The Lynching of Louie Sam Read Free Page A

as fast as I could.
    I listened some more.
    â€œâ€¦ got him in the back of the head …”
    â€œâ€¦ must have turned his back to go for something …”
    â€œâ€¦ or just caught unawares …”
    Then, from Mr. Osterman, “You think the Indian could have done this?”
    An Indian! The thought of an Indian murdering a white settler was enough to send a tremor through every one of us standing in that clearing. If the Indians thought they could get away with killing one of us, they were just as liable to get the notion of starting an all-out war, aimed at driving every man, woman and child out of our homes.
    When we crossed the prairie by wagon train six years ago, the old-timers told us hair-raising tales about how the savages were known to attack the trains and wipe out whole families—innocent people who wanted nothing more than to create new homes for themselves out of the wilderness. Settlers have only been in these parts for barely longer than I’ve been alive, and the Indians outnumber us by a long shot. Before we arrived, all they did was fish and hunt. That left a lot of land unspoken for, and in the past twenty years lumbermen and miners and homesteaders have been pleased to claim that land as their own. Wouldn’t you know that the Indians would then turn around and complain that the territory belongs to them and we’ve got no business being here, even though they weren’t using the land for anything much to speak of.
    It’s put into folks’ heads from the cradle that if a white man lets an Indian get the upper hand, the next thing you know your scalp is as likely as not to be hanging off of his belt. We settlers are ever mindful of the fact that barely eight years ago Crazy Horse and his warriors massacred General Custer and his men at the Little Big Horn River, due east of us in Montana. The worry that even the friendly Indians might turn against us is enough to make every homesteader bolt the door at night and sleep with his rifle and an ax beside his bed, including my father. If an Indian killed Mr. Bell, none of us could sleep easy.
    John and Will arrived back, winded from running the whole distance. “What’s going on?” John asked, annoyed that he was missing out on something.
    â€œThey think an Indian might have done it,” I told him.
    â€œWhat Indian?”
    â€œJust pay attention and maybe you’ll find out.”
    He was irking me, making me miss out on important details. The blanket was back over Mr. Bell’s body now, and the men were standing to continue their discussion, making it easier to hear them.
    â€œI put out the word that I was looking for somebody to fix poles for me, and this morning Louie Sam shows up,” Mr. Osterman was saying. “I could tell he was a bad type the minute I laid eyes on him, but I started walking the line with him down this way, pointing out what needed repairing. He was too slow-witted to catch on to what I was trying to get across to him. I’ll tell you, he was hot-headed enough to send smoke signals through his ears when I told him I couldn’t use him and sent him away.”
    â€œAnd this was just this morning?”
    â€œThat’s correct, Sheriff. He came by the telegraph office early for a Sunday, maybe nine o’clock.”
    The sheriff checked his pocket watch.
    â€œIt’s now a quarter past eleven.”
    â€œThe timing’s right. I left him on the trail not far from here a little more than an hour ago. I kept on going down the line. I figured Louie Sam headed back into town. But maybe he didn’t. Maybe he found Jim Bell’s place.”
    â€œI know Louie Sam.” It was Bill Moultray talking now. “He’s a Sumas, from the Canadian side. And I know his old man, too. They call him Mesatche Jack Sam.”
    â€œâ€˜Mean,’” said Sheriff Leckie, translating from Chinook, the trade jargon used by the