“Lucky that woman showed up.  Who is she?” Phillips shook his head.  In his turn he inquired, “What are you going to do with the McCaskeys?”

The elder man’s face hardened.  “I don’t know.  This talk about hangin’ makes me weary.  I’d hang ’em; I’d kick a bar’l out from under either of ’em.  I’ve done such things and I never had any bad dreams.”

But it was plain that the sentiment favoring such extreme punishment had changed, for a suggestion was made to flog the thieves and send them out of the country.  This met with instant response.  A motion was put to administer forty lashes and it was carried with a whoop.

Preparations to execute the sentence were immediately instituted.  A scourge was prepared by wiring nine heavy leather thongs to a whip-handle, the platform was cleared, and a call was issued for a man to administer the punishment.  Some delay ensued at this point, but finally a burly fellow volunteered, climbed to the stage, and removed his canvas coat.

Since the younger McCaskey appeared to be still somewhat dazed from the rough handling he had suffered, his brother was thrust forward.  The latter was stripped to the waist, his wrists were firmly bound, then trussed up to one of the stout end-poles of the tent-frame which, skeleton-like, stood over the platform.  This done, the committee fell back, and the wielder of the whip stepped forward.

The crowd had watched these grim proceedings intently; it became quite silent now.  The hour was growing late, the day had been overcast, and a damp chill that searched the marrow was settling as the short afternoon drew to a close.  The prisoner’s naked body showed very white beneath his shock of coal-black hair; his flesh seemed tender and the onlookers stared at it in fascination.

Joe McCaskey was a man of nerve; he held himself erect; there was defiance in the gaze which he leveled at the faces below him.  But his brother Jim was not made of such stern, stuff—­he was the meaner, the more cowardly of the pair—­and these methodical preparations, the certainty of his own forthcoming ordeal, bred in him a desperate panic.  The sight of his brother’s flesh bared to the bite of the lash brought home to him the horrifying significance of a flogging, and then, as if to emphasize that significance, the executioner gave his cat-o’-nine-tails a practice swing.  As the lashes hissed through the air the victim at the post stiffened rigidly, but his brother, outside the inclosure, writhed in his tracks and uttered a faint moan.  Profiting by the inattention of his captors, Jim McCaskey summoned his strength and with an effort born of desperation wrenched himself free.  Hands grasped at him as he bolted, bodies barred his way, but he bore them down; before the meaning of the commotion had dawned upon the crowd at large he had fought his way out and was speeding down the street.  But fleet-footed men were at his heels, a roar of rage burst from the