 And then once across, your horse is rumped with a quirt and... Never mind, Cantrell. I'm the coroner at Frenchman's Ford. I've made out death certificates after hanging. Well, maybe you'd like to make out your own in advance, eh? Here she goes. Over the lip. Ah! Now, pull it up a little. We wouldn't want Doc's heels dragging on the ground. All right, Doc. Hands behind you. Why don't you shoot, Cantrell? Oh, hanging. That's the way Jeb would have wanted it.