The Lynching of Louie Sam (8 page)

L
OUIE
S
AM WAS SMALL BUT
broad-faced, his skin the copper color of his people. His dark hair hung shaggy and loose, not braided the way a brave would have it. I wondered if he was too young to wear his hair that way. The posse men jeered at him and called him names as they gathered around him in the farmyard, but he said nothing. The look on his face was somewhere between surly and terrified, though from the way he shook, it seemed to me he was more scared than angry. But he could well have been shaking from the cold night, because the men had pulled him out of the house the way I guess he had been sleeping, with only his shirt and pants, his suspenders hanging loose and no boots on his feet.

I remembered Pete saying he was struck by fear the day of Mr. Bell's murder, seeing the evil look of Louie Sam when he passed him on the Lynden road. Pete was a couple of years older than Louie Sam, and at least a head taller. I wondered,
What was it about
this Indian boy that had seemed so fearsome to Pete
? 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 think he didn't understand English too well.

“I don't recall anybody talking about hanging him,” called Mr. Osterman. “We want him to face justice, that's all.”

Mr. York waved away the posse with his hands, fed up with us.

“Take him then. Just be gone away from my house, the lot of ye, and off my land!”

A spare horse was led forward, one that was brought along for the purpose, and Louie Sam was lifted and placed upon its bare back, his hands still cuffed.

“We'll return the bracelets in the morning,” Mr. Harkness told Mr. York.

With that, the posse left Mr. York's yard, led by Mr. Osterman and Mr. Moultray—who, I noticed, continued to hold his tongue. Mr. Harkness took up the reins of the pony that carried Louie Sam and pulled it along behind him. I went to climb aboard Mr. Bell's horse with Pete, but my father called to me.

“George,” he said. “You ride with me.”

I didn't argue, and climbed up into Mae's saddle behind him.

Now that I saw Louie Sam with my own eyes, saw that he was flesh and blood—saw that he was no more than a kid—the real purpose of the Nooksack Vigilance Committee was hitting home.
That boy is
coming back to Nooksack to die,
I realized. I knew that from the start, I guess, but it was just a fact to me then—a matter that needed to be settled in the name of justice for Mr. Bell. Why did it feel so different now? Suddenly, I was having a hard time picturing the scene at Mr. Bell's place. How could a boy John's age march into that cabin and shoot the old man in the back of the head, in cold blood?

Something was niggling at me as we rode, like my brain was trying to tell me I'd missed something. Then all at once it came to me.

“He's wearing suspenders!”

Father turned his ear toward me. “What did you say?”

“Louie Sam. He's wearing suspenders. Those weren't his suspenders we found in the swamp.”

Father said nothing for a few moments. I held on to him, feeling the muscles of his back working in rhythm with Mae. At last he spoke, keeping his voice very low.

“That doesn't mean anything. He could have found himself a second pair.”

“But there's a chance he didn't. There's a chance those were somebody else's suspenders in the swamp. That somebody else was running away from Mr. Bell's cabin.”

Father turned his head to me, so only I could hear. “Keep that to yourself.”

“But it's evidence!” I said.

“Quiet!” he hissed.

“We have to tell them,” I whispered in his ear.

“It's too late. They won't listen.”

“But—”

“Enough!”

When my father says “enough,” that's the end of it. I held my tongue, but my brain would not stop thinking. Everything had seemed so certain on the ride north. Now nothing was. Riding ahead of me in the darkness was the boy who murdered Mr. Bell, but maybe he didn't. If justice was what we were after, then surely justice meant knowing without a doubt that he was guilty. I took my father's point, though. Emotions were running high. My father was already suspected of soft resolve. This was not the time to mount a defense of Louie Sam, especially not coming from us Gillies. I decided that once we got Louie Sam back to the jail in Nooksack, I would go to Sheriff Leckie and tell him about the suspenders.

But after riding for not even an hour, the posse stopped in a clearing. We were less than halfway home. It seemed odd to me that the men would want to take a break, considering the seriousness of their business. Then a rider—the same Jack Simpson who'd entered Mr. York's house as our spy—came galloping past us in the opposite direction, going back up the Whatcom Trail from where we'd just come. Word filtered back through the ranks that Mr. Osterman and Mr. Moultray had sent him on a scouting mission, worried that maybe we were being followed by the Sumas—that they were riled that we'd taken one of their own, like Mr. York said they would be. If that was the case, we knew that every last man jack of us was in trouble, because the Canadian Indians were sure to outnumber us in a fight.

The men—including Father—checked that their firearms were loaded. I saw Pete nearby. I slipped off of Mae.

“George!” Father shouted.

“I'll be right back!” I told him.

I went over to Pete.

“I got something to tell you.”

“What might that be?”

He was acting huffy, looking down on me from his borrowed saddle.

“I'm not sure that Louie Sam's the one that left that trail, the one we followed through the swamp.”

“What are you talking about? Anybody with eyes can see that Indian is guilty as sin, Gillies.”

The way Pete said our family name made me mad, like he thought we were less than other people—especially his people. To get back at him, I said, “What were you so scared of him for when you saw him on the Lynden road? He's only a boy.”

Pete was about to spew something back at me, but at that moment Jack Simpson came galloping back again—this time riding toward the head of the posse. I forgot about Pete and started making my way up front to find out what was going on. There I saw Louie Sam, straddling the back of the pony, his hands still in cuffs behind his back. He kept his gaze directed to the ground but his back was straight. Jack Simpson was telling the posse leaders that, as far as he could see, the trail behind us was clear of Indians.

“That doesn't mean they won't be coming soon,” Mr. Osterman observed.

“We should hand him over if they do,” said Mr. Hopkins, who looked smaller than ever, perched on a horse that was too big for him. “Let the Canadians put him on trial.”

“That's not going to happen,” declared Pete's pa.

“What are we waiting for?” said Mr. Osterman. “Dave, where's that rope?”

Mr. Harkness took up a rope that was hanging in a coil from the horn of his saddle. I felt my stomach tighten. I glanced to Louie Sam, who didn't flinch.

Mr. Moultray pointed out, “We're still on the Canadian side.”

“So?”

“So if there's trouble about this, it'll fall under Canadian law.”

“If there's trouble about this,” said Mr. Osterman, “better it be on their side of the border, with us safe on our side.”

Other men spoke up, agreeing with Mr. Harkness and Mr. Osterman that they should get on with it. They meant to hang him, right here! A fever was building among the men. They were jeering at Louie Sam, calling for his blood. Louie Sam lifted his head at the commotion, but said nothing and showed no fear. I was certain now he couldn't understand much English—he couldn't know what was about to happen to him. Or if he did, he was the bravest person I'd ever seen.

“Look at him, dumb as a brute!” Mr. Harkness shouted.

I thought of speaking up about the suspenders, but I lost my chance among the rising calls for action. It was just like Father said—they wouldn't listen. There was no arguing with them now as they spurred each other on.

“Murdering dog!” called out Mr. Breckenridge.

Then he spat on the boy. Louie Sam looked up at that, his eyes fierce with hatred. Mr. Osterman rode up to a giant cedar with a thick branch eight feet off the ground.

“This'll do,” he said. “Bring the rope.”

Mr. Harkness trotted his horse up to Mr. Osterman. Mr. Osterman held his lantern up high to light the way for Mr. Harkness as he swung the rope once, then twice. On the third swing he tossed the rope. The noose dangled over the branch. Everyone fell silent at the sight of it. Mr. Harkness tied off the other end of the rope around the tree so the noose hung high, casting its shadow against the forest, while Mr. Breckenridge got down from his horse and grabbed hold of Louie Sam's right leg, pulling it around so the boy was sitting side saddle. He took a length of rope and bound his feet to match his hands. Then he led Louie Sam's pony under the tree branch.

Mr. Moultray rode up close to the pony. He got hold of the noose and yanked it over the boy's head, pulling the knot around so it was behind his ear. Now that Louie Sam got a close look at Mr. Moultray, he recognized him despite the black smudge and the streak of red war paint across his eyes. For the first and last time that night, Louie Sam spoke.

“Bill Moultray,” he said.

Bill Moultray's eyes went wide with fright, like he'd been found out. The next thing I knew, he slapped the pony's flank, sending him running out from under the boy. And then Louie Sam was up in the air, fighting and struggling against the rope around his neck, even though his hands and feet were bound tight. He looked monstrous and terrified, twisting and writhing as he fought.

“For God's sake!” cried Mr. Hopkins. “Somebody put an end to him!”

Mr. Harkness raised his rifle.

“No shots!” called Mr. Osterman. “The Sumas might hear!”

Finally, Mr. Pratt rode up and raised the butt of his buffalo gun to Louie Sam's head. I looked away, but I couldn't stop my ears from hearing the blunt thud of wood meeting bone. When I looked up, Louie Sam was struggling no more. His body swung from the branch a few times, until at last he was still. His life was gone, but his fear was still there in his face for all to see, plain as day.

Everybody was silent. Then Mr. Harkness let out a whoop. A few others joined him trying to raise a cheer, among them Mr. Osterman and Mr. Breckenridge. Me, I didn't see what there was to cheer about. Mr. Moultray didn't seem to, either.

“Enough,” he said.

He kicked his horse into a trot and headed down the trail toward home, not waiting for the other leaders. I made my way back to Father and Mae. Without a word, Father pulled me up behind him into the saddle. I kept my face buried in his back as he walked Mae past the hanging tree so I wouldn't have to see Louie Sam again. But I saw him in my mind, anyway. I will see him there forever.

Chapter Ten