The Iola register. [volume] (Iola, Allen County, Kansas) 1875-1902, 1883-05-11
A Frontier Lynching.

Vic IcaNHHSS VI HIS UuTly puINcl Os-
Exchange.
A Frontier Lynching.
Did you ever see a lynching? A
| genuine Joaquin Miller sensation,
stripped of its unreal mountains, i'm
possible trees and unimaginable rocks,
and done out in the 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 postoffice, 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 and
see 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, braces blearily up in doorway
and calmly, even smilingly, regards
the men who are about to take the law
into their own hands. They mount the
f;ll and surround the palisades which
fence in the pen where three murderers
and many thieves and "bums'' are con.
fined.
One corner of the Jail is honored by 8
double row of slabs along its sides and
around this corner cluster most of the
men, according to their preconcerted
plan, while the ringleaders go 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 after
before. It's dangerous game but the
vigilantes play to win at all hazards.
Convinced of the firmness of Fish'a
purpose, they leave him, gather once
more around 'Murderer's 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 a terrible accom-
paniment for the short, sharp blows of
deity welded axes cutting into Jim
Murphy's cell.
In ten minutes he is out writhing,
terror-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
releasing his other prisoners, and has
20 time now to check the mob even if
he could. But can this wretched,
dwarfed, carrot-haired, sandy-bearded
and altogether villainous- looking 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 curiously the boys stare at him
50 they hurry him along to the old
shaft on the hill where once stood the
windlass and hoist of the Mory mine,
out of which Jim Murphy swindled the
widow of its discoverer. The splendid
new works yonder cannot help theis
miserable 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 sulleu
water forty feet below, and 200 pound
weight is easily and quickly slipped in
to the bucket without Murphy's seeing
it.
"Have you got anything to say before
you die?" says Big Bill, and for a mo-
ment all is silent. The murderer's
coat, hat and boots have been stripped
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 impreca-
tons, but begs no mercy, makes no
denial. Jim Murphy, alias California
Reddy," says Big Bill, 'the vigilantes
of Secret Gulch condemn you to in
slant death. You know why, and it's
no use to take up time telling you"
Half dozen hands bind the still strug-
Cling 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 Rowand's
widow, to see what it had at the bot
tom, and the next day he bought its
riches from the widow for song.
Now he is to go 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 shrieking 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 vigilantes'
sentence carried out. The remains of
the gambler king of Secret Gulch, at
this writing, hang from the big tele-
graph pole in the Placer mines. No
body is likely to cut it down soon, for on
its breast is pinned a notice, which
reads as follows:
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 1911"
Six hours have elapsed since the
posting of this notice, which now adorns
the church door and the saloon screen
alike. The trails down the gulches and
southwark to Idaho are already lined
with swift fleeing men, some of whom
have diamonds and broadcloth, but no
hats.-Cor. Philadelphia Press.
Eoffinr EvaD