Free The Lynching of Louie Sam by Elizabeth Stewart

was up in the air, fighting and struggling against the rope around his neck, even though his hands and feet were bound tight. He looked monstrous and terrified, twisting and writhing as he fought.
    â€œFor God’s sake!” cried Mr. Hopkins. “Somebody put an end to him!”
    Mr. Harkness raised his rifle.
    â€œNo shots!” called Mr. Osterman. “The Sumas might hear!”
    Finally, Mr. Pratt rode up and raised the butt of his buffalo gun to Louie Sam’s head. I looked away, but I couldn’t stop my ears from hearing the blunt thud of wood meeting bone. When I looked up, Louie Sam was struggling no more. His body swung from the branch a few times, until at last he was still. His life was gone, but his fear was still there in his face for all to see, plain as day.
    Everybody was silent. Then Mr. Harkness let out a whoop. A few others joined him trying to raise a cheer, among them Mr. Osterman and Mr. Breckenridge. Me, I didn’t see what there was to cheer about. Mr. Moultray didn’t seem to, either.
    â€œEnough,” he said.
    He kicked his horse into a trot and headed down the trail toward home, not waiting for the other leaders. I made my way back to Father and Mae. Without a word, Father pulled me up behind him into the saddle. I kept my face buried in his back as he walked Mae past the hanging tree so I wouldn’t have to see Louie Sam again. But I saw him in my mind, anyway. I will see him there forever.

Chapter Ten

    A S WE HEAD SOUTH ACROSS the border into the Washington Territory, the men who had been cheering and hollering the loudest for the end of Louie Sam are silent. Once the deed was done, it was like nobody wanted to think about it anymore. We left him hanging from that cedar branch and we rode away. We want to get back to our normal lives, to our normal selves.
    Everything is more complicated than I thought it would be. I expected justice to feel good, but it feels tight and cold in the pit of my stomach.
    When we reach The Crossing, Mr. Moultray speaks to us. His face is somber and weighted down, like he doesn’t feel in a celebrating mood any more than I do. Or maybe he’s just tired. I know I am. Mr. Moultray tells the men that they did what needed to be done, and that they should be proud. But the next thing he says is that none of us should ever talk about what happened—not to our families, not to the sheriff, not to anyone. The Nooksack Vigilance Committee is henceforth a secret brotherhood. How can you have it both ways? If we’re supposed to be so proud of what we did to Louie Sam, then why are we keeping secrets about it?
    F IRST LIGHT STARTS TO show above the trees to the east as Father, Mae, and I follow the track along Sumas Creek to our mill and our cabin. From a distance, we see chimney smoke above the trees. Why does Mam have a full fire going at such an hour, when normally she would just be rising? Father gives Mae a kick. She trots ahead a little, but quickly falls back into a walk—like us, worn out from the night’s outing. Father kicks her harder.
    â€œGet up!” he says, his voice crusty and thick. He hasn’t used it since we left the hanging spot.
    Gypsy comes running to meet us, barking in a fury of excitement. When we leave the trees and our cabin comes into sight, we get another surprise. A woman is outside, pitching water from a bucket onto the ground. When she turns around, I see that she’s Agnes, the Nooksack squaw who was Bill Hampton’s Indian wife.
    â€œAgnes!” my father calls to her. “Where’s my wife?”
    Mae has picked up her pace, eager now that she knows her feed is close by. Agnes straightens up and waits for Mae to trot up to the cabin and for Father to rein her in before speaking. Her English is not good, despite living with a white man for all those years. She relies mostly on Chinook to make herself understood.
    â€œBébe yuk’-wa,” she