“A’m wonder if dat girl be safe wit’ him, lak’ she is wit’ me—­bien.  A’m t’ink mebbe-so dat damn good t’ing ol’ Bat goin’ long.  If she damn fine girl mebbe-so Tex, he goin’ mar’ her.  Dat be good t’ing.  But, by Gar! if he don’ mar’ her, he gon’ leave her ‘lone.  Me—­A’m lak’ dat Tex fine, lak’ me own brudder.  He got de good heart.  But w’en he drink de hooch, den A’m got for look after him.  He don’ care wan damn ‘bout nuttin’.  Dat four bit in Las Vegas, dats a’right.  A’m fink ‘bout dat, too.  But, by Gar, it tak’ more’n four bit in Las Vegas for mak’ of Bat let dat girl git harm.”

An atmosphere of depression pervaded the group of riders as they wound in and out of the cottonwood clumps and threaded the deep coulee that led to the bench.  For the most part they preserved an owlish silence, but now and then someone would break into a low, weird refrain and the others would join in with the mournful strain of “The Dying Cowboy.”

  “Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie-e-e,
  Where the coyote howls and the wind blows free.”

Or the dirge-like wail of the “Cowboy’s Lament”: 

  “Then swing your rope slowly and rattle your spurs lowly,
  And give a wild whoop as you carry me along: 
  And in the grave throw me and roll the sod o’er me,
  For I’m only a cowboy that knows he’s done wrong.”

“Shall we take him to Lone Tree Coulee?” asked one.  Another answered disdainfully.

“Don’t you know the lone tree’s dead?  Jest shrivelled up an’ died after Bill Atwood was hung onto it.  Some augers he worn’t guilty.  But it’s better to play safe, an’ string up all the doubtful ones, then yer bound to git the right one onct in a while.”

“Swing over into Buffalo Coulee,” commanded Tex.  “There’s a bunch of cottonwoods just above Hansen’s old sheep ranch.”

  “We’ll string him up to a cottonwood limb
  An’ dig his grave in under him——­”

“Shut up!” ordered Curly, favouring the singer with a scowl.  “Any one would think you was joyous-minded, which this here hangin’ a man is plumb serious business, even if it hain’t only a pilgrim!”

He edged his horse in beside the Texan’s.  “He don’t seem tore up with terror, none.  D’you think he’s onto the racket?”

Tex shook his head, and with his eyes on the face of the prisoner which showed very white in the moonlight, rode on in silence.

“You mean you think he’s jest nach’ly got guts—­an’ him a pilgrim?”

“How the hell do I know what he’s got?” snapped the other.  “Can’t you wait till we get to Buffalo?”

Curly allowed his horse to fall back a few paces.  “First time I ever know’d Tex to pack a grouch,” he mused, as his lips drew into a grin.  “He’s sore ‘cause the pilgrim hain’t a-snifflin’ an’ a-carryin’-on an’ tryin’ to beg off.  Gosh!  If he turns out to be a reg’lar hand, an’ steps up an’ takes his medicine like a man, the joke’ll be on Tex.  The boys never will quit joshin’ him—­an’ he knows it.  No wonder he’s sore.”