Denver November 23d, 1868
My Dear Brother
I am to be hung to-day on false charges by a mob my children is in Napa Valley Cal—will you go and get them & take caree of them for me godd Knows that I am innocent pray for me but I was here when the mob took me. Brother good by for Ever take care of my pore little children I remain your unfortunate Brother
good by
L. H. MUSGROVE.
Denver C. T.
My Dear Wife—Before this reaches you I will be no more Mary I am as you know innocent of the charges made against me I do not know what they are agoing to hang me for unless it is because I am acquainted with Ed Franklin—godd will protect you I hope Good by for ever as ever yours sell what I have and keep it.
L. H. MUSGROVE.
While he was still writing, some of the men had tied Musgrove’s legs together, and a wagon was procured, which he was told to mount. Placing his hands upon the seat in front, he sprang into the vehicle as nimbly as a cat, and the driver, who was George Hopkins of the present police force, was ordered to proceed. The procession then took its way to the west end of the bridge, reaching which, it passed down the bank of the creek to the dry and sandy bed of the stream, returning to a place under the middle span, whence a hangman’s rope dangled, with the noose already prepared for service. Driving up under this cord, Musgrove was told that he could have an opportunity to make whatever preparation he should see proper for the end which was approaching.
His only reply was: “Go on with your work.”
He was ordered to stand up, and mounted the seat of the wagon, surveying the crowd with his usual sullen and calm face. The rope was being tied about his neck, when Capt. Scudder, then a well known and respected citizen, standing on the bridge above, began to address the crowd upon the illegality of the proceedings. Musgrove’s countenance did not change. He coolly took a piece of paper from one vest pocket, and fumbled in the other vest pocket for some tobacco crumbs, which he took out, rolled in the paper, made a cigarette, turned the ends with care, placed it in his mouth, requested a match from the driver, struck it, lighted his cigarette and smoked it with as much composure as a Mexican ranchero sitting in his plaza on a summer evening, while Capt. Scudder continued his harangue.
This talk was not heeded. The crowd began to jeer, and to cry: “Drive on!” Some one hallooed to Musgrove and inquired: “Where are the rest of your gang?”