The Lynching of Louie Sam (7 page)

“Justice Campbell promised there would be a trial,” he said. “
That's
justice served.”

A hush fell over the men. Nobody was rushing to agree with Father, the way they had with Mr. Osterman.

“If I'm hearing you right, Mr. Gillies,” replied Mr. Osterman, “you recommend that the Indian deserves some kind of leniency.”

“Give 'em an inch, they'll take a yard!” spat Mr. Harkness.

The other men took up the call for action. But Father wouldn't quit talking. In fact, the more they shouted him down, the more he seemed determined to have his say.

“We set out to make sure Louie Sam paid for what he did according to the law,” Father shouted above them. “We should let him stand trial.”

It's just like my father to speak his mind like that. Sometimes I think he goes out of his way to hold an opinion that's contrary to what most people hold to be true. What made him think he was right and everybody else was wrong? Why couldn't he just go along? For the first time in my life, I was embarrassed for him—embarrassed
by
him.

“Would you have us leave the job half done?” asked Mr. Breckenridge. “Maybe that's how you do things in the Old Country, Mr. Gillies, but it isn't how we do things around here.”

“Louie Sam can not be allowed to spread lies in a court of law,” declared Mr. Osterman. “Are we agreed?”

There was loud accord. I could see Father looking around as though expecting to find at least one man in the posse who wasn't set against him. But it seemed there was none. Father said no more.

Sheriff Leckie spoke: “I want to be clear. I have no authority on the Canadian side, nor can I allow you men to act on my authority. But this much I can tell you. Justice Campbell left the Indian in the hands of two constables, Jim Steele and Thomas York.”

“Thomas York,” said Mr. Moultray. “I've had dealings with him. He's a wily old Scot.”

Someone called out, “One of your countrymen, is he not, Mr. Gillies?”

“Let's hope he's not as soft-hearted as you!” shouted someone else.

“Or soft-headed!” came another jibe from the crowd.

There was great laughter at that, from everyone but my father.

“How comes Thomas York to be a constable?” asked Mr. Moultray.

“He was deputized this afternoon for the purpose, by his son-in-law—Justice Campbell—along with the other fella, Steele. They're to bring the accused to the town of New Westminster in the morning, to the nearest courthouse.”

I noticed a look passing between Mr. Harkness and Mr. Osterman.

“Over our dead bodies,” said Dave Harkness.

Mr. Osterman asked, “Where might Louie Sam be now?”

“He's being held in Mr. York's farmhouse for the night.”

“Where would we find this farmhouse?” Mr. Harkness asked.

“At Sumas Prairie, no more than six miles from here.”

S
HERIFF
L
ECKIE RODE ON
back to Nooksack shortly thereafter, leaving the leaders of the posse to chew over the news he'd brought them. Our prospects had changed considerably. No longer were the men facing the frightening possibility of fighting the Sumas Indians in order to seize Louie Sam. Now their task was much simpler, there being only two constables at a farmhouse to be dealt with, one of them an old man. The mood lightened among the men, some of them joking that the Indian would soon be guest of honour at his own necktie party. But Mr. Hopkins pointed out that while Mr. York was old and feeble, they knew nothing about the second constable, Steele. And both men would be armed.

“There's a hundred of us against two of them,” shouted Mr. Harkness. “Let them try and stop us!”

That started another round of cheering. Mr. Moultray, who hadn't said much up until now, quieted everybody down.

“Our purpose is to take Louie Sam,” he declared in his speech-giving voice. “I will not be party to spilling the blood of Thomas York, nor of the other constable. Let no other white man be harmed in this sorry business.”

At that, the posse calmed down. The five leaders—Mr. Moultray, Mr. Osterman, Mr. Harkness, Mr. Hopkins, and Mr. Breckenridge—went off to confer by themselves for a little while, and when they returned to the group they announced they had a plan. They proposed that one of our number be sent ahead to the York farm as a scout. Dave Harkness put forward his friend Jack Simpson, a coach driver for Mr. Moultray's livery stable, as the best candidate for the job, since Jack is an amiable sort and might do well at winning Mr. York's trust. Also, Jack was easily made to look like an ordinary traveler, having not blackened his face like many of the men had done, and changing his costume was only a matter of taking his inside-out coat and putting it to rights. Jack was dispatched with instructions to tell Mr. York he was in need of a bed for the night, and to that way gain entrance to the farmhouse. The posse would follow within two hours.

That left the rest of the men to cool their heels and rest their horses. Some lit campfires. Others took the chance to claim a few winks of sleep. I was about to go back to Pete and fill him in on all I'd heard when, wouldn't you know it, a whinny comes from out of the darkness, and there's Pete—riding up on Mr. Bell's horse. The men were instantly on alert for trouble.

“Who goes there?” shouted Dave Harkness.

He took aim with his rifle in the general direction of Pete, his finger twitching over the trigger.

Chapter Eight

“D
ON'T SHOOT
!” P
ETE CALLED
in a fright. “It's me! Your son!” he added, as if his own pa might not own him.

“Pete? Show yourself!”

I watched from behind the trees as Pete rode forward to where the light from the lanterns and the campfires could better identify him. Mr. Harkness spat into the grass.

“I recollect telling you to stay home. Whose horse is that?”

“Mr. Bell's, sir.”

“Get down from there.”

Pete jumped down from the gelding as Mr. Moultray stepped over.

“Did you take that horse out of my stable, boy? Without my permission?”

Now Mr. Osterman got involved.

“Don't take a conniption fit, Bill. That horse as good as belongs to the Harknesses.”

“That's right,” Pete's father said, as though Mr. Osterman had just reminded him of the fact. “It should go to Annette.”

“The merry widow,” someone said.

There was laughter at that, until Mr. Harkness told everyone present, “Shut your traps!” Such is Mr. Harkness's temper and physical might that they obeyed him—and quickly, too.

Mr. Osterman said, “You should be proud of the boy, Dave. It took gumption to follow us like that.”

I remembered that Mr. Osterman had said something similar about me the morning we found Mr. Bell's body, and it gave me the courage to come out of my hiding place. Besides, now that Pete had been discovered with our horse, it was show myself or walk all the way back to Nooksack by myself in the dark.

“Well, lookie here,” said Mr. Harkness as I stepped forward. “Mr. Gillies, this one belongs to you, does he not?”

Father, who had been resting against a fallen log paying scant attention to Pete and the horse, now looked over. It took him a moment to focus his eyes on me, and another to get over his disbelief at seeing me there. He got to his feet and came over to me slowly. I was aware that the other men were watching him, and I did not for one minute like their grinning expressions.

“I told you to stay home, George,” Father said.

I replied, “I wanted to help catch the renegade, sir, and to make him pay for what he did to poor Mr. Bell.”

I was showing him all the respect I could muster, just to prove to those men that he was a man worth respecting. But it seemed I only made matters worse, for Pete's father got a smirk on his face to end all.

“Looks like you got more backbone than your old man, son,” said Mr. Harkness.

Without uttering a word in reply, my father turned away and went back to the log he had been leaning on. Part of me wanted to go over and sit with him, to show those laughing men that I was on his side, no matter what. But a bigger part of me—the part that wanted to see justice done—told me to stand with the posse. That's the part that won out. I went to warm my hands at a small campfire that some of the men had started, keeping close to Pete and his pa—ignoring my own father. I felt guilty, but angry, too. Sometimes Father takes being his own man too far.

A
T THE APPOINTED TIME
, the men mounted their horses and started north to Mr. York's farmhouse at Sumas Prairie. Pete and I were allowed to go with them, mostly because there was no longer the danger of the posse being attacked by a whole band of Indians. But we were told by Mr. Osterman to keep to the back of the group, because the things that would be happening were not suitable for boys our age to be witnessing up close.

Mr. Bell's horse had a short gait that made for a bumpy ride even at a walk, but I tried to think about the satisfaction of seeing the look on that Indian's face when at last we'd have him cornered—instead of how squished I felt behind Pete on that saddle. After the way the men had spoken to my father, I did not think it wise to push the point with Pete that it was my turn to be riding up front, lest I get some of the same treatment.

By about ten o'clock, we were getting close to Mr. York's farmhouse. Jack Simpson had not returned to us, which was taken as a sign that he had been allowed into the house by Mr. York and would unbolt the door for us once the household was asleep. At last we could see our destination by starlight, a fine two-story frame house that spoke to Mr. York's success. The yard was even fenced with white pickets, to keep the livestock out of Mrs. York's flower beds, I supposed. All was quiet—not so much as a dog barking. Mr. Osterman called the posse to a halt a good two hundred yards off.

“This is it,” he said, his voice low. “It's now or never—our last chance to show Louie Sam American justice.” He pulled his revolver out of its holster. “I need ten men to come inside with me.”

Most of the men were eager to go into the house with Mr. Osterman. Among the chosen few were Pete's pa, Mr. Moultray, and Mr. Breckenridge. My father was not among those who volunteered, nor was he asked. The only one of the leaders to stay back was little Mr. Hopkins, who, now that the plan was actually about to be hatched, seemed frightened by the whole business.

“Once we're inside the house,” said Mr. Moultray, “the rest of you gather in the yard. Give them a show of our numbers, just in case Mr. York or the other constable has any ideas about keeping us from our purpose.”

In the excitement, I suppose Mr. Moultray forgot about Pete and me, because no further mention was made of us being too young to witness what was about to happen. We waited with the other men, still on horseback, watching as Mr. Osterman and Mr. Moultray dismounted and led the party up through the white picket fence to the house and onto the veranda—rifles and revolvers at the ready. By the light of their lanterns, we could make out Mr. Osterman approaching the door and trying the latch. A second later, Mr. Osterman disappeared into the house, followed by the others. We saw their lantern light through the parlor window. I swear that barely a breath was taken by those of us left behind. We waited.

Suddenly, a woman was screaming—followed by angry shouts. We couldn't be sure whether the shouting was coming from our men or from the Canadian constables, but nevertheless we took it as our cue. Spurring our horses, we rode as a pack up into the farmhouse yard, leaping the fence or crowding through the gate, whooping and hollering—making as much noise as we could to show the Canadian lawmen that we meant business. Pete and I joined in the hoopla, although we did not have the benefit of costumes and painted faces to boost the effect as the others did.

In a few moments, Dave Harkness appeared at the door, dragging with him into the yard a cowed and stumbling body, his hands cuffed behind his back. Mr. Osterman and Mr. Moultray were right behind them. A cry went up from the posse. We had him—we had the murderer!

Leaving Pete, I slipped off the horse's back and pushed my way through the pack to get a better look. The Indian was on his knees in the dirt with Mr. Harkness and Mr. Moultray leaning over him. Mr. Harkness pulled him to his feet. That's when I got my first good look at Louie Sam, as well as the shock of my life.

Louie Sam was just a boy, even younger than I.

Chapter Nine