It was Judge Lodge who broke the silence.  “Guilty, boys.  Ain’t one look at the skunk enough to prove it?”

“Make it all fair and legal, gents,” broke in Larsen.

Buck Mason strode straight up to the prisoner.

“Was you over to Quade’s house yesterday evening?”

The other shrank away from the extended, pointing arm.

“Yes,” he stammered.  “I—­I—­what does all this mean?”

Mason whirled on his companions, still pointing to the schoolmaster.  “Take a slant at him, boys.  Can’t you read it in his face?”

There was a deep and humming murmur of approval.  Then, without a word, Mason took one of Gaspar’s arms and Montana took the other.  Sally Bent ran forward at them with a cry, but the long arm of Riley Sinclair barred her way.

“Man’s work,” he said coldly.  “You go inside and cover your head.”

She turned to them with extended hands.

“Buck, Montana, Larsen—­boys, you-all ain’t going to let it happen?  He couldn’t have done it!”

They lowered their heads and returned no answer.  At that she whirled with a sob and ran back into the house.  The procession moved on, Buck and Montana in the lead, with the prisoner between them.  The others followed, Judge Lodge uncoiling a horribly significant rope.  Last of all came Bill Sandersen, never taking his eyes from the face of Riley Sinclair.

The latter was thoughtful, very thoughtful.  He seemed to feel the eyes of Sandersen upon him, for presently he turned to the other.  “What good’s a coward to the world, Sandersen?”

“None that I could see.”

“Well, look at that.  Ever see anything more yaller?”

Gaspar walked between his two guards.  Rather he was dragged between them, his feet trailing weakly and aimlessly behind him, his whole body sinking with flabby terror.  The stern lip of Riley Sinclair curled.

“He’s going to let it go through,” said Sandersen to himself.  “After all nobody can blame him.  He couldn’t put his own neck in the noose.”

Over the lowest limb of a great cottonwood Judge Lodge accurately flung the rope, so that the noose dangled a significant distance from the ground.  There was a businesslike stir among the others.  Denver, Larsen, the judge, and Sandersen held the free end of the rope.  Buck Mason tied the hands of the prisoner behind him.  Montana spoke calmly through his mask.

“Jig, you sure done a rotten bad thing.  You hadn’t ought to of killed him, Jig.  These here killings has got to stop.  We ain’t hanging you for spite, but to make an example.”

Then with a dexterous hand he fitted the noose around the neck of the schoolteacher.  As the rough rope grated against Gaspar’s throat, he shrieked and jerked against the rope end that bound his hands.  Then, as if he realized that struggling would not help him, and that only speech could give him a chance for life, he checked the cry of horror and looked around him.  His glances fell on the grim masks, and it was only natural that he should address himself to the only uncovered face he saw.