“Ze blood on hees clothes!  Bah!  You ’ave all see ’ow he is carry home la petite so-hurt dog.  Oui! ze dog of Monsieur Pete.  Who is know where Monsieur Collins is go for new dog fight?  Monsieur Pete!  Who has anger at Monsieur Ant’ony for because I, Mignon, ’ave look once again at Monsieur, who is so kind to all who I ave pain?  Monsieur Pete!  Who is insult good girl?  That’s me.  Monsieur Pete!  Who is spend much money tonight, who yesterday was br-r-oke?  Monsieur Pete!  Who, zen, should you swing on ze rope?”

She waited.  There was absolute silence save for the crackle of the flaming pine-pitch torches.

“Ver’ well,’ ’in a low voice.  “I, me, Mignon, shall answer.”  Again she paused.  A long way down the canyon she heard horses galloping on the hard road.  “Monsieur Pete!” she screamed, at the top of her voice.

The mob struggled forward, yelling.

“Ver’ well!” she cried, snatching a silver-mounted pistol out of her bosom.  “Come on!  Ze jackass, he is ke-e-ll five!  I, Mignon, I ke-e-ll five!  Ten shall go to le diable before mon brave shall hang!”

They hesitated, those in front pressing back from the certain death which awaited them.  Mignon set her arms akimbo, the gun gleaming at her hip, and taunted them in contemptuous French.

The horsemen had reached the camp and soon thundered into view.  “What’s this going on, anyway?” demanded the sheriff, angrily.  “Anthony Barstow is innocent.  These men can prove that they spent the night at Barstow’s cabin.  When I learned the truth, I came straight back.  Buckeye Pete, you throw up your hands!  You’re wanted for the murder of Spotty Collins.”

Mignon tore the noose from Anthony’s neck, laughing and crying in true French abandon.

“Anthony, you’re snared in another kind of noose,” laughed the sheriff.  “I know you’re need in’ your arms, but that rip-snortin’ little jack won’t let me get near enough to cut your bonds.”

“By Salsifer!” he said, later on, “I’ll have to swear that fighting jack in as a deputy sheriff, and set him to watchin’ road agents confined in the jail.  Well, goodnight, all.  Pete’s locked up safe and sound.”

An hour later a sober band of grim spectres returned to the jail, overpowered the guard, and, for the second time that night, took out grisly fruit to hang on the lynching tree.  There were no pine knots and no attempts at conversation till the leader asked:  “Buckeye Pete, have you anything to say before you join your Maker?”

“Ain’t no use prayin’ for yourself,” spoke up another voice.  “Better pray for the soul of the man you sent to Purgatory, and for the well-bein’ of the other innocent man you tried to destroy.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s that fightin’ jack, prowlin’ ’round.”

“Let ’im prowl!  Now, then, boys, are you ready?  Then pull!” and, as the old judge always told in conclusion, “they say, as the men gave a mighty heave on the rope the donkey ran forward and kicked the barrel from under the doomed man’s feet!”