Jack heard him, and his smile grew twisted at the tone in which the word was uttered; but he still smiled, which was more than many a man would have done in his place.
Bill stood while the rest of that grim procession passed his place.
There was another, a young fellow who looked ready to cry, walking unsteadily behind Jack, both his arms gripped by others of the Vigilance Committee.

There were two crude stretchers, borne by stolid-faced miners in red flannel shirts and clay-stained boots.
On the first a dead man lay grinning up at the sun, his teeth just showing under his bushy mustache, a trickle of red running down from his temple.

On the next a man groaned and mumbled blasphemy between his groanings.
Bill took it all in, a single glance for each,--a glance trained by gambling to see a great deal between the flicker of his lashes.

He did not seem to look once at the Captain, yet he knew that Jack's ivory-handled pistols hung at the Captain's rocking hips as he went striding past; and he knew that malice lurked under the grizzled hair which hid the Captain's cruel lips; and that satisfaction glowed in the hard, sidelong glance he gave his prisoner.
He stood until he saw Jack duck his head under the tent flaps of the jail and the white-faced youth follow shrinking after.

He stood while the armed guards took up their stations on the four sides of the tent and began pacing up and down the paths worn deep in tragic significance.