DIXON, a Choctaw, twenty years of age,
Had killed a miner in a Leadville brawl;
Tried and condemned, the rough-beards curb their rage,
And watch him stride in freedom from the hall.

'Return on Friday, to be shot to death!'
So ran the sentence-it was Monday night.
The dead man's comrades drew a well-pleased breath;
Then all night long the gambling dens were bright.

The days sped slowly; but the Friday came,
And flocked the miners to the shooting-ground;
They chose six riflemen of deadly aim,
And with low voices sat and lounged around.

'He will not come.' 'He's not a fool.' 'The men
Who set the savage free must face the blame.'
A Choctaw brave smiled bitterly, and then
Smiled proudly, with raised head, as Dixon came.

Silent and stern-a woman at his heels;
He motions to the brave, who stays her tread.
Next minute-flame the guns: the woman reels
And drops without a moan-Dixon is dead.