"A marker for a grave."
"For—for him? Maybe he won't die. Looks better to me. Fever ain't so high."
"It's not for him."
West moistened his dry lips with his tongue. "You will have yore li'l joke, eh? Who's it for?"
"For you."
"For me?" The man's fear burst from him in a shriek. "Whajamean for me?"
From the lettering Morse read aloud. "'Bully West, Executed, Some
Time late in March, 1875.'" And beneath it, "'May God Have Mercy on
His Soul.'"
Tiny beads of sweat gathered on the convict's clammy forehead. "You aimin' to—to murder me?" he asked hoarsely.
"To execute you."
"With—without a trial? My God, you can't do that! I got a right to a trial."