# The Californian/Volume 1/Why They Lynched Him

WHY THEY LYNCHED HIM.
Peterson’s luck was, without doubt, the most contemptible luck that ever handicapped a hu- man being in the race of life. An offspring of misfortune, he seemed to have been grappled by Fate, and, in a breast-to-breast struggle with his relentless antagonist, had a “fall” scored against him in every contest. In the language of Mart Keyes, Montezuma’s most successful short-card speculator, “it was safe to copper your stake against Roger Peterson’s bets on every card; for, if you didn’t win, you’d compel the bank to split your pile of checks;” which, being rendered into plain English, meant that whatever venture this man undertook another man might profit by, provided he pursued a course of action diametrically opposed to that of Peterson.
He came to California with the first tide of immigration, and during the most prosperous periods of the early days, by dint of the hardest ​labor, succeeded only in trebling his burdens by earning sufficient to pay the passage of his wife and three children from St. Jo, Missouri, to the wretched little cabin on the slope of Table Mountain. The appearance and character of this woman clearly indicated to the observing denizens of the camp that the inception of Peterson's misfortunes was not of recent date. She possessed the countenance of a satyr, and a temper as quick and violent as that of a maniac. His children—two boys and a girl— were what are now termed "hoodlums;" robbing sluice boxes was their occupation, and stoning Chinamen their pastime. Had it not been for Peterson's constant and unrelenting ill luck, the condition of his domestic affairs might have been different; but, as it was, frightful scenes of conjugal strife were of almost hourly occurrence at the Peterson "shanty." Mrs. Peterson continually cursed her husband for dragging her into his life of misery, and, with a face flaming with insane rage, screamed her imprecations into his ear from morning until night, whenever her poor victim came within sound of her villainous tongue. A single word of remonstrance, or attempted excuse, on the part of her husband, was sufficient to subject him to an unmerciful beating, administered by strong arms, with the first weapon or missile that came to hand, the miserable wretch submitting as one thoroughly cowed and broken spirited. Nine men out of ten in his place would have drowned their sorrows in drink; but Peterson, with heroic fortitude, fought and struggled against his terrible destiny, alone, unaided, and unfriended, striving with the patience of an insect to retrieve his fortunes, if by any possibility of fate he had any to retrieve.
He turned the river at Red Mountain Bar, at the first bend, below the richest placers in the county, and was rewarded for his labor and expense with a single ounce of gold dust, scraped from a broad crevice in the rocky bottom.
"It was a bend in the river," he dolefully remarked; "as pretty a riffle as ever lay in the bottom of a sluice-box, and ought to a caught the tailings of everything that washed down, from Hawkins's Flat to Don Pedro's Bar. Any other man but me 'd cleaned up fifty thousand dollars in the same place. Blast the luck!"
He tunneled for two years in the face of Table Mountain, and made barely enough to pay for his daily bread, leaving his work at last in utter despair, only to see another miner prosecute it a few feet beyond where he quit, and extract twenty thousand dollars from the blue gravel of the auriferous river-bed.
He prospected for quartz, and discovered a lead, that, notwithstanding his most energetic efforts, failed to pay the price of crushing. He lived to see an English Company purchase the property for three hundred thousand dollars, and, after erecting the most expensive works upon it, clear thousands of dollars per month from the superlatively rich rock. It is, perhaps, unnecessary to state that Peterson was not a gainer by this latter transaction, and could only listen, with a dazed, hopeless expression upon his careworn, hard-lined face, to the brilliant reports of the immense yield of his lead; his lead by right of discovery—the fortune of others by right of relocation and purchase.
During all these vicissitudes of fortune, the woman, who was rendering Peterson's apology for a home a veritable hell on earth, ably sustained the entire family by laboring sixteen hours out of the twenty-four, over the wash-tub; for, notwithstanding the ungovernable disposition of this woman, she never shirked her share of the responsibilities attendant upon providing food and clothing for herself, her husband, and her worthless offspring. But cruel fortune would not even allow them this miserable respite. The Frazer River excitement burst like a thunder-clap over their heads, and depopulated the county. Miners, merchants, and prospectors shouldered their tools and joined the rush—the camp had "petered;" even the wash-tub could no longer keep the grim monster, starvation, from the cabin door.
One day, when the clothes-lines in the rear of the Peterson cabin were flaunting scarcely three dozen "pieces" to the autumn breeze— the result of four days' washing—Peterson staggered through the door, and fell heavily upon a stool beside the dirt-begrimed table, his head dropping upon his breast, and a deep groan of despair welling up from his surcharged bosom. His stalwart wife was upon him in an instant, her arms akimbo, and a sneer upon her lips.
"Well, what's gone wrong now?" she exclaimed with vindictive asperity. A groan was the only reply she received.
"Can't ye answer? What's the matter with ye? Hev ye taken to drink? Ain't it enough that I've got to slave my life out from mornin' till night, scrapin' an' scrimpin', to feed yer wuthless ol' carcase? Air ye drunk, ye onbidable wretch?"
Peterson only moaned, and folding his arms upon the table, rested his head upon them, the picture of abject despair. The woman, exasperated beyond her feeble control, dragged the table away from him, and, catching him by the shoulder, threw him to the centre of the room.
"Answer me," she shrieked. "Answer me, or I'll brain ye. What's yer dev'lish shif'lessness. brought us to now?"
​“Gone—gone—all gone,” he moaned, gazing at his wife in a bewildered, half idiotic way.
“What’s gone, ye imp o’ Bedlam?” she hissed between her thin lips.
“The buro—my tools—everything,” he whim- pered.
“What! the buro—yer tools! Gone? An’ where’ve they gone to? Who’s got ’em?”
“T don’t know—they’re stolen, I reckon.”
“Stolen! Nigh onto a hundred dollars o’ my hard earnin’s stolen, eh! An’ who stole ’em? Tell me that, will ye?” The man stood in a half crouching posture, still firmly grasped by his infuriated wife, and his dull eyes, for an instant raised to the malevolent orbs of his cap- tor, gave her the answer he could not utter. With a powerful effort, she dashed his unresist- ing form from her against the cabin wall, scream- ing as she did so:
“Ye don’t know whe stole what I’ve dropped buckets o’ sweat to earn, eh! Look at those hands, ye crawlin’, sneakin’, lazy cur—look at em, an’ tell me who they’ve kep’ from starvin’. What’ve you ever done to keep body an’ soul together! What’ll you ever do? How long d’ye s’pose it’ll last? Look at the wash out on thet line, will ye. Look at it, an’ tell me how
long ther'll be anythin’ left in the camp to wash.
An’ now what’re ye layin’ there fur, like a dead man? Why ain’t ye out huntin’ up the thief? Ye reckon they’re stolen, do ye? Ye don’t know they're stolen. Maybe ye don’t know where they are. Maybe ye hevn’t sold the don- key an’ stuff, an’ salted the coin. Maybe ye don’t intend to git up an’ dust ez soon’s ye pull the wool over my eyes, a tryin’ to make me b’lieve somebody’s s¢o/en what I’ve raked an’ scraped, to let you squander. I reckon ye know mighty well who the thief is, Roger Peterson; an’ I reckon I know the poor, hard-workin’ wom- an thet’s bin robbed.”
These last charges seemed to infuse new life into the wretched man, and he staggered to his feet. He clung to the wall for a moment, and then, dashing his right hand across his brow, slowly left the cabin, followed by the coarse in- vective and cruel sarcasm of his termagant wife.
The next night, just as twilight was deepen- ing into darkness, two men met on a lonely trail leading down from the bluffs of the Stanis- laus River. One of them, a tall, grizzled, des- perate looking individual, was directing the movements of a little donkey, heavily laden with mining tools and provisions. He was evi- dently a prospector, seeking new diggings. The other was also tall and grizzled, but there was less of desperation in his manner than rigid de- termination and moody obstinacy. The meet- ing was evidently wholly unexpected on the part of the prospector, and he appeared some- what apprehensive of a deadly looking double barreled shot-gun, resting, with the muzzles toward him, upon the arm of the man who had so quietly, but firmly, ordered him to halt. The conversation between them was remarka- bly terse, and, aided by the shot-gun argument of the first speaker, resulted in both men taking the back track, over the bluffs, down to the river, and through the chaparral and grease- wood, to the western rim of Table Mountain.
It was not an uncommon procession that passed up the main street of Montezuma in the small hours of the morning—a tall, grizzled man, leading a buro loaded with mining tools, followed by another tall, grizzled man, bearing a shot-gun easily upon his arm, his hand rest- ing lightly upon the hammer. And yet this particular apparition excited first the curiosity, and then the wrath, of a crowd of half drunken roysterers who happened to be reveling in one of the saloons. They gathered around the two men, and by their loud, and violent execrations soon gathered half the inhabitants remaining in the camp. From denunciation of the cow- ardly thief who had stolen Roger Peterson’s hard-earned property, they came to threats; and it was finally proposed to lynch the man there and then, notwithstanding the latter’s protestations that he was innocent of any crime whatever, that he had bought the donkey and tools of a Mexican, and that he was willing to deliver the property to its rightful owner. Nei- ther did Peterson’s sullen refusal to acquiesce in extreme measures produce any effect upon the howling mob. They were willing to “have everything regular,” but as for allowing the thief to escape, or taking him to Sonora for trial by the authorities, that was out of the question. So they carried Sam Randolph to a quiet, out- of-the-way place, near which stood a queer-look- ing pine tree, one branch of which projected from the trunk, like the cross beam of an old- fashioned gibbet. They tried him by lantern light, they convicted him just as the first streaks of rosy dawn were creeping over the blue ridges of the high Sierra, and they condemned him to the awful death of strangulation as the first ray of sunlight gilded the shriveled bark of the pine-tree gallows. It was breakfast time when the rope was knotted about his neck, and the musical warble of a meadow-lark fluttering in a neighboring brush fence mingled with the order: “Take hold of that rope. All hands now—haul away.” It was rude justice, swift no doubt, but scarcely as sure as those who were so earnest in meting it out intended it should be.
The Sheriff of the county, in after years, loved to dwell upon what he considered the best day’s ​work he ever accomplished—the exploit par excellence of official duty performed under the most adverse circumstances: how, at precisely a quarter to five o’clock, on the morning of a certain day, of a certain month, in a certain year, he was awakened by a breathless messen- ger from the camp of Montezuma, announcing that the lawless citizens of that locality were about to lynch a horse-thief ; how, without wait- ing to inquire the particulars, and only long enough to gather from the saloons, still open at that time of the morning, a sufficiently resolute posse, and to mount them on the first animals that came to hand, he dashed away at a break- neck pace over the mountain road connecting the county seat with the law defying camp of Montezuma; how he arrived upon the scene just as the struggling wretch was being lifted from the ground toward the branch of a pine tree, his elevation being materially assisted by a hundred pairs of muscular arms; how at the head of three or four men he charged the mob, cut the rope, threw the insensible form of the half hanged man across the pommel of his sad- dle, and, pistol in hand, fought his way out of the yelling mob and brought his prisoner to the county jail. This was the Sheriff’s story, and, making allowance for a few pardonable exaggerations, was in the main correct.
The trial of Sam Randolph was not une cause célébre by any means. It was simply a plain case of grand larceny; and the sentence of five years in the State Prison, which he received with the same stoical indifference that charac- terized him when the court of the people con- demned him to death, excited no interest what- ever in the mind of the community. Nothing less than a conviction for stage robbery ever did affect the Californians of that day to any great extent. On his way to his cell after sen- tence had been passed upon him, Randolph chanced to meet Peterson, his accuser, stand- ing listlessly in the doorway, and bestowed upon him a vindictively malevolent scowl of the deadliest hatred. The passing frown of the man who had attempted to despoil him pro- duced no other effect upon Peterson, however, than to cause him to turn slowly, and, with a vacant stare from his dull eyes in the direction of the heavily ironed prisoner, to remark in an undertone, to himself:
“Maybe my luck’ll turn now. I’ve made the riffle on one deal anyhow.”
Peterson’s return to his home under the rim of Table Mountain was far from being tri- umphal in its character, for he was met at the threshold of the cabin by his wife, whc heaped an avalanche of reproaches and complaints upon him. She pointed to the depleted clothesline, and in choice vituperation, directed at mankind generally, informed her shrinking hus- band that fifty more miners had shaken the dust of Montezuma from their feet and turned their eager faces to the northward—another company recruited for the grand army already on the march to the gold fields of Frazer River.
“S’pose I pack up an’ go, too,” he muttered, a slight raising of the corners of his mouth in- dicating the inward spark of joy that had be- gun to glow in the dead ashes of his heart at the thought of gaining relief from the intoler- able clangor of a virago’s bitter tongue.
“Ye'd go, would ye? An’ leave me to tug, an’ pull, an’ haul, to support yer three brats. You're a fine husband an’ father, ain’t ye? You ought to be ashamed o’ yerself. But what’s the use? Ye never was any account anyhow, an’ I’ve hed to wear myself out gettin’ bread an’ meat enough to stuff down yer mis’able throat, an’ thet’s all the thanks I git.”
“T reckon that'll keep you till I git back, won't it?” As Peterson said this, he threw a heavy buckskin purse on the table.
“Where'd ye git thet?” inquired his wife, eye- ing first her husband, and then the purse.
“Borrered it.”
“Who from?”
“A friend o’ mine.”
“What fur?”
“T thought maybe you’d need it while I was gone.”
“Gone! An’ so ye’d settled on goin’ afore ye’d quit doin’ nothin, eh.”
“They say there’s better diggin’s up north— they can’t be worse’n they are here. Maybe my luck’s turned.”
“Yer luck!” the woman sneered. “Yer luck! Yer a born ijit, Roger Peterson. Talk about luck—a man talk about luck. How much is ther in that sack?” she suddenly asked, picking up the purse.
“Two hundred—about.”
“All right. I'll make it go ez fur ez I ken. I'll work my finger-ends off to keep yer young uns till ye git back. An’ mind ye, Roger Peter- son, don’t you come loafin’ round here, till ye ken support those yer bound to support ef ye’d only do half yer duty. Now, vamose—git!”
The woman extended her arm, and with her index finger pointed to the door. The man obeyed the command, only pausing an instant on the threshold, to direct one of his dull, cowed glances at the wife who thus imperatively ban- ished him from his own house—such a glance as “dumb, driven cattle” turn toward their taskmasters.
And so Roger Peterson, the chosen favorite of misfortune, joined the “rush” fer Frazer ​River, neither hoping for prospective wealth, nor fearing disappointment, and without a single regret at leaving a wife and family behind him. The finger of his destiny, like the finger of that terrible woman, pointed the way, and he fol- lowed it unquestioningly, and without a single resolution for good or for evil.
Peterson’s career in the Frazer River dig- gings was a counterpart of that at Montezuma. He saw fortunes slip away from him after he had almost laid his hands upon them. He labored with all his strength within a hundred feet of men who were carrying away their thou- sands, and never “struck a color.” To use his own sad commentary, “his luck hadn’t turned worth a cent.” But in this case Peterson was no worse off than thousands of others, who, with high hopes and brilliant expectations, had sought the new diggings, for the Frazer River excitement stands out to-day, in the history of the Pacific Coast, as the most disastrous fever that ever sapped the ambition of a Californian treasure seeker. Peterson, however, had hoped
for nothing, and was not surprised at the reali- zation of his hopes.
In the Cariboo excitement Peterson was one of the first on the ground, to delve, and toil, and struggle, and accomplish nothing—as usual.
Then he drifted hither and thither, like flotsam on the heaving tide; a week in this camp, a month in that, ever toiling, never hoping, and barely obtaining, by his most gigantic efforts, a scant subsistence—charity oftentimes supplying what energy, perseverance, and obstinate per- sistence failed to provide. It was the “grim irony of fate,” and this poor mortal could do no more than fight his hopeless battle, until death should step in and put an end to the struggle.
When the great Washoe excitement broke out, a world was startled. 1: produced an effect second only to that of the first gold discoveries in California. Like the California fever, it res- cued a wilderness from its primitive state, and, while laying the basis for colossal private fort- unes, added another State to the Union. It carried in its train fortune and misfortune, joy and misery, bright hopes and dark despair. Here again Peterson toiled and struggled, never hoping, never despairing. Having reached his leaden mean, he could not hope, and in his dreary philosophy could perceive no use in de- spairing. Invariably failing to accomplish any- thing as a prospector, or independent miner, he sought employment as a teamster, mine hand, or ordinary laborer, and by this means secured sufficient to sustain life.
He had, after a long day’s struggle through the alkali sands of Esmeralda, brought his team of sixteen mules to a corral on the outskirts of
Aurora, at that time the most flourishing camp of south-western Nevada, and after attending to the necessary duties of feeding and stabling his animals, repaired to a hotel for rest and refreshment. While seated in front of the hotel, waiting for the supper-bell to ring, he was accosted by a young man clad in the garb of a mountaineer.
“Hullo, George! On the road again, I see.”
“Yes, I’m on the road again,” answered Peter- son ; “but I reckon you’re mistaken in yer man, stranger. My name’s Peterson— Roger Peter- son.”
The man looked at him a moment, and then burst into a loud laugh.
“Well, that’s purty good, George— Peterson’s good. How many names have you got, any- how, George?”
“But I tell ye my name’s not George,” per- sisted Peterson.
“Oh, no, of course not. Stick to it, George, but don’t think you can throw off that way on your friends—your pals, George—because it won't do; it’s played out.”
“Have it yer own way, my friend. George it is, then; one name’s as good’s another,” an- swered Peterson, with characteristic resigna- tion to this new freak of his old enemy, Fate.
“Now you talk,” replied the mountaineer, throwing himself into a chair beside Peterson. There was a pause in the conversation, during which the stranger drew a pinch of tobacco and a brown paper from his vest pocket, and rolled a cigarette. After he had lighted the little roll, he leaned over to the man whom he had ad- dressed as “George,” and in a low voice in- quired :
“Which of the gang did that little job at Taylor’s last Monday?”
“T don’t understand ye, stranger.”
“Of course ye don’t, George; it’s natural you shouldn’t understand me. You've got your rea- sons for not understanding me, I expect. I'll have to put it a little plainer. Which one of the gang robbed the Carson stage at Taylor’s Station?”
“Robbed the stage!” Peterson uttered the words slowly, and with one of those forlorn glances so common to him.
“Yes, robbed the stage,” repeated the young man; “everybody says it was ‘Chaparral George’s’ gang that did the work, and if you didn’t do the job yourself, you know who did.”
“T never robbed a stage in my life.”
“T know you never did,” answered the stran- ger, chuckling; “but as there’s a heavy reward out for your capture, I’d advise you to keep shady till it blows over. Adios,” and before Peterson could reply the man had sauntered ​away. A moment after, the supper-bell rang, and he entered the hotel pondering upon the strange accusation of the mountaineer, little dreaming that the first strand of a terrible rope had been twisted for his neck; that from this period in his struggle with his destiny, the diab- olism of human machinations, combined with the natural results of a life fraught with misfort- une, conspired to crowd him from time to eter- nity.
That night, about half past ten o’clock, Peter- son was aroused from a troubled slumber, and ordered by a gruff voice to arise and dress him- self. As soon as his eyes became accustomed to the glare of two bull’s-eye lanterns, he ob- served, standing at his bedside, three broad- shouldered men, wearing slouch hats and over- coats, and holding heavy navy revolvers in their hands.
“Come, George, the game’s up. Get out ’o that, an’ mighty lively, too, or we'll haul you out,” remarked the foremost of the invaders.
“What’s the matter?—what’ve I done?” asked Peterson, in a half plaintive tone.
“T guess you know what you’re wanted for,” answered the spokesman; “but so’s there won’t be any mistake, I’ll inform you that I’m the Dep- uty Sheriff of Esmeralda County; you’re ‘Chap- arral George’ (at least, that’s our information), and you’re wanted for stage robbery. There’s the warrant. Shall I read it?” and the Deputy Sheriff drew a folded paper from his pocket and proceeded to open it.
“You needn’t trouble yerself,” answered Pe- terson, as he dressed himself; “if I’m ‘Chap- arral George,’ it’s all right; if I ain’t, it’s all right.”
“T guess it is,” was the laconic reply of the officer.
The remainder of the night was passed by Peterson in the town jail, and the next morn- ing he was taken before a Justice of the Peace to answer a charge of robbery. He had no dif- ficulty in proving, by two teamsters in Aurora, that he had made two trips from Carson as a freighter, and the keeper of the hotel produced his register to show that he had always signed as Roger Peterson. But this was not proof sufficient to satisfy the vigilant authorities of Esmeralda, and he was remanded to the custo- dy of the Sheriff until more positive evidence could be obtained from Carson. Two days afterward the necessary depositions were re- ceived: one from the freight agent stating that at the time of the robbery Peterson was in Car- son, and others making affidavit that Peterson was, “to the best of their knowledge and belief,” the right name of the prisoner. Peterson was accordingly discharged from custody; but when he entered the corral, where he had left his team, he found another teamster “hitching up.” A few inquiries elicited the facts, that although he was not George Barnwell, alias “Chaparral George,” the stage robber and desperado, yet, by being arrested as that individual, a taint naturally rested upon him, which precluded his employment in the responsible occupation of a freight teamster. Valuable packages were oft- entimes smuggled into the teams, without the knowledge of anybody except the forwarding agent and the teamster. Another “fall” had been scored for Fate, and Peterson picked him- self up and prepared for another tussle. Ob- serving that he was regarded with suspicion in Aurora, he counted his scanty coin, calculated how long it would last him, and began his jour- ney to Mammoth City. It was a long, weary tramp, but he plodded on with dogged deter- mination, and finally reached his destination, footsore and worn out. Almost the first man he met accosted him familiarly as “George,” and, with a sly wink, asked him where he had left the rest of the gang. For the first time in the memory of man, Peterson became imbued with a combative spirit. He knocked the man down, and kicked him until a crowd gathered and dragged him off. The fact that a prison cell circumscribed the freedom of his move- ments shortly after the affray with the stranger did not disturb the sullen equanimity of Peter- son’s mind, and when Henry Fogle, the wiliest lawyer on the western frontier, entered his apartment, he took no more notice of him than if it had been his jailer bearing his evening meal. He simply turned his dull, expression- less eyes upon the cynical countenance of the attorney at law, and then began mentally enu- merating the cracks and crevices in the wall be- side him.
“And this is the man they call ‘Chaparral George.’” There was an implied sneer in the lawyer’s tone, although the words themselves were thoroughly commonplace.
Peterson made no reply.
“Peterson.” Fogle assumed the persuasive method as being best adapted to the condition of the prisoner.
“That’s me. Whatd’ ye want?” Peterson’s reply indicated that he regarded his visitor with the most perfect indifference.
“You don’t want to lie in a place like this fifteen or twenty years, do you?” The lawyer seated himself beside the prisoner, and twirled his fingers, as if the consummation he had con- jectured was a foregone conclusion.
“Don’t expect to lay here that long,” answer- ed Peterson, still apparently counting the cracks and crevices.
​"You'll make the riffle if you're 'Chapparal George,' sure."
"Maybe, but I reckon I ken prove my record purty clear." Peterson did not cease to contemplate the cracks and crevices.
"It's a two to one bet that you won't do anything of the kind."
"Why?"
"Because, in the first place, nobody in Mammoth City ever saw 'Chapparal George,' and in the second place, you answer the description exactly. Besides, there are parties here who have an interest in sending you to the State prison."
For the first time since the interview began Peterson manifested interest in the conversation. He ceased his listless contemplation of the cracks and crevices in the jail wall, and turned toward the lawyer.
"Who wants me sent to State's Prison?" he asked.
"It don't make any difference. I tell you that it is the wish of certain parties in this locality that you be consigned to a dungeon-to hard labor-somewhere where you won't interfere with them. Do you realize your position?"
"If that's the case, I reckon I'm in a bad box, ain't I?"
"Not so bad but what it will be easy for me to save you," was the confident reply of the lawyer; "provided, of course, that you will be guided by me throughout. Is it a bargain?"
"I reckon it'll hev to be," answered Peterson, regarding the shrewd face of his visitor with a slight degree of interest, now that he had assumed the rôle of liberator.
"All right, then; and now as regards my fee—how much money have you got?"
"Forty dollars."
"Well, I won't be hard on you, seeing that you've such a hard row to hoe, and that you will need a little money for necessary expenses. I guess thirty dollars will be sufficient. Is it agreed?"
"Anything's agreeable to me," was Peterson's characteristic reply.
"All right. Now, you're my client; and as my client, I shall expect you to be guided entirely by me. Your liberty, and perhaps your life, depends upon the most implicit confidence on your part. The moment you refuse to be guided by my advice, I throw up the case. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
Fogle then left the jail, and was immediately engaged, heart and soul, in arranging a mysterious combination, which he intended should result in the liberation of his client from the restraints of the law. The first movement was singularly paradoxical as regards the securing of Peterson's release. It was nothing more nor less than a plea of guilty of assault and battery, and the Justice of the Peace considered that he had no course to pursue but to impose a sentence of two hundred dollars fine, or one hundred days' imprisonment, the assault having been of an aggravated character. The prisoner had scarcely been remanded to the custody of the Sheriff, when, through one of Fogle's combinations, the committing magistrate received an anonymous letter, stating that the prisoner was a dangerous criminal, known as "Chaparral George," a stage robber, and a more than suspected murderer. The letter pointed out the fact that an effort was being made to quietly gather proof against him, and that these efforts would be frustrated if the prisoner paid his fine, as he was more than likely to do, and thereby escape justice. The magistrate read this letter carefully, two or three times, and a light dawned upon him. He had, in his innocence of the character of the man whom he had sentenced, given a most desperate criminal an opportunity of evading the penalty of his misdeeds, and there was but one course for him, as a representative of justice, to pursue. He would recall the prisoner, and revoke the fine, leaving him under sentence of imprisonment for one hundred days, during which time the necessary proofs identifying him as "Chaparral George" could be obtained. Decision on the part of this astute officer of the law was equivalent to prompt action, and within half an hour after the letter had been received, Peterson stood before the bar of justice receiving a second sentence of one hundred days' imprisonment, without the alternative of a fine. These little cogs in Fogle's combination must have worked to a charm, for that keen practitioner chuckled and grinned, with sardonic glee, as he drew up the papers in the habeas corpus case of Roger Peterson, "unlawfully restrained of his liberty, and illegally detained by the Sheriff of Mono County, State of California." That afternoon, in the chambers of the Judge of the County Court, there was held a quiet little legal séance, at which Henry Fogle, attorney at law, submitted to his Honor that it was "an infringement of the constitutional privileges of a citizen of the United States, and wholly derogatory to every legal principle, to impose two sentences for one offense. Moreover, the prisoner had passed out of the jurisdiction of the Court when he was remanded to the custody of the Sheriff, and the committing magistrate had as much right to drag a citizen into his Court from the public streets as he had to recall the prisoner after he ​had begun the service of his sentence.” This was the view held by his Honor, and he ordered the prisoner discharged from custody forthwith. Henry Fogle was justly famous for his knowl- edge of the loop-holes of justice, and his readi- ness in taking advantage of them.
Peterson, after his discharge, wandered about town in an aimless sort of way, occasionally pausing and drawing his hand across his brow, as if that action would clear up the doubt and mystery surrounding the late events of which he had been the involuntary victim—striving, without knowing, to break the web that was be- ing woven around him. While standing in the shadow of a deserted building, he was ap- proached by a suspicious looking man, roughly dressed, and apparently anxious to escape ob- servation. The man walked by him, and then suddenly turned, and, in a hurried whisper, in- formed him that he was a friend, that a move- ment was on foot in the town to redrrest him as “Chaparral George,” and perhaps hang him. He had been sent by Fogle, he said, to warn him, and if he would hurry to the dead pine, on the Bridgeport trail, he would find a mustang tethered there, which he would do well to mount and cross the mountains as rapidly as the ani- mal could carry him. Peterson listened like a man in a dream, gazing at the messenger in a semi-stupor until he had concluded. Then, without a word in reply, as if obeying an im- perative command, he took the Bridgeport trail, and finding the horse as indicated, mounted it, and rode into the hills.
Two days after, as evening was falling, Peter- son, travel-stained and weary, rode into Monte- zuma. He passed through the town, and up the narrow pathway to a deserted cabin under the ridge of Table Mountain. A single glance revealed the condition of the hut, but it did not change Peterson’s purpose of alighting and en- tering. He stood for a moment in the centre of the larger apartment, memories of the past— the miserable past—rising before him like the grim spectres of his dead hopes and smothered ambitions. The clatter of hoofs outside aroused him, and a voice, exclaiming, “That’s the horse, Buck,” drew him to the door. Two men were dismounting, and while one of them secured Peterson’s horse, the other drew a six-shooter and leveled it at Roger.
“Throw up your hands, George; if you move T'll let daylight through you.” There was no gainsaying the command, and Peterson obeyed mechanically.
“Where'd you get that droncho?” asked the
man with the pistol, advancing toward the door.
“In Mammoth City. I s’pose you're the owner, ain’t ye?” answered Peterson.
“Not exactly, but as it’s stolen property, and I’m a Deputy Sheriff, I suppose it’s my property in trust for the rightful owner. The horse belongs in Montezuma, and it ain’t saying much for your cuteness that you’ve run your neck into” the halter, coming back to where it was stolen, and riding boldly through the town on the plun- der. Fetch those irons here, Jack.” The offi- cer by this time stood beside Peterson, with his pistol still leveled; in fact, he seemed to regard his prisoner with so much consideration that he did not lower his weapon until the man address- ed as “Jack” had securely handcuffed his pris- oner.
“I guess I can manage him now, Jack. I'll take him to the jail, and you can follow after with the horses ;” saying which, “Buck” direct- ed his prisoner to march ahead. On the way down the trail the Deputy Sheriff attempted to “pump” his prisoner, but Peterson replied only in monosyllables, and this reticence fully con- firmed the officer in his supposition that he had made an important capture—that he was about to cage the notorious “Chaparral George,” the great desperado of the Sierra. As for Peter- son, this new scene in his life-drama produced no very startling effect upon an intellect already thoroughly dulled by ever recurring calamities, and the constant, but vain, effort to conceive why he, an obscure and unknown member of society, should be thus set up as a target for the shafts of misfortune. Even after he was thrust into the gloomy cell of the town-jail he failed to realize, or even to care particularly, what the future might have in store for him.
Meantime, the news spread far and wide that the murderous bandit, “Chaparral George,” had been captured, and an excited crowd soon gathered in front of the post-office, discussing the chances of his “swinging” at an early date.
“Swing!” exclaimed a tall, bearded pros- pector. “Not much.. The rope ain’t twisted thet’ll swing George Barnwell. Why, boys, he’s as slippery as a Greaser horse-thief, and a derned sight luckier. Look at him over in Au- rora; didn’t he slip through there on an alibi? And not three days ago, in Mammoth City, he and that_other old thief, Fogle, put up a habeas corpus job, and he got clear as slick as oil, when they thought they had him dead in the door. Hang! No, sir. ‘Chaparral George’ knows a trick worth two of that, you bet. It’s two to one that he plays the Peterson game on you, and walks the streets of Montezuma a free man in twenty-four hours. He says his name’s Roger Peterson, and that he lived here several years ago.”
“T knew Peterson when he lived here,” re- marked one of the crowd; “he went away dur​ing the Frazer River excitement, and left a wife and three children behind him.”
“What became of his wife?” asked the first speaker.
“She went back to Missouri,” answered anoth- er citizen, edging forward, “and my wife got a letter from her a week ago, saying she and Pe- terson were together again and doing first-rate. Peterson did have a rough time of it, you bet, when he was here. I hope, for his sake, her temper’s something better’n it was a few years back.”
This forgery (for the letter was a bogus one) became a strand in the rope, and the last com- bination against the luckless victim of fate was as keenly diabolical as the first.
“Well, that ain’t the question,” said the tall man, facing the crowd; “the real question is, whether such a slippery customer as ‘Chaparral George’ is to be let loose on the community again. If he’s left to the law, he'll escape as sure’s you're all standing there, and if robbers and murderers are to be let go free, on one pre- tense and another, I think it’s about time for honest men to emigrate. Ain’t I right?”
There was an almost unanimous cry of “You bet,” and the crowd gathered closer about the speaker.
“*Tain’t the way it used to be,” resumed this self-constituted Brutus of Montezuma. “In the early days there wasn’t so much law, and a blamed sight more justice. If this town had any sand, or really wanted to see justice done, ‘Chaparral George’ wouldn’t last through the night.”
“An’ how d’ye know we hevn’t the sand?” in- quired a rough looking man on the outskirts of the crowd. “How d’ye know we don’t want to see justice done?”
“I don’t say so—direct. But the crowd that hangs back don’t hang men. There’s plain talk; but a man with half an eye can see that it’s the only kind of talk that'll bring honest men to their senses.”
For an instant there was a deathlike still- ness in that crowd, and every man looked at his neighbor. The decision as expressed by those side glances was unanimous, and sealed the doom of the man who was charged with the crimes of “Chaparral George,” as effectually as if the hangman’s rope was already around his neck. Very little more was said, and the crowd quietly dispersed, each man well know- ing that when they again assembled it would be for a terrible purpose.
The jail where Peterson was confined had formerly been used as a warehouse and was built of brick, the windows being heavily barred and further secured by thick sheet-iron shutters.
The main entrance in front was also strongly secured, the iron doors being double-locked and cross - barred, but presenting the easiest means of admission for an assaulting party. It was to this door that a crowd of about fifty masked men came at midnight of the day on which Peterson was arrested, and that unfortunate man was aroused from his slumber by the heavy knocking of the leader of the mob. He heard the Deputy Sheriff ask what was wanted, and the gruff reply of the leader demanding the keys of the jail. The officer refused the request, and advised the men to desist and let the law take its course.
“We'll give you three minutes to pass out that key and unbar the door,” answered the leader.
“You'll waste your time, then,” was the w/¢z- matum of the jailer.
A silence, that weighed like lead upon the heart of the hapless prisoner, was broken pres- ently by a horribly ominous crash. An instant’s interval, and then another, followed immediate- ly by still another. It was the reverberation of iron actively wielded by a pair of strong arms against iron, inert but firm—a sixteen-pound sledge beating remorselessly upon the lock of the jaildoor. The steady clanging of the sledge echoed through the building and came to the ears of Peterson like a death-knell, filling his soul at first with a nameless horror, all the more terrible as he realized that he could not by any possible chance escape. Then, as he lay there listening to the regular beating of that metallic death-drum, a strange calm came over him—a resignation such as men, bereft of every hope, sustain their starved ambition upon. His whole miserable life passed in review before him, and, comparing his unfortunate career with what he had, in his earlier years, regarded as the ultimate reward of men who had lived a life as nearly approaching rectitude as their knowledge of good and evil would allow, he did not regret the grave possibilities instinctive- ly dawning upon his mind, that this night was to be his last on earth. And still that relent- less hammer fell with a ceaseless purpose upon the lock of the jail door; but not more relent- less than the weight of misfortune that had con- tinually beaten him back whenever he strove with superhuman energy to press forward in the race of life.
Clang—crash! Clang—crash!
How monotonous the awful sounds became as they were repeated at quick intervals, one echo scarcely dying away before another was born! And should he, Roger Peterson, a mere human foot-ball, kicked and buffeted through life as he had been, seek to further prolong ​such an ill starred existence? Certainly not. And what did it matter how the final oblivion of death came to drown the never ceasing sor- rows that were dragging him by the very heart- strings into the grave? Better a quick, pain- less transit from a miserable existence, than weeks, months, perhaps years, of wretched men- tal suffering, which must eventually lead, by a thorny path, to the same goal. The stake at issue was not worth the striving for. Having thus balanced accounts on his own books, Pe- terson was prepared to stare his fate square in the face, and submit without a murmur to what he could not now regard otherwise than inevit- able.
A dull thud announced to the listening man that the main fastening had given way. He wondered, in his impractical way, why the offi- cer of the law in charge of the prison did not assert the majesty of the law, and save an inno- cent man from the bloodthirsty clutches of the mob, forgetting, in the suspense of the moment, that the days of official heroism had long since passed away. Again the metallic clangor of iron against iron resounded. This time they were attacking the hinges. Presently the noise of the sledge-hammer ceased, and he could hear a grating sound as if something was being pried open. Finally, there was a ringing clat- ter, and the sound of muffled voices. The door had been forced open at last, and the crowd had dashed in upon the unresisting Deputy Sheriff. A rush of many feet along the corri- dor, and a key was turned in the lock of his cell door.
“Stand back, boys.
If he resists, I’ll stand the brunt, and you can strike him down when
he comes out.” The words were uttered in a brutal tone, and as Peterson arose to his feet the door was flung open, and the cell flooded with a blaze of light from a dozen lanterns in the hands of as many men, whose faces were concealed by hideous black masks.
“Stand back—stand back, I say!” shouted the same voice. “I'll attend to him if he makes a break.”
The mob obeyed, and a tall, masked vigilante entered the cell, and by the glare of the lantern he carried in one hand revealed the long-revolv- er which he grasped in the other. His eyes sparkled fiendishly through the holes of his mask, and a sneering laugh came from between his lips as he contemplated the resigned ex- pression on the other’s face. Placing the lan- tern on the floor he stepped close to the pris- oner, and, raising the mask, looked him fair in the face, with an expression of countenance as nearly devilish as anything human ever be- comes. Peterson recoiled. “My God!” he ex- claimed ; “it’s Sam Randolph.”
“Yes, it’s Sam Randolph,” sneered the other, “alias ‘Chaparral George,’ and before the sun rises on another day, Roger Peterson will know how it feels to be hanged by the neck until he’s dead. There’s a pine tree out here a ways that I reckon’ll bear riper fruit to-night than it did on a certain other night some years ago.”
Peterson simply folded his arms, fully pre- pared for the result. He had not long to wait. Randolph, with a sudden movement of his foot, shattered the lantern and extinguished ‘it, at the same instant firing his revolver, and, spring- ing backward as if he had been suddenly at- tacked, called upon the crowd to assist him to bind and gag the doomed man. Like a pack of hungry hounds they sprang upon their prey, and, obeying the orders of their leader, bore their victim out into the night to his death.
The warm morning sunlight poured its wealth of golden rays over that pine-tree gallows and its awful burden. Roger Peterson’s Nemesis had overtaken him at last, and although the ul- timate death of the immediate instrument of remorseless fate cleared the unfortunate man of all wrong imputed to him, and caused many a heart to regret his terrible end, yet the awful work being accomplished, there was no recall, and the low mound beneath the shadow of Table Mountain must hold its tenant, until the final balancing of all accounts shall award jus- tice to a man all sinned against and seldom sinning.
E. H. CLOUGH.