Lynching - Annick Press

Copyright Annick Press 2012
There was nothing fearsome about him now. He was
shrinking into himself, keeping his head bowed like he
was expecting a beating. But at the same time, there
was something about the way he held his back and
shoulders, stiff and proud, that made it seem like he
wasn’t the least bit sorry for what he’d done to find
himself in this situation.
Old Mr. York came out on the veranda, cussing at
our men in a Scots brogue thicker than my father’s.
He was fit to be tied that guns had been pointed at his
wife and daughter, who were presently under guard
by one of our number in an upstairs room. The other
constable, Steele, didn’t seem so worked up as Mr.
York. He was quiet and let Mr. York do the talking.
When Jack Simpson slipped out of the house and
rejoined us, Mr. York was madder than a wet hen.
“You! One of these border ruffians, are ye? I take ye
into my house in the middle of the night, and this is
the thanks I get?”
From his place on the veranda, Mr. York peered
out into the posse that filled his yard, Mr. Steele at his
side. Our numbers and our disguises seemed to make
him think twice about his show of temper, because he
cooled down a notch or two.
“What kind of cowards dress up in their wives’
frocks?” he spat, but he lacked the fire he had spewed
only a moment before.
Mr. Moultray spoke. “We’ve got no argument with
you. We came for the Indian. That’s all.”
Mr. York squinted into the darkness. “Is that you,
Bill Moultray?”
It seemed to me that Louie Sam turned his head at
the mention of Mr. Moultray’s name.
“Take my advice, sir,” said Mr. Osterman, “and
mind your own business.”
Mr. York looked at the Indian boy shivering in his
yard, his hands bound behind his back with cuffs of
metal.
“The Sumas won’t like it,” he said. “They handed
him to my son-in-law because they were promised a
fair trial.”
“Don’t you worry,” answered Mr. Harkness. “We’ll
make sure he gets a fair trial.”
There was spirited laughter and rumblings of
agreement from the posse at that. The old man
seemed to weigh his options—which were few and far
between.
“Think about what you’re doing, Bill,” said Mr.
York, addressing Mr. Moultray. Mr. Moultray stayed
quiet, like he didn’t want to give himself away again
with his voice. “This isn’t the South. We don’t hang a
body just for being colored.”
It was the first time anybody had mentioned
hanging since we arrived at Mr. York’s. I peered over
at Louie Sam to see his reaction, but he didn’t flinch
from keeping his head low and still—which made me
76 77