EXECUTION OF DUTCH JOHN
Dutch John was still a prisoner in charge of Fetherstun, in the gloomy
cabin on Yankee Flat, a euphonious title given to a little suburb of a
dozen cabins of the town of Bannack. He had behaved with great
propriety, and by his amiability of deportment won the sympathy and
respect of his captors. The revelations which he made in his confession,
implicating others, made him fearful of his former companions in crime,
who, he knew, would kill him on the first opportunity. One night during
his imprisonment both he and Fetherstun were alarmed by the sound of
approaching footsteps and suppressed voices in earnest conversation.
Fetherstun prepared his arms for a defence. Casting a glance at his
prisoner, what was his astonishment to see him standing near the door,
with a loaded double-barrelled gun, awaiting the approach of the
outsiders.
“That’s right, John,” said Fetherstun approvingly; “fire upon them if
they come. Don’t spare a man.”
John smiled and nodded, levelling the muzzle of the gun towards the
sound, but the ruffians heard the click of the locks, and departed. John
could have shot his keeper and escaped, but he feared the vengeance of
his comrades more than the stern justice of the Vigilantes.
The fate of this desperado was yet undecided by the Committee. He was
not without strong hope of escape, and his good conduct was doubtless
attributable to the belief that both Howie and Fetherstun would
interpose to save him. The evening of the day after the death of
Pizanthia, the Committee met. The case of Dutch John came up for
discussion. If it had been consistent with the laws prescribed for the
government of the Committee, John would have been banished; but his
guilty, blood-stained record demanded that he should die. He had been a
murderer and highwayman for years, and the vote for his immediate
execution was unanimous. The decision was reduced to writing, and a
member of the Committee deputed to read it to the prisoner, and inform
him that he would be executed in one hour. The wretched man was
overcome. He rose from his blankets, and paced several times excitedly
across the floor. Like Plummer, he then resorted to supplication.
“Do with me as you please. Disable me in any way, cut off my hands and
feet, but let me live. You can certainly destroy my power for harm
without taking my life.”
“Your request cannot be complied with,” said the messenger. “You must
prepare to die.”
“So be it, then,” he replied, and immediately all signs of weakness
disappeared. “I wish,” he continued, “to write to my mother. Is there a
German here who can write my native language?”
Such a person was sent for. Under John’s dictation, he wrote a letter to
his mother. It was read to him, and he was so dissatisfied with it that
he removed the rags from his frozen hands and fingers, and wrote
himself.
He told his mother that he had been condemned to death, and would be
executed in a few minutes. In explanation of his offence, he wrote that
while coming from the Pacific side, to deal in horses, he had fallen
into the company of bad men. They had beguiled him into the adoption of
a career of infamy. He was to die for aiding in the robbery of a wagon,
while engaged in which he had been wounded, and his companion was slain.
His sentence, though severe, he acknowledged to be just.
Handing the letter to the Vigilantes, he quietly replaced the bandages
upon his unhealed fingers. His manner, though grave and solemn, was
composed and dignified. Something in his conduct showed that he truly
loved his mother. Much sympathy for him was evinced in the manner and
attention of those who conducted him to the place of execution, in an
unfinished building at no great distance from his place of confinement.
The first objects which met his gaze, as he stood beneath the fatal
beam, were the bodies of Plummer and Stinson, the one laid out upon the
floor for burial, the other upon a work-bench. He gazed upon their
ghastly features unshrinkingly, and in clear tones asked leave to pray,
which was readily granted. Kneeling down, amid the profound silence of a
crowd of spectators, his lips moved rapidly, and his face wore a
pleading expression, but his utterance was inaudible. Rising to his
feet, while seemingly still engaged in prayer, he cast an expressive
glance at the audience, and then surveyed the provisions made for his
execution. A rope with the fatal noose dangled from the cross-beam, and
beneath it stood a barrel, around which was a cord, whose ends,
stretching across the floor, left no doubt as to the office it was
extemporized to perform.
“How long,” he inquired, “will it take me to die? I have never seen a
man hanged.”
“It will be very short, John,—very short. You will not suffer much
pain,” was the reply of a Vigilante.
The poor wretch mounted the barrel, and stood perfectly unmoved while
the rope was adjusted to his neck. The men laid hold of the rope which
encircled the barrel. Everything being prepared, at the words, “All
ready,” the barrel was jerked from beneath him, and the stalwart form of
the robber, after several powerful struggles, hung calm and still. Dutch
John had followed his leader to the other shore.