A Living Scaffold.

Captain Haynes, seeing there will be no difficulty in obtaining executioners, deems everything settled, and is about ordering the prisoners to be brought up. Being a man of humane feelings, with susceptibilities that make him somewhat averse to performing the part of sheriff, it occurs to him that he can avoid the disagreeable duty by appointing a deputy.

For this he selects Walt Wilder, who in turn chooses Nat Cully to assist him. The two assume superintendence of the ceremony, and the Ranger Captain retires from the ground.

After communing for some seconds between themselves, and in sotto voce, as if arranging the mode of execution, Walt faces round to the assembled Texans, saying—

“Wal, boys, thar ’pears to be no stint o’ hangmen among ye. This chile niver seed so many o’ the Jack Ketch kind since he fust set foot on the soil o’ Texas. Maybe it’s the smell o’ these Mexikins makes ye so savagerous.”

Walt’s quaint speech elicits a general laugh, but suppressed. The scene is too solemn for an ebullition of boisterous mirth. The ex-Ranger continues—

“I see you’ll want to have a pull at these ropes. But I reckon we’ll have to disapp’int ye. The things we’re agoin’ to swing up don’t desarve hoistin’ to etarnity by free-born citizens o’ the Lone Star State. ’Twould be a burnin’ shame for any Texan to do the hangin’ o’ sech skunks as they.”

“What do you mean, Walt?” one asks. “Somebody must hoist them up!”

“’Taint at all necessary. They kin be strung ’ithout e’er a hand techin’ trail-rope.”

“How?” inquire several voices.

“Wal, thar’s a way Nat Cully an’ me hev been speaking o’. I’ve heern o’ them Mexikins practisin’ themselves on thar Injun prisoners for sport. We’ll gie’ ’em a dose o’ their own medicine. Some o’ you fellows go an’ fetch a kupple o’ pack mules. Ye may take the saddles off—they won’t be needed.”

Half-a-dozen of the Rangers rush out, and return leading two mules, having hastily stripped off their alparejas.

“Now!” cries Walt, “conduct hyar the kriminals!”

A party proceeds to the spot where the two prisoners lie; and taking hold, raise them to an erect attitude. Then, half carrying, half dragging, bring them under the branches designed for their gallows-tree.

With their splendid uniforms torn, mud-bedaubed, and stained with spots of blood, they present a sorry spectacle. They resemble wounded wolves, taken in a trap; nevertheless, bearing their misfortune in a far different manner. Roblez looks the large, grey wolf—savage, reckless, unyielding; Uraga, the coyote—cowed, crestfallen, shivering; in fear of what may follow.

For a time neither speaks a word nor makes an appeal for mercy. They seem to know it would be idle. Regarding the faces around, they may well think so. There is not one but has “death” plainly stamped upon it, as if the word itself were upon every lip.

There is an interval of profound silence, only broken by the croak of the buzzards and the swish of their spread wings. The bodies of the dead lancers lie neglected; and, the Rangers now further off, the birds go nearer them. Wolves, too, begin to show themselves by the edge of the underwood—from the stillness thinking the time arrived to commence their ravenous repast. It has but come to increase the quantity of food soon to be spread before them.

“Take off thar leg fastenin’s!” commands Wilder, pointing to the prisoners.

In a trice the lashings are loosed from their ankles, and only the ropes remain confining their wrists—these drawn behind............