such an ill starred existence? Certainly not. And what did it matter how the final oblivion of death came to drown the never ceasing sor- rows that were dragging him by the very heart- strings into the grave? Better a quick, pain- less transit from a miserable existence, than weeks, months, perhaps years, of wretched men- tal suffering, which must eventually lead, by a thorny path, to the same goal. The stake at issue was not worth the striving for. Having thus balanced accounts on his own books, Pe- terson was prepared to stare his fate square in the face, and submit without a murmur to what he could not now regard otherwise than inevit- able.
A dull thud announced to the listening man that the main fastening had given way. He wondered, in his impractical way, why the offi- cer of the law in charge of the prison did not assert the majesty of the law, and save an inno- cent man from the bloodthirsty clutches of the mob, forgetting, in the suspense of the moment, that the days of official heroism had long since passed away. Again the metallic clangor of iron against iron resounded. This time they were attacking the hinges. Presently the noise of the sledge-hammer ceased, and he could hear a grating sound as if something was being pried open. Finally, there was a ringing clat- ter, and the sound of muffled voices. The door had been forced open at last, and the crowd had dashed in upon the unresisting Deputy Sheriff. A rush of many feet along the corri- dor, and a key was turned in the lock of his cell door.
“Stand back, boys.
If he resists, I’ll stand the brunt, and you can strike him down when
he comes out.” The words were uttered in a brutal tone, and as Peterson arose to his feet the door was flung open, and the cell flooded with a blaze of light from a dozen lanterns in the hands of as many men, whose faces were concealed by hideous black masks.
“Stand back—stand back, I say!” shouted the same voice. “I'll attend to him if he makes a break.”
The mob obeyed, and a tall, masked vigilante entered the cell, and by the glare of the lantern he carried in one hand revealed the long-revolv- er which he grasped in the other. His eyes sparkled fiendishly through the holes of his mask, and a sneering laugh came from between his lips as he contemplated the resigned ex- pression on the other’s face. Placing the lan- tern on the floor he stepped close to the pris- oner, and, raising the mask, looked him fair in the face, with an expression of countenance as nearly devilish as anything human ever be- comes. Peterson recoiled. “My God!” he ex- claimed ; “it’s Sam Randolph.”
“Yes, it’s Sam Randolph,” sneered the other, “alias ‘Chaparral George,’ and before the sun rises on another day, Roger Peterson will know how it feels to be hanged by the neck until he’s dead. There’s a pine tree out here a ways that I reckon’ll bear riper fruit to-night than it did on a certain other night some years ago.”
Peterson simply folded his arms, fully pre- pared for the result. He had not long to wait. Randolph, with a sudden movement of his foot, shattered the lantern and extinguished ‘it, at the same instant firing his revolver, and, spring- ing backward as if he had been suddenly at- tacked, called upon the crowd to assist him to bind and gag the doomed man. Like a pack of hungry hounds they sprang upon their prey, and, obeying the orders of their leader, bore their victim out into the night to his death.
The warm morning sunlight poured its wealth of golden rays over that pine-tree gallows and its awful burden. Roger Peterson’s Nemesis had overtaken him at last, and although the ul- timate death of the immediate instrument of remorseless fate cleared the unfortunate man of all wrong imputed to him, and caused many a heart to regret his terrible end, yet the awful work being accomplished, there was no recall, and the low mound beneath the shadow of Table Mountain must hold its tenant, until the final balancing of all accounts shall award jus- tice to a man all sinned against and seldom sinning.
E. H. CLOUGH.
