“I have one last request to make. Permit me to jump off the bridge; don’t push me to my death.”
But his request was not granted, and a few moments later a dozen hands pushed him off the edge—off the edge into eternity.
When Seminole was asked if he had anything to say, he choked a moment and then, in a clear, distinct voice, said:
“Gentlemen, I have but little to say, and I address myself to those among you who may be erring ones. Beware of the first bad step. The after ones are not to be feared; it is the beginnings. But for my first evil break I would not be standing here to-night with this rope about my neck and death staring me in the face. In relation to this murder, gentlemen, we two are the guilty ones. We committed the crime. I have no excuse to offer, nothing to say.”
And then, raising his head toward heaven, his lips moving tremulously, he broke out with, “O, God Almighty, have mercy on my sinful soul; and as Thou hast shown Thy love and tenderness in times past to weak and guilty ones, show such to me now. Guard, oh, I pray Thee, my mother and brothers, and let not them follow in my footsteps or take my sinful path. Forgive me my transgressions, O God, and”—his voice broke slightly—“take me to Thee, sinful though I am.” And then, in simple but beautiful and eloquent terms, he prayed for the well-being and salvation of his captors and executioners.
During this prayer the vigilantes stood around, with hats removed and heads bowed, in reverential listening. It was a sombre, impressive picture. The moonlight shining cold and clear upon the scene; the fated man, with eyes turned towards the zenith, one foot upon the iron rail of the track, the other upon the tie to which was attached the rope that drooped from his neck; the swinging, twitching body of his companion in crime dangling in awful solitude below; the congregated men with uncovered and bent heads, and their faces hid beneath grim masks; the polished barrels of rifles and guns gleaming in the moonbeams, and the grave-like silence alone broken by the earnest, feeling words of the speaker—a picture never to be forgotten. And when at last the lips were closed and the fatal push was given, even the stern executioners of inexorable law felt a tremor run through their stalwart, muscular limbs.
Seminole died instantly, his neck being broken in the fall, but swinging past the spiles the skin on the knuckles of his right hand was rubbed off. Woodruff died hard, his struggles for breath being distinctly heard, and his limbs twitching convulsively.
The work was done, and the vigilantes slowly retraced their steps to their horses, and without a word mounted to their saddles, while the two bodies hanging beneath the bridge twisted and twirled, and finally rested motionless, stirred only now and then by a passing breeze that played fitfully with their fast stiffening forms.
During the confusion in securing the prisoners in the jail, Mr. Boyd managed to get to the telephone and attempted to communicate with the town. But in vain. Then he sent Cox, the watchman, off to alarm Sheriff Belcher, but ere the messenger had proceeded a dozen yards he was stopped and returned to the building. The sheriff was asleep at his home when, about 1 o’clock he was awakened by his brother-in-law, Archer DeFrance, who told him that something was going on at the jail, and a few moments later a black watchman named Baker, who had been especially instructed in view of such an emergency, came in with the alarm also. A few minutes later and the sheriff was hastening at the top of his speed towards the jail on the hill. But he was too late. The murderers of R. B. Hayward had gone to their final account, and the vigilantes, with the exception of a guard on the ridge near the bodies, had disappeared as quietly and mysteriously as they had come. Then the sheriff went for the coroner, Dr. Joseph W. Anderson, and without loss of time that officer arrived upon the ground. While he was examining the bodies the coroner was hailed by the vigilantes with:
“What are you doing?”