"Gentlemen," said the judge, after a moment's pause, "if you persist in this outrage, I wash my hands of both it and you, from this moment. You can choose another judge, and another leader, for I shall act no longer as either. I thought you were men, not savages."
"What matter?" called out several voices, "he is not the only man that lives. Let him slide, and out with the prisoner."
The crowd surged forward and surrounded the table, yelling and growling like wild beasts. For a moment it seemed as if Poynter meditated resistance, as he drew himself up and grasped the back of his chair, but if such was his intention, it was changed.
A dozen hands lifted him to the floor, where he was securely bound, hand and foot—as he had been until now entirely free, so far as bonds were concerned. Then he was lifted bodily upon their shoulders, each man appearing eager to be one of his bearers. In this manner he was conveyed from the room followed by the hooting, yelling crowd; leaving but one man behind—Neil McGuire.
To say that the prisoner was not alarmed, would perhaps be wrong, but he showed no outward sign of being so. He well knew that he was in danger—that his life was in peril; for although, just at present, nothing was spoken of but whipping, yet when blood was once seen, would it not act upon their worser passions until the job would be finished out of hand, to save further trouble?
Suddenly Poynter gave a convulsive start. It seemed to him he had heard, above the din, some words spoken in a friendly tone—words of hope.
"Keep a stiff upper lip, square. We'll git you cl'ar afore day!"
These were the words he had, or thought he had, heard, close to his ear, and turned his eyes wonderingly to that point. He could distinguish the rough features of Jack Fyffe, the man who had knocked Polk Redlaw down at the time of arrest.
But he had no time for a question, or any thing beyond seeing that Fyffe supported his right shoulder; for the next moment he was rudely cast down at the foot of one of the gigantic sycamores, beside the outer door. The tumult was horrible, and for a time nothing was done, each man issuing orders, but no one appearing to care about executing them.
"Jim Henderson," yelled Polk Redlaw, who now took a decided lead with the brutalized crowd, "fetch out some cords; rope or something, quick!"
"Quick y'urself, Injun Polk," growled the little host. "I hain't y'ur nigger. Y'u're black enough to wait on y'urself!"
"Curses on you, you little hop-toad!" foamed Polk. "Call me that again, and I'll blow a hole through you big enough to kick a dog through!"
"Ef so be you know when y'ur well off, Mr. White Man, es-quire," coolly returned Jim, drawing his revolver, "you'll not buck ag'in' me. Others may be as quick on the trigger as you be, if not more so."
"Don't get to fighting among yourselves," interrupted Reeves, with a series of oaths. "We've enough to do now. Here's a couple of halters that'll answer, bully."
But during this by-play, Clay Poynter had received considerable encouragement from Jack Fyffe, who still crouched over him, apparently to prevent his arising.
"Don't gi'n up, straunger," he had whispered. "We'll hev you free afore long."
"Who are you, and what do you mean?" asked Poynter.
"You'll see. I've sent arter the boys, an' ef nothin' happins they'll be hyar in three hours. But you'll hev to take the hidin', though. We hain't strong enough to prevent that."
Nothing more was said, for Redlaw and Reeves pressed forward, and with several brutal kicks from the mongrel, Poynter was lifted up and his arms unbound, two men clinging to each as though they anticipated an attempt at escape. But if so, they were disappointed.
The prisoner knew that it would be followed by certain death, in the face of the threatening revolvers, and the words of Jack Fyffe had revived his hopes of a speedy rescue, for which he was content to wait, even though he had to endure the fearful torture that had been threatened him.
He was drawn up to the tree, his arms outstretched to their utmost extent, and then his wrists were connected by the halters, another securing his body. By this time the men who had been dispatched after the instruments of torture returned bearing their hands full of long, lithe hickory rods.
And then the torture began. The supple rods whistled through the air, and paused with a hissing crack; the gore started out as the tender skin was torn and lacerated. But although the pain and agony must have been fearful, as the punishment proceeded, not a groan or an uneven breath proclaimed the fact.
The crimson spray fell upon those who stood closest; some of them giving quivers as it touched their skin, as though it had been molten lead; but the majority yelled and cheered at the sight. Their fiercest, basest passions were fully aroused; they were wolves, not men.
Polk Redlaw, Jonathan Green and Alfred Wigan plied the rods, and as may be supposed, they did not spare their strength. But severe as were their blows, they failed in drawing a single manifestation of pain from the prisoner, however slight. And then the one hundred lashes were counted, fairly.
The prisoner was let down from his position, and Jack Fyffe helped him to adjust his garments, managing to whisper a cheering word without being overheard by the mob. Then Poynter spoke, not a tremor or quaver betraying what he had suffered from the fearful ordeal, in his voice:
"You three devils, mark my words. If you are alive one week from to-day, I give you leave to play this game over again."
"We will live to see you dance on nothing, anyhow," sneered the mongrel.
"That's enough for to-night," interrupted Henry Reeves, the juror who had so suddenly taken a leading part in the proceedings, pressing forward and laying his hand upon Poynter's shoulder. "Come, you will stay in the 'long-room' to-night, and to prevent you from sleeping uneasily, I will add that you will be hung to-morrow, for murder."
"Thank you for nothing!" curtly replied the prisoner. "I have you to thank for this favor, and look you, it's a debt that will be paid; yes, paid, and with compound interest added," said Poynter.
"Oh, I'll credit you," laughed Reeves. "I always was accommodating. But in with you," he added, giving him a rude shove as they entered the room.
Poynter would have fallen had not he been caught by Jack Fyffe, who whispered:
"Ef you hyar a rumpus outside, don't be 'larmed, 'cause it'll on'y be fri'nds. Mind an' keep awake."
A pressure of the hand told that Poynter understood his meaning, and then, after being bound, the prisoner was left alone in the room. Some half a dozen guards were posted around the building, with instructions to shoot him if he attempted an escape; and then the vigilantes separated, each man wending his way homeward, pondering upon what they had already done, and the duty that awaited them on the morrow.
The guards were in high glee, and having each one managed to procure a flask of liquor from the obliging host, determined to enjoy their watch to the best of their ability. Polk Redlaw, however, owing to the mishaps his devoted head had met with, was not in such a jolly mood, and kept apart from the other sentinels.
They were gathered in couples upon either side of the building, thus surrounding the place and preventing either egress or ingress without their knowledge. They little dreamed of the fate that awaited them.
Perhaps an hour after the dispersal, a band of horsemen drew rein at a half-mile from the little hamlet, on the outer edge of which stood the "Twin Sycamores," and dismounting, threw themselves upon the ground, while one of their number stole away on foot. He soon drew near the tavern, and sinking flat upon his stomach, began cautiously circling the building.
He could approach near enough, thanks to the darkness, to distinguish the mutterings of the guards—thus learning their exact number and position. He counted six, and thought that was all, but he overlooked Polk Redlaw, who had fallen into a doze, lying close to the wall, so that he seemed to form a portion of it.
Had he been awake he could not have helped observing the spy, who, thinking that end of the house unguarded, passed close by him. Muttering his surprise, the man crept away from the tavern, and once beyond ear-shot, rose to his feet and sped rapidly to where he had left his companions.
When near them he uttered the howl of the yellow wolf and upon the signal being answered, boldly advanced and stood before the band. One, a tall, Herculean man, stepped forward and whispered:
"Well, Fyffe, what luck?"
"It's all hunky," replied Jack, for it was indeed he, "an' a easy job. On'y six fellers, an' they half drunk, ef not more so," and then he clearly described the position each man occupied.
"Now, comrades," added he who appeared to be the leader, "you know what we are after. A friend, and one of us, is in danger. Our law says that we must assist each other, and now is the time. You have heard what Fyffe says. These men must be secured without being harmed if possible, but if they cut up rough, why a knife is the best remedy. The less blood shed, the better, for this section is getting uncomfortably hot already. You understand me?"
A murmur of general assent; then he added:
"We will ride to the edge of the timber, and then leave the horses. We must take them by surprise; and mind you, when once we have got our friend, quick's the word, for we will have the vigilantes after us, hot-footed."
In a few moments the designated point of woods was reached, and dismounting, the horses were secured; after which the band stealthily proceeded toward the tavern, using every precaution to avoid discovery. Then four men crept toward each of the sides where the double guard were posted.
The remainder held themselves in readiness to rush forward, in case their comrades should need any help. Four of the men were secured without any noise, other than a slight scuffle, but the other party were not so fortunate.
One of the guards caught a glimpse of the rescuers, and hailed them. The answer was an instant rush, at which the guard fired a shot, that brought one of his assailants to the ground.
But, he never fired another, for a long knife was plunged downward, the steel gritting as it severed his breast-bone, and with one faint gurgle, Alfred Wigan was a dead man!