“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.”

“You’ve been tried—­and condemned.  I settled all that in the night.”

“But—­it ain’t legal.  Goddlemighty, you got no right to act thataway.  All you can do is to take me back to the courts.”  The heavy voice broke again to a scream.

Morse slipped the hunting-knife back into its case.  He looked steadily at the prisoner.  In his eyes there was no anger, no hatred.  But back of the sadness in them was an implacable resolution.

“Courts and the law are a thousand miles away,” he said.  “You know your crimes.  You murdered Tim Kelly treacherously.  You planned to spoil an innocent girl’s life by driving her to worse than death.  You shot your partner in the back after he did his best to help you escape.  You tortured Onistah and would have killed him if we hadn’t come in time.  You assaulted my friend here and he’ll probably die from his wounds.  It’s the end of the long trail for you, Bully West.  Inside of half an hour you will be dead.  If you’ve anything to say—­if you can make your peace with heaven—­don’t waste a moment.”

The face of West went gray.  He stared at the other man, the horror-filled eyes held fascinated.  “You—­you’re tryin’ to scare me,” he faltered.  “You wouldn’t do that.  You couldn’t.  It ain’t allowed by the Commissioner.”  One of the bound arms twitched involuntarily.  The convict knew that he was lost.  He had a horrible conviction that this man meant to do as he had said.

The face of Morse was inexorable as fate itself, but inside he was a river of rushing sympathy.  This man was bad.  He himself had forced the circumstances that made it impossible to let him live.  None the less Tom felt like a murderer.  The thing he had to do was so horribly cold-blooded.  If this had been a matter between the two of them, he could at least have given the fellow a chance for his life.  But not now—­not with Win Beresford in the condition he was.  If he were going to save his friend, he could not take the chances of a duel.

“Ten minutes now,” Morse said.  His voice was hoarse and low.  He felt his nerves twitching, a tense aching in the throat.