upright, his chin is only an inch or two above the surface of
the ground. A portion of the loose earth is pushed in, and packed
around him, the ruffians trampling it firm. What remains they kick and
scatter aside; the monster, with horrible mockery, telling them to make
a "neat job of it."

During all this time Brasfort has been making wild demonstrations,
struggling to free himself, as if to rescue his master. For he is also
bound, tied to the stirrup of one of the robber's horses. But the
behaviour of the faithful animal, instead of stirring them to
compassion, only adds to their fiendish mirth.

The interment complete, Borlasse makes a sign to the rest to retire;
then, placing himself in front, with arms akimbo, stands looking Clancy
straight in the face. No pen could paint that glance. It can only be
likened to that of Lucifer.

For a while he speaks not, but in silence exults over his victim. Then,
bending down and tossing back his plumed bonnet, he asks, "D'ye know me,
Charley Clancy?"

Receiving no reply, he continues, "I'll lay a hundred dollars to one, ye
will, after I've told ye a bit o' a story, the which relates to a
circumstance as happened jest twelve months ago. The scene o' that
affair was in the public square o' Nacodosh, whar a man was tied to a
post an--"

"Whipped at it, as he deserved."

"Ha!" exclaims Borlasse, surprised, partly at being recognised, but as
much by the daring avowal. "You do remember that little matter? And me
too?"

"Perfectly; so you may spare yourself the narration. You are Jim
Borlasse, the biggest brute and most thorough scoundrel in Texas."

"Curse you!" cries the ruffian enraged, poising his spear till its point
almost touches Clancy's head, "I feel like driving this through your
skull."

"Do so!" is the defiant and desperate rejoinder. It is what Clancy
desires. He has no hope of life now. He wishes death to come at once,
and relieve him from the long agony he will otherwise have to endure.

Quick catching this to be his reason, Borlasse restrains himself, and
tosses up the spear, saying:--

"No, Mister; ye don't die that eesy way--not if I know it. You and
yours kept me two days tied like a martyr to the stake, to say nothin'
of what came after. So to make up for't I'll give you a spell o'
confinement that'll last a leetle longer. You shall stay as ye are,
till the buzzarts peck out your eyes, an' the wolves peel the skin from
your skull--ay