“How do I look, boys,” he asked, “with a halter around my neck?” The grim effort failed to elicit a smile. “Your time is very short,” said the chief, again reminding them that their requests would be listened to. “Well, then,” said Gallagher, “I want one more drink of whiskey before I die.” The loathing which this request excited was apparent in the expression of the countenances of all who heard it. Some men exchanged meaning glances, revealing thereby the shock their sensibilities had received by this exhibition of depravity. Others craned their necks over the crowd, as if they had not heard aright. For a few minutes no one seemed to know what answer to make to a man whose last moments were given to the gratification of his evil appetites. This silence was soon broken, however, by an old miner. “We told ’em,” said he, “that we’d do whatever they asked. Give him the liquor.” A man appeared in a moment with a tumbler nearly full. Raising it as high as he could, the prisoner bent his head, but was restrained by the rope from touching the glass with his lips. Throwing his head back, he turned on the box, and, looking back upon the fastenings of the rope to the basement log at the rear of the building, in a loud and imperious tone he launched a profane and vulgar epithet at the guard, saying, “Slacken that rope, quick, and let a man take a parting drink, won’t you?” The rope was loosed, while the depraved wretch drained the tumbler at a draught. While the guard was refastening it, he exclaimed, “I hope Almighty God will strike every one of you with forked lightning and that I shall meet you all in the lowest pit of hell.” The Committee decided that the executions should be single, commencing with Clubfoot George, and concluding with Hayes Lyons, who stood next to him in order. At the words “Men, do your duty,” the men holding the cords attached to the box on which the prisoner in turn stood, were, by a sudden jerk, to pull the footing from under him. A fall of three feet was deemed sufficient to dislocate the neck, and avoid the torture of protracted strangulation. No more requests being made, the men laid hold of the cords attached to the box occupied by George Lane. Just at that moment the unhappy wretch descried an old friend clinging to the building, to obtain sight of the execution. “Good-bye, old fellow,” said he. “I’m gone,” and, without waiting for the box to be removed, he leaped from it, and died with hardly a struggle. “There goes one to hell,” muttered Boone Helm. Hayes Lyons, who stood next, was talking all the while, telling of his kind mother; that he had been well brought up, but evil associations had brought him to the scaffold. Gallagher cried and swore by turns. “I hope,” said he, “that forked lightning will strike every strangling villain of you.” The box, flying from under his feet, stopped an oath in its utterance, and the quivering of his muscles showed that his guilty career was terminated.