To a question Crawford shook his head.
“I hope God Almighty will strike every one of you with forked lightning and that I shall meet you all in the lowest pit of hell!” he snarled.
Morton kept a stubborn and rather dignified silence. 367 Catlin alternately pleaded and wept. Jules answered Danny’s question:
“Sure thing! Pull off my boots for me. I don’t want it to get back to my old mother that I died with my boots on!”
In silence and gravely this ridiculous request was complied with. The crowd, very attentive, heaved and stirred. The desperadoes, shouldering their way here and there, were finding each other out, were gathering in little groups.
“They’ll try a rescue!” whispered the man next to me.
“Men,” Danny’s voice rang out, clear and menacing, “do your duty!”
At the words, across the silence the click of gunlocks was heard as the Vigilantes levelled their weapons at the crowd. From my position near the condemned men I could see the shifting components of the mob freeze to immobility before the menace of those barrels. At the same instant the man who had been appointed executioner jerked the box from beneath Catlin’s feet.
“There goes one to hell!” muttered Charley.
“I hope forked lightning will strike every strangling─” yelled Crawford. His speech was abruptly cut short as the box spun from under his feet.