The times. (Owosso, Mich.) 1882-1897, 1883-07-27


moment the cracking OF uny,. 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 writing, ter
ror-stricken in the grasp of half dozen
men, some of whom, possibly, asked
him only last week for a 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 blackel
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 curiously the BOYS stare ut 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, ont of
which Jim Murphy swindled the widow
of its discoverer. The splendid new
works yoIder caGnot 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 dep" says Big Bill, and for q
moment all is silent. The murderers
coat, hat and boots have 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. He vents
a volley of oaths and imprecations, but
begs no mercy, makes no denial. Jim
Murphy, alias California Reddy," says
Big Bill, 1.-THE vigilantes of Secret Gulch
condemn you to instant death. You
know why, and it's no use to take up
time telling you." 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
song. Now he is to 60 down it again,
in broad daylight, but never to come
back.
The chain is wound up, and now, over
the yawning shaft and its black bottom
OF water, hangs the wretch, between
earth and Heaven, an object to gods
and men. At signal the handles of
the windlass are released from the hands
that hold them and, with the rapidity
of lightning the bucket, with its Shrek
ing human freight, shoots downward to
the very bottom, striking the water with
a loud splash, but never staying its
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:
ITO 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."
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 Phild. Press.