by Tom McCarthy
His fears were well founded. The dreadful hour came shortly after midnight on the cool, crisp Sunday morning of Christmas week of ’79.
A few minutes before twelve o’clock Saturday night, the late habitués of saloons and billiard halls, as well as others who happened to be awake at that hour, noticed the riding along the principal street of numerous horsemen, who came from apparently all directions and in little squads of two, three, half a dozen, or so. They noticed that these silent horsemen all rode toward the jail, and all seemed to be intent on some urgent business. Then, remembering the oft-repeated murmurs of lynching made against the imprisoned murderers of poor old Hayward, a number of citizens followed in the wake of the strangers, who made at the jail a cavalcade of at least a hundred men, armed to the teeth and grimly seated upon their horses, not even talking or whispering among themselves.
A consultation between the chief and his lieutenants took place upon the steps leading to the first floor above the basement of the courthouse, and a few minutes later, without noise or confusion, a large circle of guards was spread around the jail and some two or three hundred yards distant from it. These grim sentinels were but a few paces apart, and some were mounted and some on foot. Every member of this avenging band wore a mask or a handkerchief across the face or had his features blackened with burnt cork, so that recognition was absolutely impossible. No one was permitted to pass this cordon of guards, no matter what the excuse. One man climbed a telegraph pole, and the telephone wire from the jail was cut, and thus all communication to and from the building was ended. Then the horses were ridden to a vacant lot opposite and tied, while the riders dismounted and closed in upon the jail. There was no noise or confusion. Everything had been carefully planned, and every man had a certain position and a certain duty assigned, and he silently took the one and performed the other.
There were in the building, aside from the prisoners in the cells, Under-Sheriff Joseph Boyd, who was asleep with his family in a rear room, and an extra watchman, Edgar Cox, who was lying upon a bench in the sheriff’s office. Hearing the sound of feet on the frozen earth outside, Cox rose to a sitting position and looked up at the windows, the curtains of which were raised. At each window he saw, to his stupefaction, two or three men, who had rifles in their hands. Their gleaming barrels pointed directly at him, and a stern voice simply said, “Don’t move, or you’ll get hurt.”
Under the circumstances Cox did not move but sat gazing at the deadly weapons which so steadily and unrelentingly covered him, while he could hear the heavy tramp of men marching in at the front door and filing down the inside stairs to the basement.
This same tramp, tramp of many feet, foretelling something unusual, reached the ears of Under-Sheriff Boyd, who was in bed, and he suddenly awoke with the feeling that there was trouble ahead. Hastily pulling on his clothes, he rushed out of his room and saw the two rooms, from which the two doors open into the jail part, teeming with masked and armed men, who apparently paid no attention to him whatever. As he passed the “feeding” door—so termed because through this the prisoners’ meals are taken in to them—he noticed that the outer wooden door was splintered and the lock broken off. Pushing his way through to the front room, he mounted to the third step of the stairs leading to the first floor and, raising his voice, said, “Gentlemen, listen to me one moment. You are, or I take you to be, law-abiding and law-loving citizens, and yet you are now engaged in unlawful proceedings. I beg of you to cease and not in your indignation or passionate feelings take the law into your own hands. Rest assured justice will be obtained, even though it take a little longer.”
At this juncture three men at the foot of the stairs pulled their revolvers and covered the speaker, while one said, “Hands up, sir—we know our business.”
To which Boyd replied, “I’ll not hold up my hands. I know you have not come here to harm me,” and recommenced his expostulation and entreaty to the men in front of him.
In the meantime, a number of the vigilantes had attacked the iron-grated door with sledge hammers and crowbars. Every blow told, and sinewy and muscular arms sent the heavy instruments to the points where they would do the most good.
The under-sheriff still continued his address to the men, and finally the leader, a tall, well-built man, ordered three of his fellows to take Boyd into custody and remove him. They instantly complied, and the officer was taken into the inner room, where he still continued his protestations. The blows fell thick and fast upon the great, strong lock, and at last with a crash, it gave way and the door swung open, and those terrible, determined men swarmed within.
Previous to all this, the prisoners were sound asleep in their cells, save one, Joseph Murphy, in for petty larceny and who was out of his cell, being on duty in keeping up the fire and such other little chores as might be necessary.
As the assault began upon the bolts of the iron door, Woodruff awoke with a start and sprang to the grating of his cell, where he glared in tremulous anxiety upon the bars that were trembling beneath the rain of blows. Seminole, too, awoke about the same time and began a low moaning in his terrible fear, though he did not arise from his bed, but as the door at last gave way and the crowd rushed in, he gave vent to a cry which is described as being more like the shriek of some wild animal than any other noise.
Without loss of time, the vigilantes attacked the padlocks on cells fourteen and twelve, the former being Woodruff’s and the latter Seminole’s. Noticing the liberty of Murphy and supposing that he might attempt to escape in the confusion, the leader of these midnight dispensers of justice went to Boyd, who was still under guard, and told him he had better lock up such prisoners as might be loose.
“Will you pledge your word of honor for yourself and men that you will not touch the keys if I get them?” asked the faithful official.
“Yes,” was the brief but evidently earnest reply.
Calling the watchman, Cox, and accompanied still by his masked guard, Boyd went to the vault and began to work the combination that opened it. Before giving the last twist, however, he turned to his silent captors, and said, “You have heard the pledge given by your captain or chief or whatever you call him in relation to the keys; have I your words of honor also?”
They bowed a grim assent, and a moment later the bolt shot back and the iron door turned on its hinges. Taking the keys the official entered the jail and locked Murphy up. As he passed the cells containing two burglars, they begged to be released, fearing lest the vigilantes would also make an example of them. Boyd assured them that they would not be harmed, or at least he would do all in his power to protect them.
In the meantime cold chisels had cut into the cell padlocks, and sledge hammers completed the job. Woodruff was on his feet and showed fight, but his visitors were determined men, and the cold-blooded murderer was soon rendered docile, a few raps with the butt of a revolver being administered on the top of his head. He was carried out and laid upon his stomach on the floor, his face resting upon his left side, while skillful and willing hands bound his wrists together behind his back. As he was being taken from his cell, he made but one remark, “Gentlemen, you are mistaken. I am innocent of this crime.”
When the tying was completed, he was lifted up to a sitting posture and asked for the captain, referring to Boyd, and that officer immediately came forward.
Laying hand upon the shoulder of the prisoner, Boyd said, “Well, Woodruff, what can I do for you?”
Woodruff raised his dark eyes to the kindly face above him and, with a low voice, inexpressibly sad and full of feeling, said, “Captain, write to my wife—and to my brother, and tell them all about this, will you? Don’t forget it. Write to (and a name was given which the officer forgets) and tell him to avenge my death—he’ll do it.”
“Gentlemen,” he said, turning to his captors, “this is not the last of this.”
Then Boyd said, “Is that all I can do for you, Sam?”
“Yes,” said the prisoner, “all—all.”
During all this time, the men had been hammering away at Seminole’s cell, and as Woodruff finished speaking, the door was opened and a number of men sprang within. Seminole was lying upon his face, moaning fearfully in his terror. He was quickly picked up and carried out and his hands bound behind him in like manner to Woodruff’s.
Without further hesitation or delay and in perfect silence, the prisoners, the manacles on their ankles clanking a dismal dead march, were taken out through the front door of the basement and taken in the direction of the Golden and South Platte Railroad, three or four hundred yards distant. Woodruff refused to walk and was half carried and half pushed, but Seminole did what he could in the way of locomotion, and in a few minutes, the men were on the railroad bridge that crosses Kinney Creek.
The bridge is a timber one, having three spans, supported on spiles resting on wooden foundations. A rope three-eighths of an inch in diameter was produced, which was supposed to be long enough to hang both men, but being found too short, a delay occurred while a new one, an inch in diameter, was obtained. Woodruff was stationed on the end nearest Denver and Seminole just five sleepers farther away. With nooses about their necks, the other ends of the ropes being fastened to the projecting ends of the timbers (notches being cut to prevent any slipping), the men stood.
“Sam Woodruff, do you wish to say anything?” was the grim question of the masked leader.
The man addressed looked around upon the crowd in silence a few moments and then without further preface, said, “Gentleman, you are hanging an innocent man, but I trust God will forgive you, as I do. May I say my prayers?”
Assent being given, the doomed man knelt and silently prayed to the Almighty. When he had finished, he arose to his feet and, looking once more upon his captors, said, “I have one last request to make. Permit me to jump off the bridge; don’t push me to my death.”
But his request was not granted, and a few moments later a dozen hands pushed him off the edge—off the edge into eternity.
When Seminole was asked if he had anything to say, he choked a moment and then, in a clear, distinct voice, said,
Gentlemen, I have but little to say, and I address myself to those among you who may be erring ones. Beware of the first bad step. The after ones are not to be feared; it is the beginnings. But for my first evil break, I would not be standing here tonight with this rope about my neck and death staring me in the face. In relation to this murder, gentlemen, we two are the guilty ones. We committed the crime. I have no excuse to offer, nothing to say.
And then, raising his head toward heaven, his lips moving tremulously, he broke out with, “O, God Almighty, have mercy on my sinful soul; and as Thou hast shown Thy love and tenderness in times past to weak and guilty ones, show such to me now. Guard, oh, I pray Thee, my mother and brothers, and let not them follow in my footsteps or take my sinful path. Forgive me my transgressions, O God, and”—his voice broke slightly—“take me to Thee, sinful though I am.” And then, in simple but beautiful and eloquent terms, he prayed for the well-being and salvation of his captors and executioners.
During this prayer the vigilantes stood around, with hats removed and heads bowed, in reverential listening. It was a somber, impressive picture. The moonlight shining cold and clear upon the scene; the fated man, with eyes turned toward the zenith, one foot upon the iron rail of the track, the other upon the tie to which was attached the rope that drooped from his neck; the swinging, twitching body of his companion in crime dangling in awful solitude below; the congregated men with uncovered and bent heads, and their faces hid beneath grim masks; the polished barrels of rifles and guns gleaming in the moonbeams, and the grave-like silence alone broken by the earnest, feeling words of the speaker—a picture never to be forgotten. And when at last the lips were closed and the fatal push was given, even the stern executioners of inexorable law felt a tremor run through their stalwart, muscular limbs.
Seminole died instantly, his neck being broken in the fall, but swinging past the spiles the skin on the knuckles of his right hand was rubbed off. Woodruff died hard, his struggles for breath being distinctly heard, and his limbs twitching convulsively.
The work was done, and the vigilantes slowly retraced their steps to their horses and without a word mounted to their saddles, while the two bodies hanging beneath the bridge twisted and twirled and finally rested motionless, stirred only now and then by a passing breeze that played fitfully with their fast-stiffening forms.
During the confusion in securing the prisoners in the jail, Mr. Boyd managed to get to the telephone and attempted to communicate with the town. But in vain. Then he sent Cox, the watchman, off to alarm Sheriff Belcher, but ere the messenger had proceeded a dozen yards, he was stopped and returned to the building. The sheriff was asleep at his home when, about one o’clock, he was awakened by his brother-in-law, Archer DeFrance, who told him that something was going on at the jail, and a few moments later, a black watchman named Baker, who had been especially instructed in view of such an emergency, came in with the alarm also. A few minutes later, and the sheriff was hastening at the top of his speed toward the jail on the hill. But he was too late. The murderers of R. B. Hayward had gone to their final account, and the vigilantes, with the exception of a guard on the ridge near the bodies, had disappeared as quietly and mysteriously as they had come. Then the sheriff went for the coroner, Dr. Joseph W. Anderson, and without loss of time, that officer arrived upon the ground. While he was examining the bodies, the coroner was hailed by the vigilantes with, “What are you doing?”
“Examining into your devilish work.”
“Are they dead?”
“Yes; deader than hell.”
“All right. Hayward is avenged. Good night.” And the sentinel horsemen rode off with a parting wave of their hands.
As the main body of men left the scene of the lynching, they fired a farewell shot from their pistols, and as their number was variously estimated at from one hundred to a hundred and fifty, it made quite a volley.
After viewing the hanged men, the coroner ordered the sheriff to cut them down, which was done, and D. P. Maynard having been sent for and arriving with his express wagon, the corpses were taken up and conveyed to an unoccupied storeroom on Ford Street. Here they were placed under the care of two watchers and, about nine o’clock in the morning, were conveyed to the courthouse, where, an hour later, the jury impaneled by the coroner held the inquest and brought in a verdict to the effect that Seminole and Woodruff “came to their death upon the 28th day of December, 1879, being taken from the jail and custody of the said jailer of said county by force and violence, between the hours of twelve and one o’clock a.m. and hanged by the neck by parties unknown to this jury and with felonious intent.”
After the tragedy the undertaker laid the bodies out in plain pine boxes, painted black on the outside, and, untying their hands, crossed them in front. Woodruff was dressed in a dark check shirt, duck overall, and cotton stockings, without shoes. His eyes were half-open, and his mouth, with its lips slightly apart, disclosed his regular teeth beneath. During his confinement in Golden, he had not shaved, and a rough growth of beard covered his cheeks and chin. His forehead was covered with blood that dripped from the wounds on the top of his head caused by the necessary rapping given with the pistol butt when taking him out of his cell.
Seminole wore a checkered vest and a dark sack coat over his undershirt. Dark pantaloons, brown mixed stockings, and Indian moccasins completed the balance of his attire. His mouth and eyes were firmly closed, and from either corner of the shut lips, a streak of blood ran down upon his neck, while watery matter oozed slightly from his left eye. His face was considerably swollen, and decomposition soon set in. The knots on both nooses had slipped around to the front, immediately beneath the chin, and had cut somewhat into the flesh of both men. The back of Woodruff
’s neck was badly cut and much swollen, and blood marked the courses on both necks followed by the rope. In order to accommodate Woodruff’s body, a box six feet, seven inches, long was necessary, and six feet, one inch, for Seminole.
Monday afternoon, succeeding the day of the lynching, no answer having been received from relatives, both Seminole and Woodruff were buried in the Golden cemetery.
And thus Samuel Woodruff and Joseph Seminole pass out of the world’s daily history, and another terrible example is recorded to give terror to all evildoers.
Recording the tragedy as above related, the Tribune of December 30 said,
In wandering through the town of Golden yesterday and conversing with business men of all grades of social and intellectual standing, the reporter failed to find one solitary person who condemned this recent lynching. On every side the popular verdict seemed to be that the hanging was not only well merited but a positive gain to the county, saving it at least five or six thousand dollars. In plumply asking the question from thirteen representative men, the Tribune commissioner met with the unvarying response, “It was the best thing possible, and we are all glad of it.”
4
A Tragedy of the Sierras
By C. F. McGlashan
The promise of a new and fruitful life drew thousands to California. And why not? There was a welcoming climate and more land than they could imagine. All they needed to do was make the journey across the Sierras, and it was theirs. What could be the problem?
