a living scaffold.
captain haynes, seeing there will be no difficulty in obtaining executioners, deems everything settled, and is about ordering the prisoners to be brought up. being a man of humane feelings, with susceptibilities that make him somewhat averse to performing the part of sheriff, it occurs to him that he can avoid the disagreeable duty by appointing a deputy.
for this he selects walt wilder, who in turn chooses nat cully to assist him. the two assume superintendence of the ceremony, and the ranger captain retires from the ground.
after communing for some seconds between themselves, and in sotto voce, as if arranging the mode of execution, walt faces round to the assembled texans, saying—
“wal, boys, thar ’pears to be no stint o’ hangmen among ye. this chile niver seed so many o’ the jack ketch kind since he fust set foot on the soil o’ texas. maybe it’s the smell o’ these mexikins makes ye so savagerous.”
walt’s quaint speech elicits a general laugh, but suppressed. the scene is too solemn for an ebullition of boisterous mirth. the ex-ranger continues—
“i see you’ll want to have a pull at these ropes. but i reckon we’ll have to disapp’int ye. the things we’re agoin’ to swing up don’t desarve hoistin’ to etarnity by free-born citizens o’ the lone star state. ’twould be a burnin’ shame for any texan to do the hangin’ o’ sech skunks as they.”
“what do you mean, walt?” one asks. “somebody must hoist them up!”
“’taint at all necessary. they kin be strung ’ithout e’er a hand techin’ trail-rope.”
“how?” inquire several voices.
“wal, thar’s a way nat cully an’ me hev been speaking o’. i’ve heern o’ them mexikins practisin’ themselves on thar injun prisoners for sport. we’ll gie’ ’em a dose o’ their own medicine. some o’ you fellows go an’ fetch a kupple o’ pack mules. ye may take the saddles off—they won’t be needed.”
half-a-dozen of the rangers rush out, and return leading two mules, having hastily stripped off their alparejas.
“now!” cries walt, “conduct hyar the kriminals!”
a party proceeds to the spot where the two prisoners lie; and taking hold, raise them to an erect attitude. then, half carrying, half dragging, bring them under the branches designed for their gallows-tree.
with their splendid uniforms torn, mud-bedaubed, and stained with spots of blood, they present a sorry spectacle. they resemble wounded wolves, taken in a trap; nevertheless, bearing their misfortune in a far different manner. roblez looks the large, grey wolf—savage, reckless, unyielding; uraga, the coyote—cowed, crestfallen, shivering; in fear of what may follow.
for a time neither speaks a word nor makes an appeal for mercy. they seem to know it would be idle. regarding the faces around, they may well think so. there is not one but has “death” plainly stamped upon it, as if the word itself were upon every lip.
there is an interval of profound silence, only broken by the croak of the buzzards and the swish of their spread wings. the bodies of the dead lancers lie neglected; and, the rangers now further off, the birds go nearer them. wolves, too, begin to show themselves by the edge of the underwood—from the stillness thinking the time arrived to commence their ravenous repast. it has but come to increase the quantity of food soon to be spread before them.
“take off thar leg fastenin’s!” commands wilder, pointing to the prisoners.
in a trice the lashings are loosed from their ankles, and only the ropes remain confining their wrists—these drawn behind their backs, and there made fast.
“mount ’em on the mules!”
as the other order, this is instantly executed; and the two prisoners are set astride on the hybrids, each held by a man at its head.
“now fix the snares roun’ thar thrapples. make the other eends fast by giein’ them a wheen o’ turn over them branches above. see as ye draw ’em tight ’ithout streetchin’.”
walt’s orders are carried out quickly, and to the letter, for the men executing them now comprehend what is meant. they also, too well, who are seated upon the backs of the mules. it is an old trick of their own. they know they are upon a scaffold—a living scaffold—with a halter and running noose around their necks.
“now, nat!” says walt, in undertone to cully. “i guess we may spring the trap? git your knife riddy.”
“it’s hyar.”
“you take the critter to the left. i’ll look arter that on the right.”
the latter is bestridden by uraga. with walt’s ideas of duty are mingled memories that prompt to revenge. he remembers his comrades slaughtered upon the sands of the canadian, himself left buried alive. with a feeling almost jubilant—natural, considering the circumstances, scarce reprehensible—he takes his stand by the side of the mule which carries colonel uraga. at the same time cully places himself beside that bestridden by roblez.
both have their bowie-knives in hand, the blades bare. one regarding them, a stranger to their intent, might think they meant slaughtering either the mules or the men on their backs.
they have no such thought, but a design altogether different, as declared by wilder’s words—the last spoken by him before the act of execution.
“when i gie the signal, nat, prod yur critter sharp, an’ sweep the support from unner them. they’ve been thegither in this world in the doin’ o’ many a rascally deed. let’s send ’em thegither inter the next.”
“all right, ole hoss! i’ll be riddy,” is the laconic rejoinder of cully.
after it another interval of silence, resembling that which usually precedes the falling of the gallows drop. so profound, that the chirp of a tree cricket, even the rustling of a leaf, would seem a loud noise. so ominous, that the vultures perched upon the summit of the cliff crane out their necks to inquire the cause.
the stillness is interrupted by a shout; not the signal promised by wilder, but a cry coming from the lips of uraga.
in the last hour of anguish his craven heart has given way, and he makes a piteous appeal for mercy. not to those near him, knowing it would scarce be listened to; but to the man he has much wronged, calling out his name, “colonel miranda.”
on hearing it don valerian rushes forth from the tent, his sister by his side, hamersley with the doctor behind. all stand in front regarding the strange spectacle, of which they have been unconscious, seemingly prepared for them. there can be no mistaking its import. the mise en scène explains it, showing the stage set for an execution.
if they have a thought of interfering it is too late. while they stand in suspense, a shout reaches them, followed by explanatory words.
they are in the voice of walt wilder, who has said—
“death to the scoundrels! now, nat, move your mule forrard!”
at the same instant he and cully are seen leaning towards the two mules, which bound simultaneously forward, as if stung by hornets or bitten by gadflys.
but neither brings its rider along. the latter—both of them—stay behind; not naturally, as dismounted and thrown to the earth; but, like the cradle of mahomet, suspended between earth and heaven.
