Brown’s last words were, “God Almighty save my soul.”
The frail platform flew from under him, and his life passed away almost with the twang of the rope.
Red saw his comrade drop; but no sign of trepidation was visible. His voice was as calm and quiet as if he had been conversing with old friends. He said he knew that he should be followed and hanged when he met the party on the Divide. He wished that they would chain him and carry him along to where the rest were, that he might see them punished. Just before he was launched into eternity, he asked to shake hands with them all, which having done, he begged of the man who had escorted him to Lorraine’s, that he would follow and punish the rest. The answer was given in these words, “Red we will do it, if there’s any such thing in the book.” The pledge was kept.
His last words were, “Good bye, boys; God bless you. You are on a good undertaking.” The frail footing on which he stood gave way, and this dauntless and yet guilty criminal died without a struggle. It was pitiful to see one whom nature intended for a hero, dying—and that justly—like a dog.
A label was pinioned to his back bearing the legend:
“Red! Road Agent and Messenger.”
The inscription on the paper fastened on to Brown’s clothes was:
“Brown! Corresponding Secretary.”
The fatal trees still smile as they don the green livery of Spring, or wave joyfully in the Summer breeze; but when the chill blast of winter moans over the snow-clad prairie, the wind sighing and creaking through the swaying boughs seems, to the excited listener, to be still laden with the sighs and sounds of that fatal night. Fiat Justitia ruat cælum.
The bodies were left suspended, and remained so for some days before they were buried. The ministers of justice expected a battle on their arrival at Nevada; but they found the Vigilantes organized in full force, and each man, as he uncocked his gun and dismounted, heaved a deep sigh of relief. THE CRISIS WAS PAST.