“The broken country to which the hold-ups headed was a delusion as far as safety was concerned.  They were never for a moment out of sight of the pursuers, and this broken country ended in a deep coulee.  When the posse saw them enter this they knew that their capture was only a matter of time.  Nature seemed against the robbers, for as they entered the coulee their horses bogged down in a springy rivulet, and they were so hard pressed that they hastily dismounted, and sought shelter in some shrubbery that grew about.  The pursuing party, now swollen to quite a number, had spread out and by this time surrounded the men.  They were seen to take shelter in a clump of wild plum brush, and the posse closed in on them.  Seeing the numbers against them, they came out on demand and surrendered.  Neither the posse nor themselves knew at this time that the shooting in the bank had killed the cashier.  Less than an hour’s time had elapsed between the shooting and the capture.  When the posse reached town on their return, they learned of the death of the cashier, and the identity of the prisoners was soon established by citizens who knew the marshal and his deputy.  The latter admitted their identity.

“That afternoon they were photographed, and later in the day were given a chance to write to any friends to whom they wished to say good-by.  The cow-puncher was the only one who availed himself of the opportunity.  He wrote to his parents.  He was the only one of the trio who had the nerve to write, and seemed the only one who realized the enormity of his crime, and that he would never see the sun of another day.

“As darkness settled over the town, the mob assembled.  There was no demonstration.  The men were taken quietly out and hanged.  At the final moment there was a remarkable variety of nerve shown.  The marshal and deputy were limp, unable to stand on their feet.  With piteous appeals and tears they pleaded for mercy, something they themselves had never shown their own victims.  The boy who had that day written his parents his last letter met his fate with Indian stoicism.  He cursed the crouching figures of his pardners for enticing him into this crime, and begged them not to die like curs, but to meet bravely the fate which he admitted they all deserved.  Several of the men in the mob came forward and shook hands with him, and with no appeal to man or his Maker, he was swung into the great Unknown at the end of a rope.  Such nerve is seldom met in life, and those that are supposed to have it, when they come face to face with their end, are found lacking that quality.  It is a common anomaly in life that the bad man with his record often shows the white feather when he meets his fate at the hands of an outraged community.”

We all took a friendly liking to the cattle-buyer.  He was an interesting talker.  While he was a city man, he mixed with us with a certain freedom and abandon that was easy and natural.  We all regretted it the next day when he and the old man left us.