ON FRIDAY AFTERNOON, there’s an event that the whole of the Nooksack Valley has been looking forward to for weeks and weeks, before the murder of Mr. Bell took everybody’s attention. The governor of the Washington Territory, Dr. William A. Newell himself, is coming to The Crossing all the way from the territorial capitol in Olympia to speak to the issue of statehood, at the behest of Bill Moultray. A dance is to follow in the hall above Mr. Moultray’s livery stable, which, truth be told, is the event that most folks have been counting the days toward, at least the younger folks. Before the murder business took hold, all Abigail Stevens and the other girls at school wanted to talk about was their new dresses and hair ribbons.
It’s the view of most folks in the Washington Territory that statehood is long overdue. The federal government in that other Washington—the nation’s capital—argues back that we don’t have enough people in our territory to warrant becoming a state. But along with the Dakotas and Montana, we keep pushing for statehood anyway. It’s the nature of frontiersmen to want to rule themselves. We want to elect our governor, not have him appointed by the president of the United States, as he is now. And we want seats in the U.S. Senate, too, instead of our paltry one seat in the lower house.
Friday at school, Miss Carmichael dismisses us early so we can all be front row center when the speeches begin over at The Crossing. By four o’clock, a lot of folks have turned up in the open space between Mr. Moultray’s store and his livery stable to listen to the bigwigs. The sun is shining and there’s a nice feeling of excitement in the air, as though everything is normal again. I scan the crowd for Father, and I feel happy when I spot him toward the back, talking with Mr. Stevens, Abigail’s father—as though we Gillies, too, are back to normal.
Dave Harkness is in the crowd, and beside him stands Mrs. Bell. If she is aware of what people say about her behind her back, she doesn’t seem to care. She’s wearing a fancy hat and holding her chin up high, as though she wants folks to notice her—standing beside Mr. Harkness like they belong to each other, with or without the benefit of a preacher. I look over to where Pete Harkness is shining up to a couple of the girls from school. The girls are giddy at whatever it is he’s saying to them, giggling and carrying on. I wonder what special power the Harkness men have over women. Or maybe it’s the women who have the power over them.
Abigail Stevens comes up beside me.
“How do I look, George?” she asks me.
I don’t know what to say. She looks pretty, like always, except today she’s wearing a bonnet like the grown-up women. Instead of braids, she has dark curls peeking out from under the brim. She bats her eyes.
“You look nice,” I tell her.
But that just makes her mad.
“Is that all you got to say?”
I don’t know what I said wrong.
“You look very nice.”
“For your information,” she says, “my mother ordered this hat all the way from Seattle.” She lifts the corner of her overcoat to show me the dress she’s wearing underneath. “It’s to match my new dress for the dance. You’re coming to the dance, aren’t you?”
“I wasn’t planning on it …,” I say.
I’m about to impress her with the fact that I can’t be up late tonight because I have a job working for Mr. Osterman starting in the morning when she hits me with the little purse she’s carrying, which also matches her new dress for the dance.
“You are as slow as a fat toad on a hot day, George Gillies!”
She stomps away. I’m thinking that maybe I should go after her and find out why she’s suddenly acting crazy as a loon, but at that moment several men come out of Moultray’s Store, among them Mr. Moultray and Mr. Osterman—and a man I take to be Governor Newell. Chairs have been set up for them along the boardwalk, facing the crowd. Governor Newell is old, tall, and lanky, with big mutton chops. Father says he’s a Yankee easterner through and through—the president’s man. Father doesn’t mean that as flattery.
Mr. Moultray calls for the crowd to quiet down. Like I say, he’s a natural leader. When he speaks, people listen.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” starts Mr. Moultray. “I thank you for coming out on this fine afternoon to demonstrate to Governor Newell the fervor with which we Washingtonians regard the imminence of statehood.”
There’s a burst of cheering and applause. Miss Carmichael, who has managed to find a spot directly in front of Mr. Moultray, is clapping so hard she knocks her bonnet crooked.
“It is our hope that Governor Newell will communicate that fervor to the president in Washington, D.C. For it is not a question of if, but when the people of this great territory assume their rightful place amongst the republics of the United States of America!”
The crowd is even louder now. Miss Carmichael’s bonnet has flown right off, held on only by the ribbons tied under her chin. Mr. Moultray waits for folks to settle down before continuing at length in the same vein, talking a lot about destiny and God’s will. This whole time, Governor Newell is sitting still and stone-faced in his chair. For all I know he’s fallen asleep with his eyes open. At last Mr. Moultray finishes speaking, and it’s Governor Newell’s turn. The governor looks a little startled when Mr. Moultray speaks his name—so maybe he was sleeping. He takes his time getting up from his chair.
“Good afternoon,” he begins.
The crowd is still, wondering what he’ll say next—how, after Mr. Moultray has just finished making such a strong case for statehood, he could have the audacity to tell us we’re not yet ready. Before he speaks, he digs into his coat pocket and brings out a folded piece of paper. He opens it up. It appears to be a cable.
“I have here,” he says, “a telegraph from Attorney General Davis in Washington, D.C., dated a little over a week ago, on Thursday, the twenty-eighth of February. It pertains to an event that took place at the hands of certain individuals from the Nooksack Valley on the preceding day.”
The twenty-eighth is Teddy’s birthday. It’s also the day after the hanging of Louie Sam. I glance to Mr. Moultray and Mr. Osterman, seated behind the governor. From the way Mr. Osterman’s shifting in his chair, it looks like this is one telegraph our telegraph man knows nothing about. And Mr. Moultray looks peaked all of a sudden. It’s the same look he wore when Louie Sam told him he was going to fix him. I flash to a memory of Mr. Moultray’s hand making contact with that pony’s hindquarters. I see bound legs thrashing in midair. My nice normal feeling is chased away.
The governor proceeds to read the telegraph to the crowd.
“‘I am requesting in response to a communication from Her Majesty’s Government in Canada that you instruct your territorial police to watch out for and arrest members of a lynch mob charged with hanging a Canadian Indian on Canadian soil near Sumas Prairie, British Columbia, pending the Canadians’ application for extradition proceedings.’”
The crowd goes dead silent. The governor looks out over the assembled folk of the Nooksack Valley like a judge about to pass sentence.
“Pursuant to these instructions,” he says, “I have directed Mr. Bradshaw, the prosecuting attorney of the Third Judicial District in Port Townsend, to act immediately and vigorously against the leaders of this lynch mob so that they can be extradited to Canada, where they will stand trial for their crimes.”
Mr. Moultray and Mr. Osterman sit gobsmacked. Or maybe I just think they must be, because I am for sure.
“As to the issue of statehood,” says the governor, “perhaps that is best left to another day.”
Having said his piece, Governor Newell stands above us on the boardwalk, as though expecting the leaders of the Nooksack Vigilance Committee to step forward and face judgment this very moment. But nobody moves—except Miss Carmichael, whose hand goes to her mouth as she utters a small cry. I look around to see if Father is still here. He’s at the back where he was earlier, standing beside Mr. Stevens. Both of their heads are bowed, eyes hidden by their hat brims. Everybody is silent—until an angry voice booms out of the crowd.
“We was promised a talk on us becoming a state, so let’s hear it!”
We all crane our necks to see that the speaker is Dave Harkness. His face is all red with fury. Annette Bell is standing there beside him frowning, with her arms crossed tight. She says something to Mr. Harkness, who then pipes up again.
“If the United States Government has got something to say to us, they can come say it to our faces instead of sending their hired mouthpiece to do it!” he says.
The crowd, so silent a moment ago, sends up a cheer. People are hollering about freedom and democracy, and about how no Washingtonian got to cast a vote to elect Governor Newell to office, so he has no rightful place messing in our business and telling us what to do. Up on the boardwalk, Governor Newell sputters something about how we settlers are ignorant rabble unfit to govern ourselves, which makes the crowd angrier still. Mr. Moultray is on his feet trying to calm everybody down, but he’s not trying very hard. When a rock whizzes by the governor, close enough to ruffle his mutton chops, Mr. Moultray whispers something to the men who came with him from Olympia, who then hustle the governor into Moultray’s Store. Mr. Moultray turns to the crowd and starts speechifying.
“Fellow citizens of Whatcom County,” he says from his perch on the boardwalk. “Surely the Governor can not but help to have comprehended how unwavering is our quest for democracy!”
The crowd sends up another loud cheer. I can’t believe how fast the subject has gone from the hanging of Louie Sam back to statehood. I can’t believe how the men in the crowd—most of whom rode with the posse that night—don’t seem worried about what Governor Newell just said about bringing the leaders to justice. By my count, all five leaders of the posse are present—Mr. Harkness, Mr. Osterman, Mr. Breckenridge, Mr. Hopkins, and Mr. Moultray himself, who at this moment is working folks up into a frenzy of hollering for their rights.
We see no more of the governor. In the crowd, I hear people proclaiming about how Bill Moultray showed the president’s man a thing or two. The nerve of him, coming here and reading that telegraph! From the way they talk, it’s like the right to statehood has somehow become the same thing as the right to hang Louie Sam, though in my mind they are not the same at all. The first is right and fair. But the hanging … if folks believe so strongly it was the right thing to do, then why aren’t they willing to step up to the governor and tell him so?
AFTER A WHILE, THE CROWD starts to break up. Lots of folks are staying around for the dance later and have brought baskets of food for their dinners. I see Abigail Stevens sitting in a wagon with her parents and her little sisters, eating a sandwich. I think about going over to patch it up with her, to maybe even ask her for a dance if I stay for a little while, but the thought of it makes me break out in a sweat. I head over to Father, who is untethering Ulysses and Mae from a post outside the livery stable. John, Will, and Annie are already seated in the bed of the wagon.
“Are you coming home with us, George?” asks Father.
“He’s too busy making eyes at Abigail,” says John.
I snarl at him. “Mind your own business, John.”
Father gives John a look that makes him hold his tongue.
“Stay if you want to,” he says.
I can see Father’s holding back from smiling. It’s downright humiliating. I climb up into the wagon beside him without saying anything at all, which is enough said. Father slaps Ulysses and Mae with the reins and we start off jostling toward home. After a while, my thoughts stray back to the governor. I ask Father, “Do you think he means what he says about punishing the leaders of the Vigilance Committee?”
Father answers low, so the kids in the back won’t hear.
“He can mean it all he wants. What he intends to do about it with the whole valley vowed to secrecy is another question altogether.”
“Do you think they ought to be punished?”
Father shoots me a cautioning look. I hold his gaze. I want to know.
“Aye,” he says finally. “Aye, I do.”