The Border Legion

Joan's gaze was riveted in horror. A dim, red haze made her vision

imperfect. There was a sickening riot within her.

There were masked men all around the platform--a solid phalanx of

them on the slope above. They were heavily armed. Other masked men

stood on the platform. They seemed rigid figures--stiff, jerky when

they moved. How different from the two forms swaying below!

The structure was a rude scaffold and the vigilantes had already

hanged two bandits.

Two others with hands bound behind their backs stood farther along

the platform under guard. Before each dangled a noose.

Joan recognized Texas and Frenchy. And on the instant the great

crowd let out a hard breath that ended in silence.

The masked leader of the vigilantes was addressing Texas: "We'll

spare your life if you confess. Who's the head of this Border

Legion?"

"Shore it's Red Pearce! ... Haw! Haw! Haw!"

"We'll give you one more chance," came the curt reply.

Texas appeared to become serious and somber. "I swear to God it's

Pearce!" he declared.

"A lie won't save you. Come, the truth! We think we know, but we

want proof! Hurry!"

"You can go where it's hot!" responded Texas.

The leader moved his hand and two other masked men stepped forward.

"Have you any message to send any one--anything to say?" he asked.

"Nope."

"Have you any request to make?"

"Hang that Frenchman before me! I want to see him kick."

Nothing more was said. The two men adjusted the noose round the

doomed man's neck. Texas refused the black cap. And he did not wait

for the drop to be sprung. He walked off the platform into space as

Joan closed her eyes.

Again that strange, full, angry, and unnatural roar waved through

the throng of watchers. It was terrible to hear. Joan felt the

violent action of that crowd, although the men close round her were

immovable as stones. She imagined she could never open her eyes to

see Texas hanging there. Yet she did--and something about his form

told her that he had died instantly. He had been brave and loyal

even in dishonor. He had more than once spoken a kind word to her.

Who could tell what had made him an outcast? She breathed a prayer

for his soul.

The vigilantes were bolstering up the craven Frenchy. He could not

stand alone. They put the rope round his neck and lifted him off the

platform--then let him down. He screamed in his terror. They cut

short his cries by lifting him again. This time they held him up

several seconds. His face turned black. His eyes bulged. His breast

heaved. His legs worked with the regularity of a jumping-jack. They

let him down and loosened the noose. They were merely torturing him

to wring a confession from him. He had been choked severely and

needed a moment to recover. When he did it was to shrink back in

abject terror from that loop of rope dangling before his eyes.