All this time Whicher had stood still; not a muscle moved, and not a single wave of pallor had covered his features. He knew what they meant by "the job," and made up his mind to improve any incident, however slight, to have revenge on his murderers. But there were no favorable incidents for him. He had been tried and condemned in a court from which he could not appeal. At what time the sentence would be executed he could not tell. "Boys, relieve him of his burden and weapons," said Jesse James. Quick as thought, Whicher's hand was thrust into the bosom of his coat. It was too late. Fox and Anderson sprang upon him, while Jesse James placed the muzzle of his pistol against his temple. To struggle was useless. He was compelled to yield, for just then Brad Collins and Jim Latche joined the others. The case of the detective was hopeless. In an instant they had disarmed him; he had brought only one Smith & Wesson pistol. Then the desperadoes felt of his hands, and laughed at his pretensions as a farm-laborer. [Illustration: Whicher Meets His Fate.] Confident in the belief that he had been betrayed by one of the two gentlemen to whom he had applied at Liberty, Whicher made up his mind that he would make no whining petition to the murderers. If he had known the exact state of the case he would not have gone to Kearney, and if he had gone he would have been better prepared to encounter the Boys. But fate had ordained it otherwise, and another victim to the long, long catalogue of names which Jesse James had written in blood was the outcome of it all. Darkness had fallen upon the fair scenes of nature while these things were happening. The cool March winds whistled dismally through the yet naked forest trees. The stars came out and looked coldly from the empyrean, but there was purity in their beams, and no blood marks on their twinkling discs. It was meet that the tragedy which was about to take place should be enacted in the hours of gloomy night, and at a time when all without was comfortless and dreary. Whicher was bound securely, and a gag was placed in his mouth that he might call for no aid or deliverance. The desperadoes placed hum upon a horse, in the still hours of the night, and rode away. His legs were tied securely under the horse's belly, and his arms were pinioned with strong ropes. Jesse James, Bradley Collins and Jim Anderson were the executioners. In silence himself, Whicher, during that long, lonely ride heard the three discussing their bloody deeds with a thrill of horror, for they had told him what his fate was to be. About three o'clock on the morning of the 11th of March, the drowsy ferryman at Blue Mills, on the Missouri river, was roused to wakefulness by the shouts of men on the north side, who signified their desire to cross over. "Be in a hurry," cried the belated travelers. "We are after horse thieves and must cross quick if we catch them."