With Jimmie in the principal role, this drama, hidden deep in the
hemlock thicket neared a kind of perfection. "You must blind-fold me,"
cried the condemned lad, briskly, "an' then I'll go off an' stand, an'
you must all get in a row an' shoot me."
The chief gave this plan his urbane countenance, and the twins and Dan
Earl were greatly pleased. They blindfolded Jimmie under his careful
directions. He waded a few paces into snow, and then turned and stood
with quiet dignity, awaiting his fate. The chief marshalled the twins
and Dan Earl in line with their sticks. He gave the necessary
commands: "Load! Ready! Aim! Fire!" At the last command the firing
party all together yelled, "Bang!"
Jimmie threw his hands high, tottered in agony for a moment, and
then crashed full length into the snow--into, one would think, a
serious case of pneumonia. It was beautiful.
[Illustration: THE EXECUTION]
He arose almost immediately and came back to them, wondrously pleased
with himself. They acclaimed him joyously.
The chief was particularly grateful. He was always trying to bring off
these little romantic affairs, and it seemed, after all, that the only
boy who could ever really help him was Jimmie Trescott. "There," he
said to the others, "that's the way it ought to be done."
They were touched to the heart by the whole thing, and they looked at
Jimmie with big, smiling eyes. Jimmie, blown out like a balloon-fish
with pride of his performance, swaggered to the fire and took seat on
some wet hemlock boughs. "Fetch some more wood, one of you kids," he
murmured, negligently. One of the twins came fortunately upon a small
cedar-tree the lower branches of which were dead and dry. An armful of
these branches flung upon the sick fire soon made a high, ruddy, warm
blaze, which was like an illumination in honor of Jimmie's success.
The boys sprawled about the fire and talked the regular language of
the game. "Waal, pards," remarked the chief, "it's many a night we've
had together here in the Rockies among the b'ars an' the Indyuns,
hey?"
"Yes, pard," replied Jimmie Trescott, "I reckon you're right. Our
wild, free life is--there ain't nothin' to compare with our wild, free
life."
Whereupon the two lads arose and magnificently shook hands, while the
others watched them in an ecstasy. "I'll allus stick by ye, pard,"
said Jimmie, earnestly. "When yer in trouble, don't forgit that
Lightnin' Lou is at yer back."
"Thanky, pard," quoth Willie Dalzel, deeply affected. "I'll not forgit
it, pard. An' don't you forgit, either, that Dead-shot Demon, the
leader of the Red Raiders, never forgits a friend."
But Homer Phelps was having none of this great fun. Since his
disgraceful refusal to be seized and executed he had been hovering
unheeded on the outskirts of the band. He seemed very sorry; he cast a
wistful eye at the romantic scene. He knew too well that if he went
near at that particular time he would be certain to encounter a
pitiless snubbing. So he vacillated modestly in the background.
At last the moment came when he dared venture near enough to the fire
to gain some warmth, for he was now bitterly suffering with the cold.
He sidled close to Willie Dalzel. No one heeded him. Eventually he
looked at his chief, and with a bright face said,
"Now--if I was seized now to be executed, I could do it as well as
Jimmie Trescott, I could."
The chief gave a crow of scorn, in which he was followed by the
other'boys. "Ho!" he cried, "why didn't you do it, then? Why didn't
you do it?" Homer Phelps felt upon him many pairs of disdainful eyes.
He wagged his shoulders in misery.
"You're dead," said the chief, frankly. "That's what you are. We
executed you, we did."
"When?" demanded the Phelps boy, with some spirit.
"Just a little while ago. Didn't we, fellers? Hey, fellers, didn't
we?"
The trained chorus cried: "Yes, of course we did. You're dead, Homer.
You can't play any more. You're dead."
"That wasn't me. It was Jimmie Trescott," he said, in a low and bitter
voice, his eyes on the ground. He would have given the world if he
could have retracted his mad refusals of the early part of the drama.
"No," said the chief, "it was you. We're playin' it was you, an' it
_was_ you. You're dead, you are." And seeing the cruel effect of his
words, he did not refrain from administering some advice: "The next
time, don't be such a chuckle-head."
Presently the camp imagined that it was attacked by Indians, and the
boys dodged behind trees with their stick-rifles, shouting out,
"Bang!" and encouraging each other to resist until the last. In the
mean time the dead lad hovered near the fire, looking moodily at the
gay and exciting scene. After the fight the gallant defenders returned
one by one to the fire, where they grandly clasped hands, calling each
other "old pard," and boasting of their deeds.
Parenthetically, one of the twins had an unfortunate inspiration. "I
killed the Indy-un chief, fellers. Did you see me kill the Indy-un
chief?"
But Willie Dalzel, his own chief, turned upon him wrathfully: "_You_
didn't kill no chief. _I_ killed 'im with me own hand."
"Oh!" said the twin, apologetically, at once. "It must have been some
other Indy-un."
"Who's wounded?" cried Willie Dalzel. "Ain't anybody wounded?" The
party professed themselves well and sound. The roving and inventive
eye of the chief chanced upon Homer Phelps. "Ho! Here's a dead man!
Come on, fellers, here's a dead man! We've got to bury him, you know."
And at his bidding they pounced upon the dead Phelps lad. The unhappy
boy saw clearly his road to rehabilitation, but mind and body revolted
at the idea of burial, even as they had revolted at the thought of
execution. "No!" he said, stubbornly. "No! I don't want to be buried!
I don't want to be buried!"
[Illustration: THE FUNERAL ORATION]
"You've _got_ to be buried!" yelled the chief, passionately. "'Tain't
goin' to hurt ye, is it? Think you're made of glass? Come on, fellers,
get the grave ready!"
They scattered hemlock boughs upon the snow in the form of a
rectangle, and piled other boughs near at hand. The victim surveyed
these preparations with a glassy eye. When all was ready, the chief
turned determinedly to him: "Come on now, Homer. We've got to carry
you to the grave. Get him by the legs, Jim!"
Little Phelps had now passed into that state which may be described as
a curious and temporary childish fatalism. He still objected, but it
was only feeble muttering, as if he did not know what he spoke. In
some confusion they carried him to the rectangle of hemlock boughs
and dropped him. Then they piled other boughs upon him until he was
not to be seen. The chief stepped forward to make a short address, but
before proceeding with it he thought it expedient, from certain
indications, to speak to the grave itself. "Lie still, can't ye? Lie
still until I get through." There was a faint movement of the boughs,
and then a perfect silence.
The chief took off his hat. Those who watched him could see that his
face was harrowed with emotion. "Pards," he began, brokenly--"pards,
we've got one more debt to pay them murderin' red-skins. Bowie-knife
Joe was a brave man an' a good pard, but--he's gone now--gone." He
paused for a moment, overcome, and the stillness was only broken by
the deep manly grief of Jimmie Trescott.