“I have only a little to say,” said John Gaspar.

“Speak up then.  Who d’you want to give the messages to?”

“To no living man,” said John Gaspar.

“All right then, Gaspar.  Blaze away with the talk, but make it short.”

John Gaspar raised his head until he was looking through the stalwart branches of the cottonwood tree, into the haze of light above.

“Our Father in Heaven,” said John Gaspar, “forgive them as I forgive them!”

Riley Sinclair, quivering under those words, looked around him upon the stunned faces of the rest of the court; then back to the calm of Gaspar.  Strength seemed to have flooded the coward.  At the moment when he lost all hope, he became glorious.  His voice was soft, never rising, and the great, dark eyes were steadfast.  A sudden consciousness came to Riley Sinclair that God must indeed be above them, higher than the flight of the hawk, robed in the maze of that lofty cloud, seeing all, hearing all.  And every word that Gaspar spoke was damning him, dragging him to hell.

But Riley Sinclair was not a religious man.  Luck was his divinity.  He left God and heaven and hell inside the pages of the Bible, undisturbed.  The music of the schoolteacher’s voice reminded him of the purling of some tiny waterfall in the midst of a mountain wilderness.

“I have no will to fight for life.  For that sin, forgive me, and for whatever else I have done wrong.  Let no knowledge of the crime they are committing come to these men.  Fierce men, fighters, toilers, full of hate, full of despair, full of rage, how can they be other than blind?  Forgive them, as I forgive them without malice.  And most of all, Lord God, forgive this most unjust judge.”

“Louder!” whispered Sinclair, his hand cupped behind his ear.

“Amen,” said John Gaspar, as his head bowed again.  The fascinated posse seemed frozen, each man in his place, each in his attitude.

“John Gaspar,” said his honor, “here’s your sentence:  You’re to be hanged by the neck till you’re dead.”

John Gaspar closed his eyes and opened them again.  Otherwise he made no move of protest.

“But not,” continued Sinclair, “from this cottonwood tree.”

A faint sigh, indubitably of relief, came from the posse.

Riley Sinclair arose.  “Gents,” he said, “I been thinking this over.  They ain’t any doubt that the prisoner is guilty, and they ain’t any doubt that John Gaspar is no good, anyway you look at him.  But a gent that can put the words together like he can, ought to get a chance to talk in front of a regular jury.  I figure we’d better send for the sheriff to come over from Woodville and take the prisoner back there.  One of you gents can slide over there today, and the sheriff’ll be here tomorrow, mostlike.”

“But who’ll take charge of Gaspar?”

“Who?  Why me, of course!  Unless somebody else would like the job more?  I’ll keep him right here in the Bent cabin.”