The Lynching of Louie Sam (13 page)

Mr. Moultray calls for the crowd to quiet down. Like I say, he's a natural leader. When he speaks, people listen.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” starts Mr. Moultray. “I thank you for coming out on this fine afternoon to demonstrate to Governor Newell the fervor with which we Washingtonians regard the imminence of statehood.”

There's a burst of cheering and applause. Miss Carmichael, who has managed to find a spot directly in front of Mr. Moultray, is clapping so hard she knocks her bonnet crooked.

“It is our hope that Governor Newell will communicate that fervor to the president in Washington, D.C. For it is not a question of if, but
when
the people of this great territory assume their rightful place amongst the republics of the United States of America!”

The crowd is even louder now. Miss Carmichael's bonnet has flown right off, held on only by the ribbons tied under her chin. Mr. Moultray waits for folks to settle down before continuing at length in the same vein, talking a lot about destiny and God's will. This whole time, Governor Newell is sitting still and stone-faced in his chair. For all I know he's fallen asleep with his eyes open. At last Mr. Moultray finishes speaking, and it's Governor Newell's turn. The governor looks a little startled when Mr. Moultray speaks his name—so maybe he
was
sleeping. He takes his time getting up from his chair.

“Good afternoon,” he begins.

The crowd is still, wondering what he'll say next—how, after Mr. Moultray has just finished making such a strong case for statehood, he could have the audacity to tell us we're not yet ready. Before he speaks, he digs into his coat pocket and brings out a folded piece of paper. He opens it up. It appears to be a cable.

“I have here,” he says, “a telegraph from Attorney General Davis in Washington, D.C., dated a little over a week ago, on Thursday, the twenty-eighth of February. It pertains to an event that took place at the hands of certain individuals from the Nooksack Valley on the preceding day.”

The twenty-eighth is Teddy's birthday. It's also the day after the hanging of Louie Sam. I glance to Mr. Moultray and Mr. Osterman, seated behind the governor. From the way Mr. Osterman's shifting in his chair, it looks like this is one telegraph our telegraph man knows nothing about. And Mr. Moultray looks peaked all of a sudden. It's the same look he wore when Louie Sam told him he was going to fix him. I flash to a memory of Mr. Moultray's hand making contact with that pony's hindquarters. I see bound legs thrashing in midair. My nice normal feeling is chased away.

The governor proceeds to read the telegraph to the crowd.

“‘I am requesting in response to a communication from Her Majesty's Government in Canada that you instruct your territorial police to watch out for and arrest members of a lynch mob charged with hanging a Canadian Indian on Canadian soil near Sumas Prairie, British Columbia, pending the Canadians' application for extradition proceedings.'”

The crowd goes dead silent. The governor looks out over the assembled folk of the Nooksack Valley like a judge about to pass sentence.

“Pursuant to these instructions,” he says, “I have directed Mr. Bradshaw, the prosecuting attorney of the Third Judicial District in Port Townsend, to act immediately and vigorously against the leaders of this lynch mob so that they can be extradited to Canada, where they will stand trial for their crimes.”

Mr. Moultray and Mr. Osterman sit gobsmacked. Or maybe I just think they must be, because I am for sure.

“As to the issue of statehood,” says the governor, “perhaps that is best left to another day.”

Having said his piece, Governor Newell stands above us on the boardwalk, as though expecting the leaders of the Nooksack Vigilance Committee to step forward and face judgment this very moment. But nobody moves—except Miss Carmichael, whose hand goes to her mouth as she utters a small cry. I look around to see if Father is still here. He's at the back where he was earlier, standing beside Mr. Stevens. Both of their heads are bowed, eyes hidden by their hat brims. Everybody is silent—until an angry voice booms out of the crowd.

“We was promised a talk on us becoming a state, so let's hear it!”

We all crane our necks to see that the speaker is Dave Harkness. His face is all red with fury. Annette Bell is standing there beside him frowning, with her arms crossed tight. She says something to Mr. Harkness, who then pipes up again.

“If the United States Government has got something to say to us, they can come say it to our faces instead of sending their hired mouthpiece to do it!” he says.

The crowd, so silent a moment ago, sends up a cheer. People are hollering about freedom and democracy, and about how no Washingtonian got to cast a vote to elect Governor Newell to office, so he has no rightful place messing in our business and telling us what to do. Up on the boardwalk, Governor Newell sputters something about how we settlers are ignorant rabble unfit to govern ourselves, which makes the crowd angrier still. Mr. Moultray is on his feet trying to calm everybody down, but he's not trying very hard. When a rock whizzes by the governor, close enough to ruffle his mutton chops, Mr. Moultray whispers something to the men who came with him from Olympia, who then hustle the governor into Moultray's Store. Mr. Moultray turns to the crowd and starts speechifying.

“Fellow citizens of Whatcom County,” he says from his perch on the boardwalk. “Surely the Governor can not but help to have comprehended how unwavering is our quest for democracy!”

The crowd sends up another loud cheer. I can't believe how fast the subject has gone from the hanging of Louie Sam back to statehood. I can't believe how the men in the crowd—most of whom rode with the posse that night—don't seem worried about what Governor Newell just said about bringing the leaders to justice. By my count, all five leaders of the posse are present—Mr. Harkness, Mr. Osterman, Mr. Breckenridge, Mr. Hopkins, and Mr. Moultray himself, who at this moment is working folks up into a frenzy of hollering for their rights.

We see no more of the governor. In the crowd, I hear people proclaiming about how Bill Moultray showed the president's man a thing or two. The nerve of him, coming here and reading that telegraph! From the way they talk, it's like the right to statehood has somehow become the same thing as the right to hang Louie Sam, though in my mind they are not the same at all. The first is right and fair. But the hanging … if folks believe so strongly it was the right thing to do, then why aren't they willing to step up to the governor and tell him so?

A
FTER A WHILE, THE CROWD
starts to break up. Lots of folks are staying around for the dance later and have brought baskets of food for their dinners. I see Abigail Stevens sitting in a wagon with her parents and her little sisters, eating a sandwich. I think about going over to patch it up with her, to maybe even ask her for a dance if I stay for a little while, but the thought of it makes me break out in a sweat. I head over to Father, who is untethering Ulysses and Mae from a post outside the livery stable. John, Will, and Annie are already seated in the bed of the wagon.

“Are you coming home with us, George?” asks Father.

“He's too busy making eyes at Abigail,” says John.

I snarl at him. “Mind your own business, John.”

Father gives John a look that makes him hold his tongue.

“Stay if you want to,” he says.

I can see Father's holding back from smiling. It's downright humiliating. I climb up into the wagon beside him without saying anything at all, which is enough said. Father slaps Ulysses and Mae with the reins and we start off jostling toward home. After a while, my thoughts stray back to the governor. I ask Father, “Do you think he means what he says about punishing the leaders of the Vigilance Committee?”

Father answers low, so the kids in the back won't hear.

“He can mean it all he wants. What he intends to do about it with the whole valley vowed to secrecy is another question altogether.”

“Do you think they ought to be punished?”

Father shoots me a cautioning look. I hold his gaze. I want to know.

“Aye,” he says finally. “Aye, I do.”

Chapter Fifteen

I
WAKE EARLY
S
ATURDAY MORNING
, so I decide to put the time to good use before I'm due to go see Mr. Osterman. I'm fishing for trout in the creek at a good spot I know upstream from the mill. It's chilly this early, but the sun is shining and you can feel spring just around the corner. After a few minutes I feel a big tug on my line. I see a brown back fin crest before the fish swims back down into the water, taking my line with him. He's big, maybe a five-pounder. I give him his head for a bit, then slowly I reel him in, feeling for just the right amount of tension to keep him on the hook. When he gets close to the shore, he gets an inkling that he's being played and makes a run for it. I know that's my do-or-die moment, so I give the line a big yank—and pull the trout right up onto the shore. He's flopping around in the grass like a demon before I take a rock and end it for him.

“He's a beaut!”

I spin around, taken by surprise. Who should be sauntering along a deer path but Joe Hampton. He's got a fishing pole with him that must have belonged to his pa—the Indians usually use traps and spears to fish.

“Mind if I join you?” he says.

I am not in a position to say no—neither of our families claims this stretch of the creek, and in fact we are closer to his shack than to our cabin.

“Suit yourself,” I say.

He digs in the bank for a worm, which he hooks and then casts into the water. We sit in the grass twenty feet from each other, tugging at our lines, listening to birds sing. I am dying for him to tell me about what happened with his
tillicums
across the border. He stays quiet, making me speak first.

“When did you get back?”

“Couple of days ago.”

He falls back into silence. I see he means to make me work for crumbs of information. I decide to surprise him with some of my own.

“I hear the Canadian Government has been calming your people down.”

“If you mean they sent an Indian agent in, that's true. Patrick McTiernan. But he came because the
asked him to come.”

I don't like his attitude, like he's always got the upper hand.

“So are they attacking or not?” I challenge him.

“We thought about it. There was something like two hundred people there. We talked all day and all night about what should be done. Some people thought we should come across the border and hang the first sixty-five Americans we came across, that that would be a nice round number to even the score for an innocent boy hanged. But most people thought it would be enough to take the first white man we found, carry him back to the hanging tree where Louie Sam died and string him up. An eye for an eye.”

At that moment I get another bite on my line. I pull it up. It's only a catfish, but I'm glad that the business of landing it gives me a reason to turn my face away from Joe, because the picture of two hundred angry Indians coming over the border to hang sixty-five of us, or even one of us, is giving me the willies. I keep my back to Joe as I crouch down to unhook the fish.

“So what did the Indian agent say to that?”

“He wasn't big on that idea,” says Joe. “He wanted us to think twice about starting a feud that could wind up in a full-fledged war. Even though it's plain as the nose on your face that we didn't start it.”

“So how was it left then?”

“There was one thing that everybody could agree on. There has to be an investigation, to figure out who really killed Jim Bell.”

Words start in my mouth to deny Louie Sam's innocence, but I say nothing. Joe Hampton gives me a satisfied look, like I've just admitted that Louie Sam is not the culprit.

“The chiefs agreed not to bring a raiding party across the border. They sent the people back to their home villages. They're leaving it up to the Canadian law to find the murderers.”