Part 11

“‘Let’s string him up, boys; it’ll save the county a lot of expense!’ shouted some one.

“‘Hang him! Hang him!’ chorused the crowd.

“‘Somebody get a rope!’ cried the man who was kneeling on my chest.

“‘Take him to a telegraph pole!’ cried another.

“I was half dragged, half carried to the nearest telegraph pole and assisted to my feet beneath it. A rope was speedily found and tied about my neck. A boy was ordered to climb the pole with the other end of the rope and pass it over the arm that supports the wires.

“My situation would not have been so bad if I had lost the power of thinking and with it the capacity for mental suffering. My mind was never so acute as at that moment but, with the treatment the bandits had given me and the mauling and choking I had since received at the hands of that ignorant mob, I had absolutely lost my power of speech. But think!--My God! man, of what did I not think, as I stood there in the shadow of death at the hands of a lot of ignorant farmers and railroad hands who were about to offer me up on the altar of their own cowardice and brutality? A mob feels but it does not reason. I had seen enough of mobs to know that only a miracle could save me.

“It is a trite observation that in the mind of one standing on the margin of the Valley of Shadows, as I was at that awful moment, all the events of his past life pass in swift review. So rapidly does one impression follow another, that one’s previous experiences form a single composite picture like that of the biograph, or the pictures that dreams paint upon the brain. Such was my own experience in a general way, but one feature of the mental life review which my terrible experience brought me was most peculiar and horrifying.

“For several years before I graduated in medicine, I occupied a position in the coroner’s office in the city of C----. In the performance of my official duties I was compelled to witness a number of executions. Among others was that of a certain wife murderer. The sheriff, usually expert in such matters, made a bungle of this man’s case. The noose slipped and he slowly strangled to death! The unhappy event made a most powerful impression upon my youthful mind, but I little thought of the mental rehearsal of the awful scene that was in store for me.

“Standing out in bold relief from the rest of the picture of my past life that was displayed before my mental vision as the mob completed its preparations for hanging me, was the frightful scene enacted on the gallows at the execution of the wife murderer in the jail yard of C----.

“The most peculiar feature of it all was that it was I, and not that wife murderer whose death throes I saw in my mind’s eye. Horrible beyond conception were that awful choking, the agonized struggle for breath, the tumultuous spasms of the diaphragm, the twitchings of the muscles and the frightful roaring in the ears which I experienced as the murderer slowly died of strangulation. As the limbs of the dying man in the mental picture spasmodically flexed and extended themselves, I felt all of the agonizing pains experienced by sufferers from lock jaw or strychnine poisoning.

“And this was not all. My chest was encircled as with a band of iron. Closer and closer drew the band until it seemed as if my diaphragm must tear clear across its breadth in the fearful effort to get oxygen into my lungs. I saw brilliant, glittering points and shafts of light dancing before my eyes. I seemed to be growing delirious and vainly tried to speak, the result being a queer sort of gibberish. Worst of all, the black death hood seemed suddenly to become transformed into a mask of transparent glass, through which I could see my own purpling, swollen features, with the bulging, blackened lips and protruding tongue and turgid, popping eye balls, in which I could see the horror of impending death reflected. Oh, it was horrible! horrible!

“As the struggling body in the picture swayed back and forth from the initial tipping movement imparted by the falling of the drop, my real body seemed to oscillate back and forth like a pendulum. Once, when the picture body struck with cruel impact a corner post of the gallows tree, an acute, agonizing pain shot through me from head to foot. Then the swaying movement ceased and the body spun round and round like a top at the end of the fatal cord, so rapidly that the fuzzy threads of the hemp stood out like a coating of fur upon the rope. I grew dizzy and nauseated. Dizzier and dizzier I grew; louder and yet louder grew the roaring in my ears, until I became unconscious and--all was over.

“Then came the most incomprehensible thing of all. I recovered consciousness and saw crowding around the dead body upon the scaffold the lookers on at the execution, and the coroner’s jury, with myself at its head. Standing beside the corpse was Dr. Cartwright, the coroner’s physician. Watch in hand, with his fingers on the wrist of the corpse seeking for signs of the life that had forever departed, the doctor slowly counted the minutes required by law.

“And then I saw the body lowered into the coffin and taken away!

“All that I have described to you took place very rapidly. I was not conscious of any appreciable interval between the time of my conveyance from the station by the mob and the final act of the execution which my memory had painted for me.

“While the drama of the hanging was being played in my mind, the preparations for a more tangible execution under the auspices of Judge Lynch were going on.

“The boy with the rope ‘shinned’ up the telegraph pole like a young monkey. Arriving at the first cross arm of the pole, he passed the rope over it and threw the loose end down to the expectant crowd of bloodthirsty savages below.

“When the free end of the rope struck the ground, the entire crowd, with the exception of two or three men who were holding me, rushed for it, and fought for holds upon it. Each was more than willing to do his share in the killing of their helpless victim.

“The falling of the rope’s end and the mad rush of the crowd to secure it broke the spell in which I was bound and I regained my voice sufficiently to indistinctly mumble my name. A few seconds more and my death by strangulation would have been more than a mental picture--it would have been a grim reality! One of my guards had sufficient sense--or curiosity, I don’t know which, nor do I care so long as it served me well--to call a halt in the ceremonies.

“‘Hold on, boys! Wait a minute--let’s hear what this feller’s tryin’ to say. We’ve got plenty of time to hear his spiel.’

“Most of the crowd came reluctantly back to listen. The more ravenously bloodthirsty of the mob still held on to the rope and waited impatiently for the continuation of the pleasure party. As the brutes crowded around me I managed to introduce myself a little more coherently.

“‘Go on, what yer givin’ us?’ said the man who had halted the execution; ‘He says he’s a doctor, boys’.

“‘Here, let’s have a look at that feller,’ cried a voice from somewhere in the crowd. A man pressed forward and confronted me.

“‘Gimme that lantern.’

“The lantern was handed to him, and holding it close to my face he looked at me earnestly for a moment. I in turn, as you may surmise, stared quite as hard at him. We recognized each other simultaneously!

“‘Dan Williams,’ I stammered weakly, recognizing an old patient of mine, a railroad hand whose leg I had saved after it had been condemned to amputation.

“‘Good God! Doc. Fairweather, is that you?’

“I was saved! I shall always believe that the majority of the mob felt aggrieved at both Dan and myself by the mutual recognition that had saved my life by such a narrow margin. The rope was dropped, however, albeit grudgingly, and my neck released from its gruesome embrace.

“Dan impressed several of his friends into service and I was taken to the nearest house and temporarily cared for as well as possible under my own rather wabbly and uncertain direction, whilst I told my story as best I could in my pitiful condition.

“It was several days before I could be moved, a local physician meanwhile ministering to me with more devotion than surgical skill. You may imagine how happy I was to learn that my head was so hard that it had not been feazed by a 45 calibre conical ball. The bullet had entered my head at the left temple, glancing around the skull, plowing a huge furrow in the scalp and cutting a groove in the outer table of the bone along which it left a trail of lead clear around to the occiput, whence it had been deflected. It was afterward found buried in the wall of the station and sent to me as a souvenir.

“After my return home I was seriously ill for several weeks. I finally, however, returned to my practice, a little the worse for wear, but grateful for my hard-headedness. It was some time before my brain worked with its usual alertness, but after a few months I had only the scar to remind me of a most awful experience.

* * * * *

“And now for the story of the skull:

“A strong posse was organized for the pursuit of the murderers and they were soon overtaken, after a running fight some miles north of the scene of the awful tragedy in which I had enacted such an important rôle.

“The bandits had entrenched themselves in a deserted farm house, from which they made a desperate fight against their pursuers. Several of the attacking party were killed or wounded. During a lull in the fighting the smaller of the two desperados deserted his comrade, escaped from the house, and ran for the timber. A clever chap who had secreted himself in the woods at the rear of the house in anticipation of some such move on the part of the murderers, received him with a huge charge of buckshot from both barrels of a shot gun fired at close range, killing him instantly.

“I have a picture of the result of the shot, taken as the dead outlaw lay in his coffin. In my leisure moments I comfort myself by gazing upon it. Through the agency of that photograph the humiliation of the kick the fellow administered to me has faded into the faintest of memories. Indeed, when I do chance to recall that particular incident of the tragedy in which I played so prominent a part, it is with amusement rather than with chagrin.

“The principal of the two outlaws finally exhausted his ammunition. The house was rushed, and after a desperate hand to hand battle, in which, as the sheriff afterwards told me, the desperado ‘made plenty good, and laid out’ several of the attacking party, he was overpowered and manacled.

“The captured bandit proved to be Jack McDougall--_nom de guerre_, ‘Reddy McDug’--a many times murderer, bank robber and all round ‘bad man,’ upon whose head a price had rested for many months.

“McDougall was taken to K----, the county seat, and placed in jail under a strong guard. He was speedily tried, convicted and sentenced to be hanged.

“During the trial, the desperado and I became very well acquainted, and before the date set for the execution I am free to say that I had become sufficiently interested in him to rather regret the impending cessation of our relations. Indeed, I am not ashamed to confess that I finally conceived a warm regard for the poor devil. Call it a whim if you like, the fact remains that I really did like him.

“Whatever else he may have been, Reddy was not a coward, and if there is any one thing I admire more than another in a man it is gameness. McDougall was a moral imbecile--he considered that he had followed a vocation, and a rather decent one, but he knew the price of the game and was willing to pay it if needs must. He said to me at one of my numerous visits:

“‘You see, Doc, it all depends on how you’re born, and how the cards is stacked. No matter what kind of a game you play, an’ no matter how you play it, settlin’ time is bound to come sooner or later. I’d like to sit in the hold up game a little longer, ’cause I’m still able-bodied, but I dunno as it makes a h--ll of a lot of difference when a feller’s hand is called. Anyhow, what’s the use o’ kickin’? Mine’s been called all right, all right, and there you are.’

“I last saw McDougall the day before his execution. He was still game as a pebble. His principal concern was to have me witness his end. Said he:

“‘Now, Doc, you an’ me has got to be pretty good pals, even if I did plug you that time tryin’ to help my pardner--which was part of the game anyway. You’re all the friend I’ve got, and I’d like to have you present at the swingin’ party. Just come and watch me cash in, an’ see how nice an’ gentlemanly your friend Reddy ‘ll take his medicine. There’ll be nary a kick out o’ me before the bottom drops out of things, an’ nary a kick afterward, if Mr. Sheriff’s onto his job.’

“I saw that McDougall was in earnest, and assured him as I bade him good-bye that I would be on hand for the ceremony. But, all the same, I didn’t mean a word of it. I had had about all the experience with hangings, both as witness and prospective principal, that was necessary to satisfy a man of my modest desires. Why, I had myself actually been mentally hanged and nearly physically hanged simultaneously. Besides, as I have already said, I liked McDougall.

“The execution came off according to schedule, and I was greatly consoled by the report that the sheriff, was, as McDougall expressed it, decidedly ‘on to his job.’ Indeed, I was told that the hanging was as smooth a piece of work as had ever occurred in Minnesota. So smooth was it, and so agreeable to the sentiments of the population of that section of the State, that the re-election of Sheriff Jackson was a foregone conclusion. All of which shows that the artist in his particular line is not without appreciation, and that the executioner, unlike the prophet, getteth honor in his own country.

“There were no friends to claim the body of the dead outlaw, and it finally found its way to the M---- Medical College. The demonstrator of anatomy, who chanced to be a warm friend of mine, knew the circumstances under which I had become acquainted with the late Mr. McDougall, and reasoning that I would be very glad to receive a souvenir commemorative of the strenuous introduction to that distinguished gentleman which I had received, dissected the head with especial care, and after thorough preparation and skillful bleaching sent the gruesome object to me with his compliments. Since the reception of the skull my lamented friend in material bone and ethereal spirit has been the presiding genius of my den--a friend in whom I have full confidence, because I can trust him, and an enemy whom I no longer dread, because I have him where all of our enemies should be placed--in a collection of curios. Rather a nice skull, isn’t it?”

A WISE CHILD

I was enjoying my after dinner cigar, and thinking, with some amusement, of a remark my little daughter had made. During the afternoon she had been taken by a party of my friends to a museum--a great treat for her, as she is of an inquiring turn of mind. Among the curiosities and freaks on exhibition, was a poor fellow who was afflicted with some nervous affection that impelled him to keep constantly in motion. The child was especially impressed with the fact that the man was unable to sit down. The grown-up folks of the party were greatly puzzled by the curious phenomenon--not so my hopeful. Looking at him carefully and with an expression of most profound pity for a few moments, she exclaimed, “Poor man! What an awful lot of spankings he must have had when he was a little boy!”

“Well,” I thought, “children are keen observers after all. It might be interesting to read the thoughts of some of them. Now, there’s that Smith baby for example--what a wise expression it has, to be sure! Really, that child ought to be called Solomon. I would suggest the name to _pater familias_, only he might get frightened at the mere suggestion of such wisdom on the part of his offspring.”

As a matter of fact, the Smith child is the most remarkable specimen of a young one I have ever seen. He is now some three years of age, yet has never made the slightest attempt to talk. As for walking, I question whether the child will ever be able to use his limbs very successfully. They are malformed and very imperfectly developed. But the child’s head has gone to the other extreme; while by no means symmetrical in outline, it is preternaturally large, with bulging frontal eminences and immense parietal protuberances. The eyes are brilliant, deep set, and reflect an expression of wise gravity that is positively eerie. The brow is wrinkled in strongly marked furrows and the general aspect of the face is somewhat shrivelled and prematurely old. Around the angles of the mouth are converging, plainly accentuated lines that give the face an expression of sternness. There is no color in the skin save about the eyelids, which are habitually red and tumefied. The dead, clayey whiteness of the child’s complexion is occasionally relieved by dark, blotchy eruptions, that make the unhealthy pallor of the skin still more noticeable.

The most striking peculiarity of the Smith baby is its prematurely aged look, suggesting the grotesque combination of the face of a sickly old man with the body of a child. At first sight, the effect is somewhat startling.

And yet, despite its physical defects, the child grows on. Knowing how utterly defenseless the poor little thing was against the circumstances which made it a caricature of healthy babyhood, and realizing its abject helplessness in the battle of life, I sincerely pity it.

Is it not strange that mothers lavish so much affection upon such children as the Smith baby? No matter how many beautiful children she may have, the heart of the mother goes out to the least favored of her offspring in a wealth of love that is the only excuse the unfortunate child has for living. Mothers care naught for the law of the survival of the fittest--not they. Should such a child die, the poor mother mourns it as the one ewe lamb of her little flock.

With the father it is different, somehow--perhaps not in all cases, but I know it is different with the father in this instance.

Smith is a queer sort of fellow--rather reticent in manner it seems to me. However, he is a new patron of mine and perhaps I do not quite understand him. I was first called in to see the baby, and haven’t had very much opportunity to converse with the father. At the present rate of progress, I am not likely to get much better acquainted, for, come to think of it, he seems somewhat inclined to avoid me.

But Smith’s friends say that he is a thoroughly good fellow; indeed, that he is “one of the boys.”

Once in a while, Smith seems to be more than ordinarily anxious about the baby--apparently through pride rather than affection, for the little one really seems to be the bane of his existence. He did unbend once, enough to ask me if there wasn’t some way to cure the child’s snuffles and keep “those d--d blotches” off its face, but I am sure he was thinking more of the comments of his neighbors than of the child’s comfort.

I don’t believe that Smith cares a straw about his young one’s digestion, yet he swore like a pirate when he saw the irregular manner in which its second teeth were coming in. Not that I blame him much for swearing, for those teeth do look more like those of a saw than such as a baby of good breeding is expected to develop. Still, the child is not to blame for his bad teeth. Smith knows that, if he knows anything.

I suppose I ought not to say it, but I honestly believe that Smith would far rather his child would die than live. The poor little thing had a bad attack of cholera infantum a while ago, and narrowly missed going to the land where babies’ stomachs are at rest and pimples are unknown. It is a dreadful thing to say, but I really suspect that Smith was--well, not exactly pleased with the results of my treatment. He made a remark the other day that was suggestive, to say the least. He said there were too many new-fangled ideas in the treatment of children’s diseases to suit him. “Toxins,” said he, “were invented, I suppose, to cover up medical ignorance.”

I did not reply, for, as I have already remarked, Smith and I have not become very friendly as yet.

But the Smith baby is a very interesting study, and I can tolerate its father’s peculiar ways for the child’s sake, and for the interest the case affords me.

I lolled back in my favorite chair puffing the fragrant smoke in fantastic rings, carelessly aimed at the chandelier overhead, and revolving the case of the Smith baby in my mind. I do not know how long I sat there musing, but I finally fell into that half dreamy state which, with me, is a positive sign of an impending nap. Even my cigar was becoming sleepy and had begun to smolder. Being in no mood to tolerate interruption, I fear it was with some irritation that I shouted, in response to a timid rap at the door:

“Come in!”

The door opened, and in walked--Smith’s baby!

To say that I was astonished would be quite conventional, but measurably untrue, for--I was paralyzed. I think my visitor must have noticed the effect his unexpected entrance had upon me, for, after a deferential bow and a polite “Good evening,” he calmly awaited my pleasure. There was a quizzical expression in his eyes, and a pitying smile animated his curiously wrinkled face as I finally stammered:

“W--why, g--good evening, sir. This is quite--quite, ah--unexpected, you know.”

“And also unconventional, I presume,” said my caller. “It is not _en regle_, I believe, for people who are helpless to call upon the doctor. He is supposed to do all the calling himself. Patients who have sound legs and strength enough to walk are the only sort who are expected to visit their medical adviser. We will not consider those ‘has beens,’ who are sometimes so grateful to the doctor for helping them out of the world that they call upon him afterward o’ nights,” and the baby smiled sarcastically.

I do not believe in ghosts, yet I must confess that I blushed hotly at the implied unfair criticism of my noble profession.

My young friend noticed my confusion and said:

“Pardon me, I did not mean to be personal. There are doctors and doctors you know--and also spooks and things.”

“Great Hippocrates!” I exclaimed, springing to my feet in sudden, amazed recollection. “I thought you could neither walk nor talk, and you have not only come to see me but are talking as fluently as any one could.”

“Oh, well,” replied my visitor, “things are not always what they seem--even to doctors. I have not walked much as yet, it is true, but I thought it best not to do so. My limbs have never looked very promising, and consequently nothing has ever been expected of them. It is much easier to ride or be carried about than to walk--even with good legs--so I let the sympathy of the people about me have full sway.

“As for speaking, pray tell me what inducement there is to conversation in my case. I am not fond of hearing myself talk--not at all, and there’s no use talking to the people around me. They could not understand me and there are no subjects of mutual interest. Besides, if I should display my linguistic skill, my folks would be a little shy of me. They are very confidential, you know, and on account of my apparent inability to repeat what I hear, I get in on many a nice bit of grown-up gossip.”

“Well,” I said, “there does seem to be some advantage in concealing your power of speech, but I don’t quite comprehend your statement that the people about you would not understand you. Your language certainly seems clear enough for ordinary understanding.”