At this critical moment, the necessity for prompt action, which had so disarranged and defeated the consummation of the trial of Stinson and Lyons, was met by Colonel Sanders, one of the counsel for the prosecution, who now moved, “that George Ives be forthwith hanged by the neck, until he be dead.”
This motion so paralyzed the ruffians, that, before they could recover from their astonishment at its being offered, it was carried with even greater unanimity than either of the previous motions, the people having increased in courage as the work progressed. Some of the friends of Ives now came up, with tears in their eyes, to bid him farewell. One or two of them gave way to immoderate grief. Meantime, Ives himself, beginning to realize the near approach of death, begged piteously for a delay until morning, making all those pathetic appeals which on such occasions are hard to resist. “I want to write to my mother and sister,” said he; but when it was remembered that he had written, and caused to be sent to his mother soon after he came to the country, an account of his own murder by Indians, in order to deceive her, no one thought the reason for delay a good one.
“Ask him,” said one of the crowd, as he held the hand of Colonel Sanders, and was in the midst of a most touching appeal for delay, “ask him how long a time he gave the Dutchman.”
He, however, made a will, giving everything to his counsel and companions in iniquity, to the entire exclusion of his mother and sisters. Several letters were written under his dictation by one of his counsel.
In the meantime, A. B. Davis and Robert Hereford prepared a scaffold. The butt of a small pine, forty feet in length, was placed on the inside of a half-enclosed building standing near, under its rear wall, the top projecting over a cross-beam in front. Near the upper end was fastened the fatal cord, and a large dry-goods box, about five feet high, was placed beneath for the trap.
Every preparation being completed, Ives was informed that the time for his execution had come. He submitted to be led quietly to the drop, but hundreds of voices were raised in opposition. The roofs of all the adjacent buildings were crowded with spectators. While some cried, “Hang the ruffian,” others said, “Let’s banish him,” and others shouted, “Don’t hang him.” Some said, “Hang Long John. He’s the real murderer,” and occasionally was heard a threat, “I’ll shoot the murdering souls,” accompanied by curses and epithets. The flash of revolvers was everywhere seen in the moonlight. The guards stood grim and firm. The miners cocked their guns, muttered threats against all who interfered, and formed a solid phalanx which it would have been madness to assault.
When the culprit appeared upon the platform, instant stillness pervaded the assembly. The rope was adjusted. The usual question, “Have you anything to say?” was addressed to the prisoner, who replied in a distinct voice,
“I am innocent of this crime. Alex Carter killed the Dutchman.”
This was the only time he accused any one except Long John.
He then expressed a wish to see Long John, and his sympathizers yelled in approbation; but as an attempted rescue was anticipated, the request was denied.