HOOTCH
By William Sanford
I had committed murder. In a terrible fit of rage I had killed my friend, Jim McCarthy. I was going to be hung at sunrise. There was no hope. I must die.
Slowly the great steel door swung open, and four guards entered my cell. One of them stepped a little in advance of the others.
“Come!” he said, and that was all.
I rose, tottering, from my bench. I must die! I must leave the sunlight of the earth behind me. I had committed murder.
I was led through the cold, bleak prison corridors and out into the lighted courtyard where a number of people were gathered—prison officials and a few newspaper men. The scaffold stood before me, and with tottering legs I was assisted to the top.
A black cap, a horrible thing spelling death, was fitted over my head and drawn tight about my neck. All was still about me. No one spoke.
I felt the noose placed about my neck. The cold sweat broke out over my body. I could scarcely stand. Death! Death! I was to know the feeling of that terrible rope in a few moments.
“Ready!” said a sharp voice.