"Jest now, men," rushed on the exhorter, "ye seed Thornton thar facin' death--an' he showed ye how a man kin demean himself when he thinks his time hes come. Take yore choice between them two--an' decide which one needs hangin'!" Then feeding on the meat of new authority, Sim Squires, who had always been an underling before, seized up from the hearth, where the ashes were dead, a charred stick--and it happened to be a bit of black walnut that had grown and died on the tree which was about to become a gallows. With its blackened end Sim drew a line across the planks of the floor between himself and Rick Joyce. "Thar, now," he passionately importuned his hearers. "Thar hain't room in this country fer a lot of warrin' enemies thet would all be friends save fer mischief makers. Parish Thornton hes done admitted thar's good men amongst ye, an' we've agreed ter punish them briggatty fellers thet kilt Pete Doane, so thar hain't rightfully no grudge left outstandin'. I takes up my stand on this side of thet line, along with Parish Thornton, an' I summonses every man thet's decent amongst ye all ter come over hyar an' stand with us. We aims ter hev our hangin' without no _dee_fault, but with a diff'rent man swingin' on ther rope!" For the space of forty seconds that seemed as many minutes a thunder-brooding tension hung in the stillness of the room--then without haste or excitement Rick Joyce took off his hat and dropped it to the floor. After it he flung his mask, and when he had crossed the line, he turned. "Come on, men," he gave brusque and half-peremptory invitation, "this hyar's whar we b'longs at." At first they responded singly and hesitantly, but soon it was a small stampede--save for those who kept guard at the doors--and ten minutes later Parish Thornton stood free of limb and Bas Rowlett trembled, putty pale, in the centre of the room with bound wrists and a noose draped across his shoulders. "I only asks one thing of ye," faltered Bas, from whose soul had oozed the last drop of manly resistance, "I come hyar ter crave this woman's pardon--I still wants ter do thet--without nobody else ter heer what I says." "Ef she's willin' ter listen, we'll let ye talk," acceded Squires, who found himself unchallenged spokesman now. "But we won't take no chances with ye. When ther rope's over ther limb an' everything's ready, then ye kin hev yore say." * * * * * Outside the night was as gracious as had been the last, when Old Hump Doane had sat waiting vainly for the return of his son; but across the moonlit sky drifted squadrons of fleecy cloud sails, and through the plumed head of the mighty walnut sounded the restive whisper of a breeze. The house stood squarely blocked with cobalt shadows about it, and the hills were brooding in blue-black immensities--but over the valley was a flooding wash of platinum and silver.