“Jack,” I said, hoarsely, “the law sends that man before a court.”

“Court be damned!” growled Mount, as Elerson uncoiled the pack-rope, flung one end over a maple limb above, and tied a running noose on the other end.

Murphy crowded past me to seize the prisoner, but I caught him by the arm and pushed him aside.

“Men!” I said, angrily; “I don’t care whose command you are under.  I’m an officer, and you’ll listen to me and obey me with respect.  Murphy!”

The Irishman gave me a savage stare.

“By God!” I cried, cocking my rifle, “if one of you dares disobey, I’ll shoot him where he stands!  Murphy!  Stand aside!  Mount, bring that prisoner here!”

There was a pause; then Murphy touched his cap and stepped back quietly, nodding to Mount, who shuffled forward, pushing the prisoner and darting a venomous glance at me.

“Redstock,” I said, “where is McCraw?”

A torrent of filthy abuse poured out of the prisoner’s writhing mouth.  He cursed us, threatening us with a terrible revenge from McCraw if we harmed a hair of his head.

Astonished, I saw that he had mistaken my attitude for one of fear.  I strove to question him, but he insolently refused all information.  My men ground their teeth with impatience, and I saw that I could control them no longer.

So I gave what color I could to the lawless act of justice, partly to save my waning authority, partly to save them the consequences of executing a prisoner who might give valuable information to the authorities in Albany.

I ordered Elerson to hold the prisoner and adjust the noose; Murphy and Mount to the rope’s end.  Then I said:  “Prisoner, this field-court finds you guilty of murder and orders your execution.  Have you anything to say before sentence is carried out?”

The wretch did not believe we were in earnest.  I nodded to Elerson, who drew the noose tight; the prisoner’s knees gave way, and he screamed; but Mount and Murphy jerked him up, and the rope strangled the screech in his throat.

Sickened, I bent my head, striving to count the seconds as he hung twisting and quivering under the maple limb.

Would he never die?  Would those spasms never end?

“Shtep back, sorr, if ye plaze, sorr,” said Murphy, gently.  “Sure, sorr, ye’re as white as a sheet.  Walk away quiet-like; ye’re not used to such things, sorr.”

I was not, indeed; I had never seen a man done to death in cold blood.  Yet I fought off the sickening faintness that clutched at my heart; and at last the dangling thing hung limp and relaxed, turning slowly round and round in mid-air.

Mount nodded to Murphy and fell to digging with a sharpened stick.  Elerson quietly lighted his pipe and aided him, while Murphy shaved off a white square of bark on the maple-tree under the slow-turning body, and I wrote with the juice of an elderberry: 

“Daniel Redstock, a child murderer, executed by American Riflemen for his crimes, under order of George Ormond, Colonel of Rangers, August 19, 1777.  Renegades and Outlaws take warning!”