“Anthony, you're snared in another kind of noose,” laughed the sheriff. “I know you're need in' your arms, but that rip-snortin' little jack won't let me get near enough to cut your bonds.” “By Salsifer!” he said, later on, “I'll have to swear that fighting jack in as a deputy sheriff, and set him to watchin' road agents confined in the jail. Well, goodnight, all. Pete's locked up safe and sound.” An hour later a sober band of grim spectres returned to the jail, overpowered the guard, and, for the second time that night, took out grisly fruit to hang on the lynching tree. There were no pine knots and no attempts at conversation till the leader asked: “Buckeye Pete, have you anything to say before you join your Maker?” “Ain't no use prayin' for yourself,” spoke up another voice. “Better pray for the soul of the man you sent to Purgatory, and for the well-bein' of the other innocent man you tried to destroy.” “What's that?” “It's that fightin' jack, prowlin' 'round.” “Let 'im prowl! Now, then, boys, are you ready? Then pull!” and, as the old judge always told in conclusion, “they say, as the men gave a mighty heave on the rope the donkey ran forward and kicked the barrel from under the doomed man's feet!” End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Down the Mother Lode, by Vivia Hemphill