The criminals were marched into the center of a hollow square, which was flanked by four ranks of Vigilantes, and a column in front and rear, armed with shot guns and rifles carried at a half present, ready to fire at a moments warning, completed the array. The pistol men were dispersed through the crowd to attend to the general deportment of outsiders, or, as a good man observed, to take the roughs “out of the wet.”
At the word “march!” the party started forward, and halted, with military precision, in front of the Virginia Hotel. The halt was made while the ropes were preparing at the unfinished building, now Clayton & Hale’s Drug Store, at the corner of Wallace and Van Buren streets. The logs were up to the square, but there was no roof. The main beam for the support of the roof, which runs across the center of the building, was used as a gallows, the rope being thrown over it, and then taken to the rear and fastened round some of the bottom logs. Five boxes were placed immediately under the beam, as substitutes for drops.
The prisoners were, during this time, in front of the Virginia Hotel. Club-Foot George called a citizen to him, and asked him to speak as to his character; but this, the gentleman declined saying, “Your dealings with me have been right; but what you have done outside of that I do not know.” Club-Foot then asked him to pray with him, which he did, kneeling down and offering up a fervent petition to the throne of grace on his behalf. George and Jack Gallagher knelt. Haze Lyons requested that his hat should be taken off, which was done. Boone Helm was cracking jokes all the time. Frank Parish seemed greatly affected at the near prospect of death. Boone Helm, after the prayer was over, called to Jack Gallagher, “Jack, give me that coat; you never gave me anything.” “D—d sight of use you’d have for it,” replied Jack. The two worthies kept addressing short and pithy remarks to their friends around, such as “Hallo, Jack, they’ve got me this time;” “Bill, old boy, they’ve got me, sure,” etc.
Jack called to a man, standing at the windows of the Virginia Hotel, “Say! I’m going to Heaven! I’ll be there in time to open the gate for you, old fellow.” Jack wore a very handsome United States cavalry officer’s overcoat, trimmed with Montana beaver.
Haze begged of his captor that his mistress might see him, but his prayer was refused. He repeated his request a second time, with the like result. A friend offered to fetch the woman; but was ordered off; and on Haze begging for the third time, to see her, he received this answer: “Haze! emphatically! by G—d, bringing women to the place of execution played out in ’63.” This settled the matter. The Vigilantes had not forgotten the scene after the trial of Dillingham’s murderers.
The guard marched at the word to the place of execution; opened ranks, and the prisoners stepped up on the boxes. Club-Foot George was at the east side of the house; next to him was Haze Lyons; then Jack Gallagher and Boone Helm. The box next to the west end of the house was occupied by Frank Parish. The hats of the prisoners were ordered to be removed. Club-Foot, who was somewhat slightly pinioned, reached up to his California hat, and dashed it angrily on the ground. The rest were taken off by the guards.
The nooses were adjusted by five men, and—all being ready—Jack Gallagher, as a last request, asked that he might have something to drink, which, after some demur, was acceded to. Club-Foot George looked round, and, seeing an old friend clinging to the logs of the building, said, “Good-bye, old fellow—I’m gone;” and, hearing the order, “Men, do your duty”—without waiting for his box to be knocked away—he jumped off, and died in a short time.
Haze stood next; but was left to the last. He was talking all the time, telling the people that he had a kind mother, and that he had been well brought up; that he did not expect that it would have come to that; but that bad company had brought him to it.
Jack Gallagher, while standing on the box, cried all the time, using the most profane and dreadful language. He said, “I hope that forked lightning will strike every strangling —— of you.” The box flying from under his feet, brought his ribaldry and profanity to a close, which nothing but breaking his neck would ever have done.
Boone Helm, looking coolly at his quivering form, said, “Kick away, old fellow; I’ll be in Hell with you in a minute.” He probably told the truth, for once in his life. He then shouted, “Every man for his principles—hurrah for Jeff Davis! Let her rip!” The sound of his words was echoed by the twang of the rope.