randall motioned us to lead forward the prisoners. Catlin struggled desperately, but the others walked steadily enough to take their places on the drygoods boxes.
“For God’s sake, gentlemen,” appealed Crawford in a loud tone of voice, “give me time to write home!”
“Ask him how much time he gave Tom Cleveland!” shouted a voice.
“If I’d only had a show,” retorted Crawford, “if I’d known what you were after, you’d have had a gay time taking me.”
There was some little delay in adjusting the cords.
“If you’re going to hang me, get at it!” said Jules with an oath; “if not, I want you to tie a bandage on my finger; it’s bleeding.”
“Give me your coat, Catlin,” said Crawford; “you never gave me anything yet; now’s your chance.”
Danny Randall broke in on this exchange.
“You are about to be executed,” said he soberly. “If you have any dying requests to make, this is your last opportunity. They will be carefully heeded.”