Jack swept the loose dirt back into the furrow with one swing of his foot and stood up.  He went out quietly, two steps in advance of the Captain and the Captain’s drawn pistol, and advanced unflinchingly towards the horse that stood saddled in the midst of the group of executioners, with the same curious crowd looking on greedily at the spectacle.

“Ever been on a horse?” asked the Captain, his deep voice little more than a growl.

“Once or twice,” Jack answered indifferently.

“Climb on, then!”

Jack was young and he was very human.  It might be his last hour on earth, but there rose up in him a prideful desire to show them whether he had ever been on a horse; he caught the saddle-horn with one hand and vaulted vaingloriously into the saddle without touching a toe to the stirrup.  The buckskin ducked and danced sidewise at the end of the rope in Shorty’s hand, and more than one gun flashed into sight at the unexpectedness of the move.

The Captain scowled at the exclamations of admiration from the crowd.  “You needn’t try any funny work, young man, or I’ll tie you hand as well as foot!” he threatened sternly.  “Give me that rope, Davis.”

Then Jack paid in pain for his vanity, and paid in full.  The Captain did not bind his arms—­perhaps because of the crowd and a desire to seem merciful.  But though he merely tied the prisoner’s ankle after the usual manner, he knotted the small rope with a vicious yank, pulled it as tight as he could and passed the rope under the flinching belly of the buckskin to Davis, on the other side.  Also he sent a glance of meaning which the other read unerringly and obeyed most willingly.  Davis drew the rope taut under the cinch and tied Jack’s other ankle as if he were putting the diamond hitch on a pack mule.  The two stepped back and eyed him sharply for some sign of pain, when all was done.

“Thanks,” drawled Jack.  “Sorry I can’t do as much for you.”  Whereupon he set his teeth against the growing agony of strained muscles and congesting arteries, and began to roll a cigarette with fingers which he held rigidly from trembling.

Bill Wilson, returning gloomily to the doorway of his place, grated an oath and turned away his head.

Some day, he promised himself vengefully, those two—­yes, and the whole group of murderers moving briskly away from the tent—­would pay for that outrage; and he prayed that the day might come soon.

He went heavily into the big room where men were already foregathering to gossip between drinks of the trial and of the man who was to die.  Bill bethought him of the young stranger; made some inquiries of certain inoffensive individuals among the crowd, and sent Jim out with instructions to find the kid and bring him back with him.

Bill was standing in the door waiting for Jim to return, when, in a swirl of dust, came Dade galloping around a corner and to the very doorstep before he showed any desire to slow up.  At the first tightening of the reins, the white horse stiffened his front legs, dug two foot-long furrows and stopped still.  Bill had no enthusiasm for the perfect accomplishment of the trick.  He stood with his hands thrust deep into his pockets and regarded the rider glumly.