The Lynching of Louie Sam Read Free

the general store and livery stable at The Crossing, a shallow point in the Nooksack River where the Harkness ferry carries folks across. In a way, Mr. Bell was in competition with Mr. Moultray, selling provisions to the settlers, but Mr. Bell was like fly speck compared to Mr. Moultray, whose business is much bigger—supplying freight teams on the Whatcom Trail, the old gold rush route from the fifties that leads from the Washington Territory up to the Fraser River on the Canadian side of the International Border. Mr. Moultray is a big bug hereabouts, not just because he’s rich, but also because he’s been to Olympia many times, hobnobbing with the governor and the like.
    When I saw the pair of them coming, I ran to fetch Mr. Osterman as he had bid me to do. I found him using a long stick to pick through the hot embers that were pretty near all that was left of Mr. Bell’s cabin.
    â€œIt’s the sheriff!” I called.
    He swung around to me fast as could be with a startled look on his face.
    â€œDidn’t your pa ever teach you not to sneak up on a person?” he said.
    By the time I got done apologizing and the two of us had walked back through the thicket to the trail, the sheriff and Mr. Moultray were pulling up their horses. Mr. Moultray is my father’s age, not young and handsome like Mr. Osterman, but he dresses even finer—never to be seen without his gold watch hanging from his waistcoat. Beside Mr. Moultray and Mr. Osterman, Sheriff Leckie looked like a character out of the Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show in his dusty hat and long coat. He talks as slow as he moves, as though he’s worn out from a life spent in the saddle, facing down outlaws and Indians.
    â€œWhat have we got, Bill?” asked Sheriff Leckie, climbing down from his horse.
    â€œLooks like somebody fired a shotgun into Jim Bell’s head,” replied Mr. Osterman.
    Shot! Mr. Moultray looked as shocked as I was.
    â€œWho would do such a thing to a harmless old man?” he asked, dismounting.
    â€œI’ll tell you what,” said Mr. Osterman. “I got a bad feeling I may have put Jim Bell in harm’s way.”
    The sheriff looked up from where he and Mr. Moultray were tying their horses off to nearby trees. His eyes went narrow.
    â€œWhy would you say that?” the sheriff asked.
    Mr. Osterman glanced over at Annie and me with the same look my father gets when he wants to say something to Mam that isn’t for our ears. Sheriff Leckie looked at us, too.
    â€œYou the other Gillies kids?”
    â€œYes, sir,” I said.
    â€œYou’re the one who found the body?”
    I’ll admit I puffed up with pride to have the sheriff of Whatcom County ask me such a question.
    â€œYes, sir,” I replied. “I am.”
    Sheriff Leckie turned to Mr. Osterman.
    â€œLet’s see what we got.”
    The remains of the cabin were smoldering now and the smoke stung my eyes as we stood in the clearing. Sheriff Leckie, Mr. Osterman, and Mr. Moultray rolled Mr. Bell’s body over to get a look at his bashed-in head. They knelt there for a long time in the grass, talking amongst themselves. They made Annie and me keep our distance, so it was hard to make out what they were saying, but I caught bits and pieces.
    â€œâ€¦ crazy old fool wouldn’t keep a gun to defend himself …”
    â€œâ€¦ too trusting … always taking in strays …”
    It was curious the way they blamed Mr. Bell for getting himself murdered. Still, I knew what they were saying. Many a time when we were passing by Mr. Bell’s cabin on the way to or from school, the old man would be waiting out on the trail to offer us children a sweet or a drink of water. But there were things about him—his yellow teeth and sour breath, the smell of his unwashed clothes, the way he laughed like he had some secret joke—that made me make excuses and get my brothers and sister away