ruples about
the cruelty of what they intend doing, and only thinks of its being done
without danger.

"Boys!" shouts Borlasse to the men in charge of Clancy, "bring on your
prisoner! We're going to make a leetle deflection from the course--a
bit o' a pleasure trip--only a short un."

So saying, he starts off in a northerly direction, nearly at right
angles to that they have been hitherto travelling.

After proceeding about a mile, the brigand chief, still riding with
Chisholm in the advance, comes to a halt, calling back to the others to
do the same--also directing them to dismount their prisoner.

Clancy is unceremoniously jerked out of his saddle; and, after having
his arms pinioned, and limbs lashed together, laid prostrate along the
earth. This leaves them free for the infernal task, they are now
instructed to perform. One only, Watts, stays with the prisoner; the
other two, at the chiefs command, coming on to where he and Chisholm
have halted. Then all four cluster around a spot he points out, giving
directions what they are to do.

With the point of his spear Borlasse traces a circle upon the turf, some
twenty inches in diameter; then tells them to dig inside it.

Stocker and Driscoll draw their tomahawks, and commence hacking at the
ground; which, though hard, yields to the harder steel of hatchets
manufactured for the cutting of skulls. As they make mould, it is
removed by Chisholm with the broad blade of his Comanche spear.

As all prairie men are accustomed to making _caches_, they are expert at
this; and soon sink a shaft that would do credit to the "crowing" of a
South African Bosjesman. It is a cylinder full five feet in depth, with
a diameter of less than two. Up to this time its purpose has not been
declared to either Stocker, or Driscoll, though both have their
conjectures. They guess it to be the grave of him who is lying along
the earth--his living tomb!

At length, deeming it deep enough, Borlasse commands them to leave off
work, adding, as he points to the prisoner: "Now, plant your saplin'!
If it don't grow there it ought to."

The cold-blooded jest extorts a smile from the others, as they proceed
to execute the diabolical order.

And they do it without show of hesitation--rather with alacrity. Not
one of the five has a spark of compassion in his breast--not one whose
soul is unstained with blood.

Clancy is dragged forward, and plunged feet foremost into the cavity.
Standing