Lynching - Annick Press

Copyright Annick Press 2012
and to the split-rail fence surrounding a small corral.
Still more were inside the corral, poking their noses
through the fence to snatch mouthfuls of clover. I
recognized Star, the Harknesses’ gelding. Up closer
to the cabin, John and I came across Mae, tied by her
reins to a cedar sapling. When John spoke her name,
she raised her head and gave us a funny look, like she
was wondering what in heck we were doing there.
Then she went back to cropping grass.
Several men were standing outside on the veranda,
smoking and talking quietly. Among them were Bill
Osterman, the telegraph man who’d led our search
through the swamp, and Tom Breckenridge’s father,
who had gone up north with Sheriff Leckie. Dave
Harkness was with them, too. Mr. Osterman’s face was
grim.
“Are we going to allow the Canadians to interfere
in our business?” he was saying. “Does a murdering
Indian deserve a trial, same as a civilized man?”
“He most certainly does not!” declared Mr.
Breckenridge.
Bert Hopkins, a shorty in specs who runs the new
Nooksack Hotel, spoke up.
“What can we do about it? The Canadians have got
him in custody by now.”
“We got a jail right here in town that would hold
him just fine,” said Mr. Harkness.
“That’s what I’m thinking,” agreed Mr. Osterman.
At that moment, my friend Pete came outside.
“Pa, Uncle Bill,” he said, Mr. Osterman being
married to his auntie, “they’re ready to start.”
The men exchanged more grim looks, and filed into
the cabin.
“Pete!” I called.
He turned, frowning at the sight of John and me as
we reached the veranda.
“This is no place for kids,” he said.
That made my blood boil. Sometimes Pete acts like
such a big bug, just because he’s got a year’s head start
on me.
“We’re the ones who found the body,” John shot
back. “We got a right to be here.”
“There’s serious talk going on inside,” Pete told us.
“If you can hear it, I can hear it,” I said.
“And me,” John was quick to add.
“I’m not wasting my time arguing with you two,”
Pete replied, and went into the cabin.
John and I went right in after him.
The cabin was so packed with men that it was easy
for John and me not to be noticed by Father, who was
on the other side of the room. Mrs. Bell was not there,
but her son Jimmy was. A wooden box containing
Mr. Bell was propped up on chairs at one end of the
room. Jimmy stood near the casket, wearing a sullen
expression, like he didn’t want to be there. John and
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