The execution had now been duly carried out. Ted Baldwin, who
sprawled now in the seat of honour beside the Bodymaster, had
been chief of the party. His flushed face and glazed, bloodshot
eyes told of sleeplessness and drink. He and his two comrades
had spent the night before among the mountains. They were
unkempt and weather-stained. But no heroes, returning from a
forlorn hope, could have had a warmer welcome from their
comrades.
The story was told and retold amid cries of delight and shouts of
laughter. They had waited for their man as he drove home at
nightfall, taking their station at the top of a steep hill, where
his horse must be at a walk. He was so furred to keep out the
cold that he could not lay his hand on his pistol. They had
pulled him out and shot him again and again. He had screamed for
mercy. The screams were repeated for the amusement of the lodge.
"Let's hear again how he squealed," they cried.
None of them knew the man; but there is eternal drama in a
killing, and they had shown the Scowrers of Gilmerton that the
Vermissa men were to be relied upon.
There had been one contretemps; for a man and his wife had driven
up while they were still emptying their revolvers into the silent
body.
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