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Updated: June 20, 2025
And then he asked, with a queer note in his voice, partly of dread and partly of hope, "Am I in time, sir?" The managing editor took the book, and tossed it to the foreman, who ripped out its leaves and dealt them out to his men as rapidly as a gambler deals out cards. Then the managing editor stooped and picked Gallegher up in his arms, and, sitting down, began to unlace his wet and muddy shoes.
Gallegher turned his head, and though he saw that the voice came from under a policeman's helmet, his only answer was to hit his horse sharply over the head with his whip and to urge it into a gallop. This, on his part, was followed by a sharp, shrill whistle from the policeman. Another whistle answered it from a street-corner one block ahead of him. "Whoa," said Gallegher, pulling on the reins.
Gallegher shook himself free from his supporters, and took an unsteady step forward, his fingers fumbling stiffly with the buttons of his waistcoat. "Mr.
The pistol-shots were answered by the impatient clangor of a patrol-wagon's gong, and glancing over his shoulder Gallegher saw its red and green lanterns tossing from side to side and looking in the darkness like the side-lights of a yacht plunging forward in a storm.
"You won't need it now," replied Gallegher, who was dying blasphemous. About then, George Lane, one of the line of men about to be hung, jumped off his box on his own account. "There's one gone to hell," remarked Boone Helm, philosophically. Gallegher was hanged next, and as he struggled his former friend watched him calmly. "Kick away, old fellow," said Boone Helm.
In Gallegher the detective element was abnormally developed. He had shown this on several occasions, and to excellent purpose.
The detective and Gallegher put out the cab's lamps and led the horse toward a long, low shed in the rear of the yard, which they now noticed was almost filled with teams of many different makes, from the Hobson's choice of a livery stable to the brougham of the man about town. "No," said Gallegher, as the cabman stopped to hitch the horse beside the others, "we want it nearest that lower gate.
"Whew!" whistled Gallegher, "where's it to be?" "In the barn," whispered Keppler. "I helped 'em fix the ropes this morning, I did." "Gosh, but you're in luck," exclaimed Gallegher, with flattering envy. "Couldn't I jest get a peep at it?" "Maybe," said the gratified Keppler. "There's a winder with a wooden shutter at the back of the barn.
"I hadn't bargained to race you against no patrol-wagons," said Gallegher to his animal; "but if they want a race, we'll give them a tough tussle for it, won't we?" Philadelphia, lying four miles to the south, sent up a faint yellow glow to the sky.
In the largest hanging made in this Montana work, there were five men executed one after the other: Clubfoot George, Hayes Lyons, Jack Gallegher, Boone Helm, and Frank Parish, all known to be members of the Plummer gang. George and Parish at first declared that they were innocent the first word of most of these men when they were apprehended. Parish died silent.
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