BACKWOODS JUSTICE.
Among the earliest settlements of Kentucky was that which figures in
our story. At the time of the following events it contained some fifty
dwellings, surrounded by strong palisades to defend them from the
savages, besides a well-constructed block-house, which was not only
strongly garrisoned, but claimed the additional protection of a brass
field-piece. This last-named instrument presented quite a formidable
appearance to prowling Indians, as it sat on the summit of the
block-house reflecting every sunbeam from its polished surface.
One bright afternoon, early in the month of August, there was an unusual
commotion at the Indian frontier post.
The entire population, men and women, old and young, had assembled on a
broad, level spot just beyond the limits of the fort, many of them to
look upon a scene such as they had never before witnessed. This spot was
known as “the green,” and it was where the youth of the settlement were
wont to repair for their sports, but those gathered there now wore sad
faces, and conversed with each other in low, serious tones. And well they
might, for they were there to see a man hung for murder!
Russell Trafford was one of the most honored and highly esteemed young
men of the place, and yet, on this bright August afternoon, he was to be
put to death for the willful murder of another person, who had enjoyed
a like reputation. Being an orphan, the young man had lived with his
uncle, Doctor Trafford, in the largest and most substantial cabin in the
settlement, the worthy doctor being a kind but eccentric individual, who
could not have loved his nephew more had the latter been a son instead.
These two had never been known to be at odds until very recently, and in
fact the peace, harmony and happiness with which they had always lived
together, had been a subject of remark on more than one occasion.
But one night, at a late hour, an alarm of fire was raised. The excited
settlers, rushing out of their houses, made the startling discovery
that the dwelling of Doctor Trafford was in flames. It was readily
perceived that the fire had already made such headway as to be past
extinguishing, but, notwithstanding that fact, crowds of people rushed
to the spot to watch the doomed cabin as it burned, and to learn the
cause of the catastrophe. Arriving on the scene, the only person they
found there was Russell Trafford. The young man was standing in front
of the burning structure, with an _open tinder-box_ in his hand, gazing
up at the flames, pale and silent. When spoken to he started violently,
and then, quickly thrusting the tinder-box in his pocket, he clasped his
hands and cried out in tones of mental anguish, that his poor uncle was
dead—murdered—burned alive in his own house! Somebody asked him how he
came to be outside of the cabin with an open tinder-box in his hand, and
he replied in an absent sort of a way, that he didn’t know—the box was
not his—he had found it, he supposed, and begged them to let him alone.
The idea of the esteemed Doctor Trafford being burned to death in his
own house and bed, aroused the indignation of all. Somebody had done the
deed, and somebody must suffer for it; and the finger of circumstantial
evidence pointed to the victim’s nephew, Russell, as the guilty one.
Suspicion was fastened strongly upon him, despite the good name he had
hitherto borne. On the following day the remains of Doctor Trafford were
looked for amid the ruins of the demolished domicil, and the search was
rewarded by the finding of a skull and the rest of the bones that belong
to the human body, all totally destitute of flesh. These were decently
interred, as a last tribute of respect to the dead.
Russell Trafford was arrested, and allowed to go through a mock trial.
An Irish boy named Mike Terry—a lad of some fourteen summers, who had
lived with the doctor in the capacity of servant—testified that Russell
and his uncle had quarreled on the morning preceding the tragedy, and,
moreover, that he himself had _seen_ Russell set fire to the building,
and he (Mike) had barely escaped with his own life.
This was sufficient. Russell Trafford was declared guilty of firing the
cabin with intent to kill his uncle, and he was sentenced to be “hanged
by the neck, until dead.” And the sunny afternoon in question was set
apart for the punishment of the offender, and many of those who gathered
on the green to witness the execution wore sorrowful faces as they looked
on the doomed man for the last time. For it was hard to believe that he,
who had always been so honorable, upright and noble, could commit such a
horrible crime as that ascribed to him. Instead, however, of hanging him
by the simple means of a rope and a tree, after the Lynch-law custom of
that day, a rude scaffold had been hastily constructed, and the evident
intention of the people was to have the affair conducted in proper style.
The executioner was an old hunter, ranger and scout, who gloried in the
euphonious appellation of Kirby Kidd. Grizzled old borderman that he
was, fearless, true-hearted and kind, he formed a good specimen of his
class, and his sturdy, Herculean frame showed to good advantage as he
stood at his post. His keen black eyes roamed over the crowd with seeming
indifference, and occasionally he was observed to address a few words to
the prisoner. He was leaning carelessly on his rifle, holding in one hand
a tall death-cap, made of undressed bear-skin. There was still a third
party on the scaffold. This was a friendly Wyandott Indian, of the name
of Wapawah, who was the constant companion of Kirby Kidd when hunting
or on the trail, and who had rendered valuable service to many of the
frontier posts along the Ohio. Wapawah was as brave a warrior as ever
trod Kentucky soil, and possessed all the cunning, vindictiveness and
reticence, characteristic of his race. Just now he stood beside his white
friend like an image carved in bronze, with his arms folded over his
tawny breast, watching the proceedings in stoical silence.
While the spectators were waiting nervously for the _finale_, the
attention of many was attracted to a rather curious-looking individual,
who suddenly made his appearance among them. This was a man of medium
size, clad in the ordinary garb of a hunter and ranger, who trailed
after him a long, black rifle as he walked. There was not the sign of
an expression on the fellow’s face. A red, straggling beard covered his
mouth and chin; long hair of the same color brushed his shoulders at
every movement of his head; an ugly patch disfigured his left cheek;
and a rough bandage concealed his right eye. Altogether his was not the
most prepossessing face ever seen. Nobody seemed to know him, nor did
he return any of the searching glances directed at him. He was pressing
through the crowd toward the scaffold, looking neither to the right nor
left, but straight ahead.
When the stranger had pushed himself through the wondering throng, he
unhesitatingly ascended to the elevated platform, and confronted Kirby
Kidd, the hangman. For some minutes the two hunters conversed together
in low, earnest tones, the friendly Indian standing near, and evidently
drinking in every word that was uttered. When the secret conference had
been kept up so long that the mob began to show its impatience by angry
shouts, it was promptly ended, and the stranger turned away. Then the
hangman spoke out loudly, exclaiming:
“Wal, Nick Robbins, ye know it’s my way. I allers try to do my duty,
whether it be pleasant or no.”
“Sartinly, Kidd,” returned the person called Nick Robbins. “Go ahead an’
string the cuss up. I know yer wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with the thing
ef yer thought he didn’t desarve it.”
With this, the stranger with the bandaged eye turned and descended to the
ground, still dragging his gun after him. Wapawah, the Wyandott, followed
him, and the two withdrew to a spot apart from the crowd, where they
might talk unheard.
A few of the settlers went forward to shake the hand of the young
convict, and bid him a last farewell. Among these were three persons
who attracted considerable attention—a man and two women. They were Mr.
Moreland, his wife and daughter. Mr. Moreland was one of the first men
of the settlement, a sensible, industrious and stout-hearted pioneer,
who knew well why God had given him health and a pair of strong arms,
and who acted accordingly. He had a wife of the same disposition, kind,
charitable and self-sacrificing, and their daughter resembled them both.
In point of beauty, Isabel Moreland certainly had no superior in all
Kentucky, and in those days real beauty was not so scarce as in this age
of fashion and folly. She was the betrothed of Russell Trafford, and
people had said they would make an excellent match, but that was all
over now, and here stood the young man under the gallows, on the eve of
a felon’s death, while his affianced wife wept bitterly as he bid her a
final adieu.
This affecting scene over, Russell Trafford was asked if he had any thing
to say before dying. He replied that he desired a very brief hearing, and
then stepped to the edge of the scaffold to speak. He was strangely calm
and collected, and his voice was clear, steady and distinct. He said:
“Friends and former friends: it affords me extreme happiness to know
that there are those among you who still have faith in my innocence, in
spite of all evidence to the contrary. On the heads of such I invoke the
blessing of God as I die. For you who believe me guilty I bear no malice,
nor even reproach, but trust that a just Heaven will undeceive you after
I am gone, and bring the true offender to the retribution he deserves. I
am ready to die.”
He stepped back as he made this last declaration, and the old ranger
immediately placed the death-cap over his head.
It is not necessary to inflict upon the reader a detailed account of the
sickening scene which followed. Sufficient to say, that Russell Trafford
was hung before the eyes of his former friends and the grieved maiden who
had promised to become his wife. The body of the young man was lowered
from the gallows, and placed in the coffin that awaited it, which was
nothing more than a rude pine box constructed for this purpose. Old Kirby
Kidd, the Wyandott Indian, and their friend, Nick Robbins, volunteered
to take the corpse in custody until the morrow, and protect it from the
enraged mob, who, it was feared, not being satisfied with the murderer’s
death, would further vent its wrath upon the dead body.
On the following day a grave was dug in a pretty glade just outside of
the settlement, and burial services were performed.