“When I raise my hand,” said the major, “lead the horse away; and may the Lord have mercy on your soul, Bowney!”

“Amen!” fervently exclaimed the New Englander.

Again there was a moment of terrible silence, and when a gentle wind swept over the wild oats and through the tree, there seemed to sound on the air a sigh and a shudder.

Suddenly all the horses started and pricked up their ears.

“Somebody’s comin’!” whispered one of the party.  “Sheriff’s got wind of the arrangements, maybe!”

“Comes from the wrong direction,” cried Caney, of Texas, quickly.  “It’s somebody on foot—­an’ tired—­an’ light-footed—­ther’s two or three—­dunno what kind o’ bein’s they ken be.  Thunder an’ lightnin’!”

Caney’s concluding remark was inspired by the sudden appearance of a woman, who rushed into the shadow of the tree, stopped, looked wildly about for a moment, and then threw herself against the prisoner’s feet, and uttered a low, pitiful cry.

There was a low murmur from the crowd, and the major cried: 

“Take him down; give him fifteen minutes with his wife, and see she doesn’t untie him.”

[Illustration:  “TAKE HIM DOWN; GIVE HIM FIFTEEN MINUTES WITH HIS WIFE.”]

The man in the tree loosened the rope, Bowney was lifted off and placed on the ground again, and the woman threw herself on the ground beside him, caressed his ugly face, and wailed pitifully.  The judge and jury fidgeted about restlessly.  Still the horses stood on the alert, and soon three came through the oats—­three children, all crying.

As they saw the men they became dumb, and stood mute and frightened, staring at their parents.

They were not pretty—­they were not even interesting.  Mother and children were alike—­unwashed, uncombed, shoeless, and clothed in dirty, faded calico.  The children were all girls—­the oldest not more than ten years old, and the youngest scarce five.  None of them pleaded for the prisoner, but still the woman wailed and moaned, and the children stood staring in dumb piteousness.

The major stood quietly gazing at the face of his watch.  There was not in Southern California a more honest man than Major Burkess; yet the minute-hand of his watch had not indicated more than one-half of fifteen minutes, when he exclaimed: 

“Time’s up!”

The men approached the prisoner—­the woman threw her arms around him, and cried: 

“My husband!  Oh, God!”

“Madam,” said the major, “your husband’s life is in his own hands.  He can save himself by giving the names of his confederates and leaving the State.”

“I’ll tell you who they are?” cried the woman.

“God curse yer if yer do!” hissed Bowney from between his teeth.

“Better let him be, madam,” argued Caney, of Texas.  He’d better die like a man than go back on his friends.  Might tell us which of ’em was man enough to fetch you and the young uns here?  We’ll try to be easy on him when we ketch him.”