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.

The vigilante leader shook the noose in his face and pointed to the
swaying forms of the dead bandits.

Frenchy frothed at the mouth as he shrieked out words in his native
tongue, but any miner there could have translated their meaning.

The crowd heaved forward, as if with one step, then stood in a strained
silence.

"Talk English!" ordered the vigilante.

"I'll tell! I'll tell!"

Joan became aware of a singular tremor in Kells's arm, which she still
clasped. Suddenly it jerked. She caught a gleam of blue. Then the bellow
of a gun almost split her ears. Powder burned her cheek. She saw Frenchy
double up and collapse on the platform.

For an instant there was a silence in which every man seemed petrified.
Then burst forth a hoarse