Reporter and farmer. [volume] (Webster, Day County, Dakota [S.D.]) 188?-1946, 1892-12-01

n titllN ttthiib UP hAt' N'.' w.
would instantly shrink away. a
phvsiognonist would stand aghast. An
unfortunate wayfarer would look in
vain for a trace of pity. charity, or
even mercy. Faces of stone-hearts OF
iron.
"Gwine to kill mo- of emp"
"Reckon to-"
She sat down on a log, leaned her
elbows on her knees and rested her
chin on her hands and looked away in
to the woods. He dropped his rifle to
the earth. crossed his hands, on the
muzzle, and looked away down the path
toward the mountain road. The SPUR
rels chartered in the trees about them,
the wild bees buzzed in the June sun
shine, and the drumming Of 4 part
ridge seconded loudly from the hill be-
hind the cabin, but neither man mol
woman seemed to be alive. Ten long
minutes passed away,a and then the man
raised his head, lifted up his rifle, and
disappeared down the path without a
look OF a ord
"Him's gone, F." she whispered to her
self, but without turning her eyes oil
moving her head.
Ten minutes walk took the man to
the junction of the path and the high
way. He turned to the right, followed
the road about twenty rods, and then
secreted himself in a thicliet. That
road was little used by soldiers.
Couriers and mail-carriers who wanted
to save distance came that way, and in
the dark ravine at the buslwhacker's
back two corpses were now lying I'M
buried.
"Drat 'em," growled the man as
three or four great buzzards came fly
ing so close to him that their wings
brushed the tops of the bushes, but
after a moment he knelt down behind
a decaying log, rested the barrel of his
rifle across it, and gave the buzzards
| no further attention. Five, ten, fifteen
minutes passed away. There had been
only three or four of the great birds at
frst; their numbers increased until
there seemed to be thirty flying above
him. Not one of them uttered a
sound. There was a "swish!" of wings
as they circled about the thicket, but
never a croak or cry. 1t was a still
hunt. The man was waiting for the
living-the buzzardS seeking to locate
the dead.
Clickety click, Clickety click! 1t is
the hoof beats of a horse up the road
the sound of his iron shoes striking
against the stony surface. The buz-
yards lift themselves fifty teet higher
and break their circle, but the man
settles down and places his cheek
against the rifle. 1t is o single horse
man riding at a lope. He comes near
er and nearer, and the buzzards pause
in their fight to look down on him. OF
a sudden flash of flame, a sharp report,
q cry, and the horse gallops madly
eway.
SCOT one mo- fur suah!" mutters the
bushwhacker, as he drops his rifle and
steps out to view the dead man and
drag the body into the cover.
There is a rush of feet, a fierce yell,
and he is surrounded by twenty
soldiers, who cry out for his life. 1t
is a detail who have been searching
and watching, and they have him at
last. He has not a word TO say-be-
trays no fear. They tie his arms be-
hind him and march him down the
road to the path and up the path to
his cabin. The oma sits there in the
same position, except hat her eyes are
on the path and the body of men. She
knows what has happened-what will
happen.
"Tom's bin gotl" she whispered, but
she does not betray the slightest excite
ment. She does not even rise to her
feet until the officer in command looks
her over and asks:
do you want to see him hung?"
"Reckon not.
"Then goln
She is bareheaded and barefooted.
She does not enter the calm, but steps
into the path, turns to the right, and
the men watch her out of sight. There
is no "good-by, " no tears, not even a
backward look. She is hardly out of
sight before the cabin is fred and a
rope is about her husbands neck. He
does not beg for his life; he does not
defy them; he makes no sign. 1t is
only when the men have tailed on to
the free end of the rope to pull him up
and he is asked if he has anything to
say that his lips are parted to utter the
brief sentence:
Reckon mott"
Dead from strangulatior-dead from
a dozen bullets-dead and swinging
like a pendulum in the smoke and
flames of his rooftree, and as the
woman, still traversing the path and
half a mile away, heard the volley, she
whispered to herself:
"Tom's buzzard meat ncw!n