"That afternoon they were photographed, and later in the day were
given a chance to write to any friends to whom they wished to say
good-by. The cow-puncher was the only one who availed himself of the
opportunity. He wrote to his parents. He was the only one of the trio
who had the nerve to write, and seemed the only one who realized the
enormity of his crime, and that he would never see the sun of another
day.

"As darkness settled over the town, the mob assembled. There was no
demonstration. The men were taken quietly out and hanged. At the final
moment there was a remarkable variety of nerve shown. The marshal and
deputy were limp, unable to stand on their feet. With piteous appeals
and tears they pleaded for mercy, something they themselves had never
shown their own victims. The boy who had that day written his parents
his last letter met his fate with Indian stoicism. He cursed the
crouching figures of his pardners for enticing him into this crime,
and begged them not to die like curs, but to meet bravely the fate
which he admitted they all deserved. Several of the men in the mob
came forward and shook hands with him, and with no appeal to man or
his Maker, he was swung into the great Unknown at the end of a rope.
Such nerve is seldom met in life, and those that are supposed to have
it, when they come face to face with their end, are found lacking
that quality. It is a common anomaly in life that the bad man with
his record often shows the white feather when he meets his fate at the
hands of an outraged community."

We all took a friendly liking to the cattle-buyer. He was an
interesting talker. While he was a city man, he mixed with us with
a certain freedom and abandon that was easy and natural. We all