The mob struggled forward, yelling.
“Ver' well!” she cried, snatching a silver-mounted pistol out of her bosom. “Come on! Ze jackass, he is ke-e-ll five! I, Mignon, I ke-e-ll five! Ten shall go to le diable before mon brave shall hang!”
They hesitated, those in front pressing back from the certain death which awaited them. Mignon set her arms akimbo, the gun gleaming at her hip, and taunted them in contemptuous French.
The horsemen had reached the camp and soon thundered into view. “What's this going on, anyway?” demanded the sheriff, angrily. “Anthony Barstow is innocent. These men can prove that they spent the night at Barstow's cabin. When I learned the truth, I came straight back. Buckeye Pete, you throw up your hands! You're wanted for the murder of Spotty Collins.”
Mignon tore the noose from Anthony's neck, laughing and crying in true French abandon.
“Anthony, you're snared in another kind of noose,” laughed the sheriff. “I know you're need in' your arms, but that rip-snortin' little jack won't let me get near enough to cut your bonds.”
“By Salsifer!” he said, later on, “I'll have to swear that fighting jack in as a deputy sheriff, and set him to watchin' road agents confined in the jail. Well, goodnight, all. Pete's locked up safe and sound.”
An hour later a sober band of grim spectres returned to the jail, overpowered the guard, and, for the second time that night, took out grisly fruit to hang on the lynching tree. There were no pine knots and no attempts at conversation till the leader asked: “Buckeye Pete, have you anything to say before you join your Maker?”
“Ain't no use prayin' for yourself,” spoke up another voice. “Better pray for the soul of the man you sent to Purgatory, and for the well-bein' of the other innocent man you tried to destroy.”
“What's that?”