“We just rather are!” says Santa Fé. And then he says, talking kind of cutting: “May I ask, sir, what you do in England with 202 murderers? Do you pay ’em salaries, and ask ’em out to tea-parties, and hire somebody to see they have all the drinks they want?”
The little man begun telling how English folks manage such matters, and was real excited. But nobody but the Hen paid no attention to him. The Hen––she and Kerosene was standing close aside of him––turned round to him and said pleasant she always enjoyed most the hangings they had by moonlight (the moon was at the full, and shining beautiful) because the moonlight, she said, cast over them such a glamour of romance. And her looking at moonlight hangings that way seemed to give him such a jolt he stopped talking and give a kind of a gasp. There wasn’t no more time for talking, anyway––for just then the train backed in to the platform and the conductor sung out the Friendly Aiders had got to get a move on ’em, if them going by it was to see the doings, and put Shorty through.
Being moonlight, and the shadows thick, helped considerable––keeping from showing how the boys had fixed Shorty up so his 203 hanging wouldn’t come hard: with a lariat run round under his arms, his shirt over it, and a loop just inside his collar where they could hitch the rope fast. When they did hitch to it, things looked just as natural as you please.
Shorty got right into the hanging spirit––he always was a comical little cuss, Shorty was––pleading pitiful with the boys to let up on him; and, when they wouldn’t, getting a halt on ’em––same as he’d seen done at real hangings––by beginning to send messages to all the folks he ever had. Santa Fé let him go on till he’d got to his uncles and cousins––and then he said he guessed the rest of the family could make out to do with second-hand messages from them that had them; and as it was past train-time, and the distinguished stranger in their midst––who was going on it––would enjoy seeing the show through, the hanging had got to be shoved right along. When Charley’d give his order, Carver come up––he was the Pullman conductor, Carver was, and he had his points how to manage––and steered the little man 204 onto the back platform of the Pullman, where he could see well; and so had things all ready for the train to pull out as soon as Shorty was swung off.
Wood, who’d had experience, had the rope rigged up in good shape over the cross-bar of the telegraph-pole; and Hill and Denver fetched old Shorty along––with Shorty letting on he was scared stiff, and yowling like he’d been ashamed to if it hadn’t been a bunco game he was playing––and hitched him to it, with the boys standing close round in a clump so they hid the way it was done.
The little man was so worked up by that time––it likely being he hadn’t seen much of hangings––he was just a-hopping: with his plug hat off, and sousing the sweat off his face with his pocket-handkerchief, and singing out what was going on wasn’t any better than murder, and begging all hands not to do what he said was such a dreadful deed.
But nobody paid no attention to him (except Carver, he was a friendly feller, Carver was, kept a lookout he didn’t tumble himself off the platform) and when Denver 205 sung out things was ready, and Santa Fé sung out back for the Friendly Aiders to haul away, the boys all grabbed onto the rope together––and up Shorty went a-kicking into the air.
Shorty really did do his act wonderful: kicking every which way at first, and then only sort of squirming, and then quieting down gradual till he just hung limp––with the kick all kicked out of him––turning round and round slow!
When he’d quieted, the train conductor swung his lantern to start her, and off she went––the little man standing there on the back platform of the Pullman, a-grabbing at the railing like he was dizzy, looking back with all his eyes. And old Shorty up on the telegraph-pole, making a black splotch twisting about in the moonlight, was the last bit of Palomitas he seen!