Lynching - Annick Press

Copyright Annick Press 2012
was, the U.S. Army was nowhere in sight, the nearest
outpost being three hundred miles south of us at Fort
Walla Walla. The Indians of the Nooksack Valley
knew we were pretty much defenseless, and that they
had us outnumbered.
“We didn’t have this kind of trouble when Bill
Hampton was alive,” Father remarked.
Mr. Hampton was the ferryman at The Crossing
before he drowned and my friend Pete’s father, Dave
Harkness, took over. “Bill had a knack for talking to
the Nooksack. They listened to him.”
Mr. Osterman let out a hard laugh, obviously not
sharing Father’s good opinion of Mr. Hampton.
“That’s because he was shacked up with one of their
women and had himself a couple of Indian kids.” He
was talking about Agnes, Mr. Hampton’s Indian wife,
who lives near us on Sumas Creek with her two halfbreed
sons. He added, “We got to make an example of
Louie Sam before the Nooksack go getting ideas.”
“No question about that,” Father agreed.
“Let’s see what the sheriff has to say when he gets
back,” Mr. Moultray told them.
He was a natural leader, Mr. Moultray—cool and
always thinking. He was the one leading the talk in
our corner of the Washington Territory about pressing
the Union to make us a full state with our own laws,
and not just a territory ruled by the president from
Washington, D.C.
We reached a big old log that was sticking up out
of the swamp at an angle and climbed up on it. On
the other side of it, we could see sunken footprints
where Louie Sam had made a long jump off the log
into the bog. From there the bush got thicker and
the trail petered out. The men decided that there was
no point continuing. If Louie Sam was going to be
caught, it was up to the sheriff to do it.
We returned to Mr. Bell’s burned-out cabin. The
ruins were cooler now. It was easier to pick through
the remains, but there was nothing much left. It
seemed Mr. Bell didn’t own much to speak of, even
before the fire turned it all to ash. Nothing but the five
hundred dollars in gold he had in that strong box.
“I’ll keep it in the safe at my store until it’s decided
what’s to be done with it,” volunteered Mr. Moultray.
“What about the body?” asked Father.
“May as well bring him back to my place,” said Mr.
Moultray. “He’ll keep in my shed until he’s buried. His
horse can stay in my stable until somebody decides
who gets him.”
Father remarked, “I suppose somebody needs to tell
Mrs. Bell what happened.”
The men all fell silent at that. Nobody was stepping
up to volunteer for that particular detail. The situation
was complicated, what with Mrs. Bell having up and
left Mr. Bell a year ago to go live with Pete’s pa.
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