Wesley Everest was dragged out of the middle machine. A rope was attached
to a girder with the other end tied in a noose around his neck. His almost
lifeless body was hauled to the side of the bridge. The headlights of two
of the machines threw a white light over the horrible scene. Just as the
lynchers let go of their victim the fingers of the half dead logger clung
convulsively to the planking of the bridge. A business man stamped on them
with a curse until the grip was broken. There was a swishing sound; then a
sudden crunching jerk and the rope tied to the girder began to writhe and
twist like a live thing. This lasted but a short time. The lynchers peered
over the railing into the darkness. Then they slowly pulled up the dead
body, attached a longer rope and repeated the performance. This did not
seem to suit them either, so they again dragged the corpse through the
railings and tied a still longer rope around the horribly broken neck of
the dead logger. The business men were evidently enjoying their work, and
besides, the more rope the more souvenirs for their friends, who would
prize them highly.
This time the knot was tied by a young sailor. He knew how to tie a good
knot and was proud of the fact. He boasted of the stunt afterwards to a
man he thought as beastly as himself. In all probability he never dreamed
he was talking for publication. But he was.
The rope had now been lengthened to about fifteen feet. The broken and
gory body was kicked through the railing for the last time. The knot on
the girder did not move any more. Then the lynchers returned to their
luxurious cars and procured their rifles. A headlight flashed the dangling
figure into ghastly relief. It was riddled with volley after volley. The
man who fired the first shot boasted of the deed afterwards to a brother
lodge member. He didn't know he was talking for publication either.
On the following morning the corpse was cut down by an unknown hand. It
drifted away with the current. A few hours later Frank Christianson, a
tool of the lumber trust from the Attorney General's office, arrived in
Centralia. "We've got to get that body," this worthy official declared,
"or the wobs will find it and raise hell over its condition."
The corpse was located after a search. It was not buried, however, but
carted back to the city jail, there to be used as a terrible object lesson
for the benefit of the incarcerated union men. The unrecognizable form was
placed in a cell between two of the loggers who had loved the lynched boy
as a comrade and a friend. Something must be done to make the union men
admit that they, and not the lumber interests, had conspired to commit
murder. This was the final act of ruthlessness. It was fruitful in
results. One "confession," one Judas and one shattered mind were the
result of their last deed of fiendish terrorism.
[Illustration: The Burial of the Mob's Victim
No undertaker would handle Everest's body. The autopsy was performed by a
man from Portland, who hung the body up by the heels and played a hose on
it. The men lowering the plank casket into the grave are Union loggers who
had been caught in the police drag net and taken from jail for this
purpose.]
No undertaker could be found to bury Everest's body, so after two days it
was dropped into a hole in the ground by four union loggers who had been
arrested on suspicion and were released from jail for this purpose. The
"burial" is supposed to have taken place in the new cemetery; the body
being carried thither in an auto truck. The union loggers who really dug
the grave declare, however, that the interment took place at a desolate
spot "somewhere along a railroad track." Another body was seen, covered
with ashes in a cart, being taken away for burial on the morning of the
twelfth. There are persistent rumors that more than one man was lynched on
the eve of Armistice day. A guard of heavily armed soldiers had charge of
the funeral. The grave has since been obliterated. Rumor has it that the
body has since been removed to Camp Lewis. No one seems to know why or
when.
"As Comical as a Corner"
An informal inquest was held in the city jail. A man from Portland
performed the autopsy, that is, he hung the body up by the heels and
played a water hose on it. Everest was reported by the corner's jury to
have met his death at the hands of parties unknown. It was here that Dr.
Bickford let slip the statement about the hall being raided before the
shooting started. This was the first inkling of truth to reach the public.
Coroner Livingstone, in a jocular mood, reported the inquest to a meeting
of gentlemen at the Elks' Club. In explaining the death of the union
logger, Dr. Livingstone stated that Wesley Everest had broken out of jail,
gone to the Chehalis river bridge and jumped off with a rope around his
neck. Finding the rope too short he climbed back and fastened on a longer
one; jumped off again, broke his neck and then shot himself full of holes.
Livingstone's audience, appreciative of his tact and levity, laughed long
and hearty. Business men still chuckle over the joke in Centralia. "As
funny as a funeral" is no longer the stock saying in this humorous little
town; "as comical as a coroner" is now the approved form.