The Democratic press. [volume] (Ravenna, O. [Ohio]) 1868-1901, 1883-06-07
a Frontier LYnchlng.

uine Joaquin Miller sensation, stripped
OF its unreal mountains, impossible
trees, and unimaginable rocks, and done
out in tho bare browns and reds of
sullen spring morning in the barren,
desolate gorges of the Rockies? Just
follow the crowd as it gathers at the
postotfice, and, at last, in silence and
seriousness, moves slowly over the hill
to the jail. Everybody knows there is
death in the air.
The ''solid citizens stand at the
doors of their respective saloons andsee
the ''mob" go by, mob in which are
, their sons and brothers. A drunken
Justice of the Peace, old Squire O Mara,
who tried to kill himself last week, hrac-
es blearily up iii a doorway, and calm
ly, even smilingly, regards the men who
are about to take the law into their own
hands.
One corner of the jail is honored by
double row of slabs along its sides, and
around this corner cluster most of the
men, according to their preconcerted
plan, while the ringleaders 90 around
to the wicket to interview Jailer Fish.
They know the answer they will get,
for Jim Fish is true as steel, and tells
them they'll get his prisoners aftcl
they've gotten the best of him, and not
before. It's dangerous game, but the
vigilantes play to win at all hazards.
Convinced of tho firmness of Fish's pur-
pose, they leave him, gather once more
around Murderer 5 Corner" and in a
moment the cracking of tiny, creeping
flames is heard, heavy smoke stiles the
wretched prisoners, and their cries and
shouts form terrible accompaniment
for the short, sharp blows of deity
welded axes cutting into Jim Murphy's
cell.
In ten inmates he is out writhing, ter
ror-stricken in the grasp of half dozen
him only last week for 'job." The
jailer is forced to busy himself in re-
leasing his other prisoners, and has no
time now to check the mob even if he
could. But can this wretched, dwarfed,
carrot-haired, sandy-bearded and alto
gether Misunderstanding ruffian be the
dapper, black-browed gambler, whose
broadcloth was wont to be no blacker
and smoother than his own locks? The
Transformation has indeed come, and
the king of Secret Gulch stands revealed
as the tramp who killed the Frenchman
on Cut-Throat Flat,
How curiouslv the boys stare at him
as they hurry him along to the old shaft
on the hill where once stood the wind
lass and hoist of the Mory mine, out OF
which Jim Murphy swindled the widow
of its diScOverer. The splendid new
works yonder cannot help their miser-
able owner now. for it is at the mouth
of the deserted shaft that he meets his
fate. The windlass chain still holds the
bucket over the sullen water forty feet
below, and 200 pound weight is easily
and quickly slipped into the bucket
without Murphy.'s seeing it.
"Have you got anything to say be-
fore you diea" says Big Bill, and for a
moment all is silent. The murderer g
coat, hat and boots havo been stripped
from him for the first time since he
went to prison, three weeks ago. His
small greenish eyes look eagerly about
for chance to escape, but two six
shooters stare him in the face. Hevents
volley of oaths and imprecations, but
begs no mercy, makes no denial. Jim
Murphy, alias California Reddy," says
Big Bill, 'the vigilantes of Secret Gulch
condemn you to instant death. You
know why, and it's no use to take up
time telling vou.' Half dozen hands
bind the still struggling wretch to the
bucket, in which he is forcibly seated.
Years ago he went down this shaft at
| night, secretly, when it belonged to
John Rowan's widow, to see what it
had at the bottom; and the next day he
| bought its riches from the widow for q
song. Now he is to 90 down it again,
in broad daylight, but never to come
| back.
The chain is wound up, aud now, ovel
| the yaWning shaft and its black bottom
| of water, hangs the wretch, between
earth and Heaven, on object to gods
and men. At signal the handles OF
| the windlass arc released from the hands
| that hold them and, with the rapidty
of lightning the bucket, with its shrick-
| ing human freight, shoots downward to
the very bottom, striking the water with
p loud splash, but never staying it's
headlong course until the very bedrock
below is reached.
After ten minutes the dripping, dis
tOrted, Shiny body is hoisted to the sur
face and the remainder of the vigil
antes' sentence carried out. The re-
mains of the gambler king of Secret
Gulch, at this writing, hang from the
big telegraph pole in the Placer mines.
! Nobody is likely to cut it down soon,
for on its breast is pinned a notice,
which reads as follows:
'"To all the thugs, thieves, cut-throats,
horse-thieves and disreputable loafers
of Secret Gulch: You are hereby given
six hours to leave the camp, and warned
by the example of Jim Murphy. We
mean business, and shall execute the
commands of 3-7-77." ts.
Six hours have elapsed since the post
ing of this notice, which now adorn the
church door and saloon screen alike.
The trails down the gulches and south
ward to Idaho, are already lined with
swift fleeing men, some of whom have
diamonds and broadcloth, but no hats.
Cor. Phiia. Press.