“a
7*
MURDER IN MINNESOTA
to the nearest neighbor and told him what he had done. Although he
insisted that he acted to defend himself and his family, the court was
not persuaded that this was the case. At 3:00 a.m. on the day of his exe-
cution, after taking a “strong drink of liquor” and smoking a cigar, he
walked to the gallows, said a short prayer with an attending clergyman,
and was hanged.®
1891, October 17 William Rose Redwood Falls
Enraged by disputes with a neighbor named Moses Lufkin, Rose
mounted his horse on the evening of August 22, 1888, galloped through
the moonlight to Lufkin’s home, and fired into the parlor window,
thereby committing the second great moonlit murder of 1888, the first
being John Lee’s shooting of Charles Cheline. The victim’s last words
reveal a talent for homely metaphor which makes one wish he could have
used it in less melancholy circumstances: “Help, quick! I am shot
through the body deader than hay!” After the jury disagreed twice, Rose
was convicted of murder on a third trial. He asserted his innocence to
the end, ate a hearty breakfast of eggs and oysters, mounted the scaffold
imperturbably, said “Goodbye, all,” and hurtled through the drop. To
the scandal of Minnesota, the rope broke. But Rose was hanged on the
same double gallows which served the Barrett brothers in 1889, and
another noose dangled at the ready. Rose, unconscious, was rapidly
resugpended by the other rope, which did the job.1°
1891, October 23 Adelbert Goheen Fergus Falls
Finding his paramour, Rosetta Bray, an encumbrance, this young man
of twenty-one freed himself by shooting her on March 22, 1891. Caught
and convicted, he whiled away his time by writing bad poetry, cursing
his family, and playing the accordion. He nevertheless went to the gal-
lows with courage, leaving this world by saying to the sheriff, “Let her
go, Jack; good bye.” It is likely that the sheriff was the more nervous of
the two; he had learned all he knew of the hangman’s art at William
Rose’s bungled execution the week before.!!
1894, October 19 _. Charles Ermisch St. Paul
and Otto Wonigkeit a
On May 2, 1894, these nineteen-year-old youths, who had already
spent two years in the St. Cloud Reformatory, committed a needless
murder by killing William Lindhoff as they tried to rob his saloon. They
left the world together on a double gallows “attired in the neat dark
222
‘
ra
APPENDIX
1889, March 22 Peter Barrett Minneapolis
and Timothy Barrett
On July 27, 1887, these delinquents, whose family ran an illicit saloon
called the “Hub of Hell,” held up a horsecar and shot its conductor,
Thomas Tollefson. The robbery netted them twenty dollars. Their
brother, Henry, who had also taken part in the crime, confessed and
furnished the testimony which sent them to the rope. They were hanged
on a double gallows in the midst of their prayers. On the same day the
pretty widow of their victim went quietly to Osceola, Wisconsin, where.
she remarried.®
1889, July 19 Albert Bulow Little Falls
On November 24, 1888, this ne’er-do-well stood idly by a bridge until
he got a lift from Franklin Eich, who drove up with his fine, matched
team. When they reached the woods near Royalton, Bulow shot Eich
behind the left ear and made off with the team. He was swiftly captured,
made no defense, refused the proffered legal services of Charles A.
Lindbergh, Sr., pleaded guilty, and was hanged. He left behind a plain-
tive memento in the form of an “Execution Song,” which he composed
four days before his hanging. Bulow was not his legal name; he had
acquired it in the course of a long criminal career, and his real name has
not been found.
1889, September 20 Thomas Brown Moorhead
Brown appears to have had a strong dislike for policemen. On Octo-
ber 18, 1888, he went to Moorhead to avoid arrest elsewhere and saun-
tered into a dance hall, where he was displeased to see two police
officers on duty to keep order. Drawing a revolver, saying nothing, and
using gestures, he forced the two lawmen down the stairs and into the
street. At this moment a third officer, Peter Poull, walked up the street
and noticed that his associates were in trouble. He rushed to help. Brown
shot Poull without saying a word. True to the bad man’s pose he had
adopted, Brown was hanged without making any farewells.
1890, June 27 William Brooker Pine City
After a domestic uproar, Brooker’s wife took refuge in the home of
Mrs. William P. Coombs, her sister. On November 2, 1889, Brooker
strode up to the house carrying a double-barreled rifle and demanded
his wife’s return. Mrs. Coombs chose to argue and was shot; when
Coombs ran up to help his wife he, too, was shot. Brooker coolly walked
221
o-
MURDER IN MINNESOTA
Roesch, Jr., was the only eyewitness and gave the damning testimony
which sent his father to the gallows. Repeating, “Ach, Gott in Himmel!”
the elder Roesch mounted the platform, insisting in German that he was
innocent and that he left himself in the hands of God. When his body
was cut down, his wife refused to accept it, and the sheriff had to ar-
range for burial.?
1885, August 28 John Waisenen Duluth
On November 20, 1884, after drinking a quart of whisky, this Finnish
immigrant and an accomplice seized clubs, bashed in Joseph Farley’s
head, stole his belongings, and dragged his body to a near-by shanty
which they set afire. Waisenen got thirty dollars; his accomplice vanished
and the Finn faced the last march alone. A huge crowd saw him walk
fifty yards from the jail to the gallows, and the police had great difficulty
keeping the mob out of the enclosure. Those who did watch, it was re-
ported, found their appetite for the spectacle somewhat reduced after
they saw “the hands turn purple.”*
1888, April 13 Nels Olson Holong Fergus Falls
This Norwegian immigrant farm hand was apparently in love with
Lilly Field, his employer's fifteen-ycar-old daughter. He fancied himself
slighted by her, and on May 26, 1887, committed one of the most re-
vglting murders in Minnesota history by cutting the girl’s throat, slitting
her corpse open as a butcher would an animal carcass, and throwing the
body to the hogs. It may be more than coincidence that he was a con-
temporary of Jack the Ripper. Saved from lynching, he was hanged by
legal process. Using the same rope that hanged John Waisenen in 1885
and saying, “Be a man, Nels,” the sheriff swung Holong off so quickly
that he had no chance to utter any memorable last words.4
1889, February 15 John Lee Alexandria
When at 11:00 p.m. on July 19, 1885, Lee and his friend Martin Moe
emerged from the saloons of Brandon, where they had spent the evening,
they saw approaching them on the moonlit street Charles Cheline,
Lee’s rival in the affections of young Sophia Mathieson. At Moc’s
prompting Lee shot Cheline through the head. Both Lee and Moe were
sentenced to hang, and they had already begun their walk to the scaffold
when news arrived that Governor William R. Merriam had commuted
Moe’s sentence. Lee continued his slow walk, alone. Just before the drop
fell, Lee said, “I know my sins are forgiven and in 10 minutes I shall be
in a better place.”5
220
we
oo
APPENDIX
gray suits which the sheriff had purchased for them.” The lawman was
said to prefer gray suits to black ones “which he thought had altogether
too somber an appearance.” Each man wore a rose in the lapel of his
coat. The intended effect of simultaneity was somewhat marred when
the trap beneath Ermisch stuck and had to be released by hand. Wonig-
keit was already swinging. “A few convulsive twitches, the shoulders
drawn up as though for breath, and both bodies hung motionless.” 12
1895, December 11 Harry T. Hayward Minneapolis
Hayward was a gambler strapped for funds. He persuaded his dear
friend Kitty Ging to insure her life for ten thousand dollars and deposit
the policies with him. On December 3, 1894, she was coaxed into taking
a nocturnal buggy ride with Hayward’s accomplice, Claus Blixt, who
shot her on a lonely road near Lake Calhoun. Hayward’s scheme was
discovered when his brother, Adry, decided to tell all. To the end Hay-
ward kept the pose of a casual gambling man who had made a bet and
lost. He ascended the gallows in formal evening dress. His last words
were: “Pull her tight; I'll stand pat.” He was not, however, permitted
to leave this world abruptly. The fall did not break his neck, and he
slowly strangled to death. See Chapter 11.
1896, July 23 John E. Pryde Brainerd
In midwinter Pryde, a cookee in a lumber camp, was enticed into a
gambling game where he lost all his wages. In order to recoup, he per-
suaded Andrew Peterson, a logger, to meet him at a secret rendezvous
on February 24, 1896. There Pryde shot Peterson and took forty-one
dollars from him. “Nothing but gambling has brought me to this,” Pryde
said on the eve of his execution. “I hope every gambling hell in the city
may be closed by law and kept closed.” After a snack of fried chicken,
fruitcake, apple pie, peaches, and a bowl of cream, he ascended the scaf-
fold, repeated after the pastor, “God forgive me for my sins, and save
my soul for my Savior’s sake, amen,” and was hanged.18
1898, March 18 John Moshik Minneapolis
This St. Paul incorrigible and onetime leader of the “Rice Street
Gang” committed his most serious crime in Minneapolis. On October
22, 1897, after he had been released from a long term in the state prison,
he met John Lemke, a perfect stranger, at the Union Station in Minne-
apolis, enticed him to a remote part of the city, and there shot him twice
in the back, beat him over the head with a pistol, and took fourteen
223
Se ge ere
LAVINA EASTLICK
(Continued from page 59)
some people, obviously not Indians, walk-
ing on the road below. One looked like,a
- woman, the others appeared to be children.
Lavina’s heart pounded harder. She rode
toward the children and, as she neared the
party, she waved her hand. The woman
stopped near a rock by the side of the
road. The children went on.
Lavina recognized an old friend of the
Shetek area: a woman known as Mrs.
Hurd.
“Mrs. Eastlick,” the woman _ shouted.
“Merton and Johnny are alive. I took care
of them after they came to my _ house.
They’re with my children who've just gone
on. Merton’s carrying Johnny. You can
thank the Sioux, Red Iron. He rescued the
children and he is a real friend of the
whites.” .
“When I came in sight of the children
I could hardly wait to get to them.”
So Lavina Eastlick would write years
later. What a reunion that was on the
prairie stained with the blood and the
bleached skulls of dead settlers!
Ne WOMAN in the entire history of the
West had shown such fortitude and
determined loyalty to her children. No
child had taken more devoted care of an
infant sibling than eleven-year-old Mer-
ton, who had a man’s courage in a boy’s
body.
. Finally Lavina and her two children
reached St. Paul, the state capital. Gover-
nor Alexander Ramsey, the “Father of
Minnesota,” saw to it that this courageous
pioneer woman had hospital treatment for
her wounds. Then he paid the fare of the
diminished, but sturdy, family back to
the nearest railroad point to Shetek.
The mass massacre of settlers came to
an end September 26th when General
Henry Hasting Sibley’s cavalry met Little.
Crow and his Sioux in battle at Woods
Lake. Little Crow and his warriors were
routed in a wild and bloody defeat. After
that every war-like Sioux that was able to
headed for the Canadian border.
But before this victory over 800 settlers
had lost their lives and two thousand Sioux
had died. What happened to old Pawn
was never known. He was not hung with
the other leaders, and the assumption was
that he escaped into Canada.
But Shetek arose again from the ashes.
Lavina Eastlick, needing a father for her
two orphans, surprisingly married the
_cowardly Smith. She divorced him later.
Mr. Everett miraculously survived his
wounds after having been left by Pawn’s
braves for dead.
During the final months of 1862, Laura
Duley and her surviving children were re-
leased by the Sioux in Dakota Territory.
More than three hundred captured Sioux,
including some who'd played only minor
roles in the rebellion, were sentenced to
death by a military court martial at Man-
kato, Minnesota.
A man of. strict justice, President
Lincoln felt that many of these people had
been convicted just for being Indians.
After reviewing the verdict, he shortened
the number of actual convictions to thirty-
eight braves and _ half-breeds.
These proven guilty ones died at the
end of ropes in a multiple execution at
Mankato on December 26, 1862. William
J. Duley, husband of Laura and father of
their murdered child, William, Jr., was
designated to cut the rope that sent the
culprits plunging into the death pit.
Two thousand Indians had paid with
their lives for the chicanery of traders and
politicians. So had 800 settlers. rs)
60
THE HORRELL WAR
(Continued from page 41)
wouldn’t die, for that same month more
hostilities and bloodshed occurred. At
the end of January a few Texas sym-
pathizers of the Horrells drifted into
Lincoln and went directly to the adobe
house of Steve Stanley where they
opened fire, in the dead of night, through
an open window. They killed Stanley and
his wife as they slept in bed, and mur-
dered Joe Haskins, who was also living in
the house. They declared their intentions
of murdering Lawrence Murphy and
James J. Dolan. As the Daily New Mexi-
can forecast, “The end is not yet.” These
were prophetic words.
Murder and violence became an every
day occurrence in Lincoln County. In
July of 1875 William Wilson had a dis-
pute with Robert Casey over payment
of an eight dollar debt and Wilson later
shot Casey down in front of the local
hotel. Wilson was sentenced to hang on
December 16, 1875. It turned out to be
a gala affair. While carpenters began
construction of the gallows at daybreak,
people were pouring into town to witness
the execution. Some even came from
neighboring counties.
Opportunists hawked candy and food
to the jubilant crowd. Wilson arrived
grimfaced in an ambulance at eleven
o’clock from the Fort Stanton guard-
house. He was taken to the sheriff’s house
and arrayed himself in his funeral clothes,
‘Shook hands with personal friends, then
mounted the gallows’ steps.
, After extreme unction had been given
in both English and Spanish, the sheriff
called for a thirty minute delay. The
crowd booed its disapproval. They had
come to witness a hanging and by heaven
they were going to see one. The sheriff
finally gave in and the door was sprung
and the body hung for nine and a half
minutes. Wilson was then cut down and
placed in a coffin for burial. It was then
discovered that Wilson was not yet dead,
so they carried the coffin under the gal-
lows, put another noose around Wilson’s
neck, and hauled him into the air hand-
over-hand. Twenty minutes later he was
finally pronounced dead.
i JANUARY of 1877 at W. K. Wiley’s
cow camp eighty miles below Roswell
where present day Carlsbad is situated, a
foreman named Yopp became enraged at
an employee named Buck Powell because
of a duty Powell had failed to perform.
Yopp found Powell asleep and fired three
shots at him as he lay on the ground. Sur-
prisingly, all three shots missed and
Powell woke up, grabbed his Winchester,
and shot Yopp through the mouth. Powell
mistakenly thought Yopp was dead, but
~1877 he went to McSwe
- and he chased the men
. for personal gain, which
moments later Yopp regai
ness, regained his feet, ;
more at Powell with his us
Powell’s gun hung fire, so |
pistol away and shot hin
heart, ending the messy a
In July of 1877. attorney
wrote an article for the
Herald concerning crimes
outlaws John W. Kinney, J
Frank Baker, and others a
warrants were already ou
rest. Kinney told Fountain
start a war on the Pecos
tempted to apprehend the
later Jesse Evans and Fran
threatened the life of Mr.
war that Kinney predicted
seven months later. .
Even rich, powerful
Simpson Chisum were d
disputes. Chisum was a c
Alexander McSween and
Lincoln to discuss business
a plan to deliver Lincoln Cc
hands of its tyrants. Sho
outlaws from Seven Rive
the house and demanded
come out. When he did nc
fired forty shots through
and doors. Sheriff Brady w
canyon where he killed
Armstrong. The remainde
On Sunday, August 12, F
and Charlie Bowdre, unde
of liquor, went to McSwee
called for Chisum to come
men fired between twenty
into the house. The only d
Mrs..McSween’s sewing ma
and Freeman left, only to ¢
afterward to begin the firir
finally gave up in despa’
solace in a nearby saloon.
arrested but Bowdre was n
Seven months later Charle:
in the employ of the very
tried to murder.
From that point on Li
rushed headlong. into the
tory. Hatred generated sa‘
vendettas, and encouraged
one another without rease
dettas evolved into politi¢
foundation for the now inl
war. Without the Horrells,
would most likely never h
John S. Chisum, Lawerenc
Emil Fritz, James J. Dol
McSween, John H. Tunstall
Kid.
The Horrells not only mé
those bleak winters of 187.
they created a range wat
effect hundreds of New Mex
«<
-
at
v
President Abraham Lincoln took
the verdict under review and
commuted the sentences of many
innocent Indians. Only 38 were
ever actually executed.
and knee drawn under: her, as though she
was cold.
Lavina spoke gently to her. “Lilly.”
The child recognized the voice. “Mrs.
Eastlick.”
“Yes, honey.”
“I wish you’d take Charlie,” the little
girl: answered, referring to her wounded
brother.
“T can’t, Lilly. I must go look for Mer-
ton and Johnny.” By now Lavina Eastlick
could believe that only these two of her
brood might possibly be alive.
The child asked if Mrs. Eastlick could
fetch her a drink of water. Lavina had to
say no because she had nothing in which
to cup any, although water was falling
from the skies. The little girl sighed and
dropped off into half-consciousness.
“Mrs. Eastlick,” she mumbled, “will
there be water in Heaven?”
“Yes, Lilly,” the woman replied. “When
you get to Heaven, you'll have all you
want.”
Inching along, sometimes wobbling in
dizzy circles, the maimed mother kept
looking for her offspring. There were times
when she fell in a bleeding heap sobbing
from wounds, sneezing and coughing from
the chilling rain. Fitful sleep would close
her eyes for a minute or two. The faces
of the children would come to her in some
snatch of a dream. Then once more she’d
manage to arise and continue the quest.
Eventually she found two of them lying
not far apart. Frank was sprawled with
his limbs straightened out and his arms
lying by his side. Apparently he had died
quickly without a struggle according to
Lavina’s own description. Freddy was still
feebly alive, but in a coma preceding death.
Lavina would, throughout the rest of her
life, hear the echo of the rattle in the,
little boy’s throat. Forever, too, she would
recall rubbing his limbs trying to revive
him, calling him by name but receiving
no answer.
Three children gone now. Maybe five
since she had no way of knowing whether
or not Merton and the baby had escaped
the vengeful Sioux. Her husband was dead.
Her home was broken. Lavina Eastlick
had awakened that tragic day of the
West’s worst massacre a contented wife
and mother. She’d finished the day as a
widow and grieving mother.
MANY women cracked up under far
less in this wild land of the torch
and tomahawk. Many were found raving,
hopelessly incurable maniacs after such
an ordeal. Yet some invincible quality,
something indefinable and beyond the grasp
of anybody who has ever tried to figure
it, kept her alive through days when she
wandered across the prairies like a ‘sick,
wounded animal.
She hid in places that she would never
remember clearly. Her wounds were swell-
ing, her famished stomach aching for lack
of food. Water was dearly come by in
spite of the rains because she could no
more than wet the tips of her fingers with
the drops on the grass. Once, as she was
lying exhausted, a fox sniffed around her
thinking that she was just carrion. Two
days later she found herself back in the
swamp where the settlers had made that
pathetic stand after having gone there at
the suggestion of the treacherous Pawn.
Two more days of delirium. Days of
hunger. Days when only the memory of
her husband and children kept some spark
of life in the wounded body and the
crushed mind. Finally she made her way
out of the swamp to a high hill. From its
summit she saw houses and heard the
crowing of chickens.
This might also mean people who would
succor her. Yet how could she live among
other humans without her husband and
children? So Lavina Eastlick decided to
die, only to find that some overpowering
will to live put her on her feet again,
kept her moving in a last muster of
strength toward the houses.
Along the way she stopped by a field
and pulled an earwf corn. But it made her
sick when she tried to eat it. Half-crouch-
ing, half-walking, she reached a house—
only to find it to be her very own. The
home where she had lived with John and
her family. ‘
The savages had left the place, which
she had kept so neatly, a shambles, Furni-
ture had been chopped to pieces by axes;
windows shattered by tomahawks. Quilts
that she had pieced together with the help
of neighbor women were heaps of torn
rags lying on the floor. Buster, the friendly
old house dog, was a bloated corpse.
Heaps of ashes in the yard revealed
that the Indians had built several camp-
fires and devoured the cattle and pigs
left by the family. Several pigs, which had
been killed but not eaten, lay rotting by
the ash piles. Nearby lay the skull and
antlers of a steer on which the raiders
had feasted. But they had scorned the
chickens.
Lavina picked up a tin can in the yard.
It afforded her a drink from the well.
She eased her way to the hen house,
jerked a chicken from a perch, wrung its
neck and tore flesh from its breast. She
staggered to the smoke house and put the
meat in a barrel with brine for preserva-
tion. An hour later, she took the meat
from the barrel and placed it in a tin
bucket with three ears of corn. This was
to be her rations for more traveling.
Lavina wanted to live at least till she
could learn whether or not Merton, her
oldest child, and Johnny, her youngest,
were still alive.
“Their father is dead,” she told herself
dully. “Their brothers are dead. But what
‘vill happen to them if they are left without
a mother too, if the Indians haven't killed
them.” .
If
On that possibility a mother once more
went searching.
The fear of roving war bands made her
hide by day. Nights she cautiously trav-
elled, following the North Star for direc-
tion. The wounds became less painful after
she applied salves made from ‘herbs. A
thick coat she had brought along from
the house enabled her to sleep warmly at
night. After she had eaten the chicken
flesh and the corn, she subsisted on wild
berries and the leaves of plants that she
knew were not poisonous.
Her destination was Buffalo Lake where
grangers had broken Jand for farms. There
she hoped to find settlers who might have
survived: people who would help her lo-
cate those two children who maybe—and
her wishes kept her believing it—might
still be alive.
She fell in streams providentially shal-
low so that she didn’t drown. For the third
time, she found herself in the swamp. Then
one morning she saw a horse. Frightened, °
she froze to the ground, but its rider had
noticed motion in the grass and rode
forward to investigate.
Lavina Eastlick stood up. She recognized
the man as the mail carrier for this stretch
of settlements. But she was so haggard
and splotched with dirt and mud that he
took her for an Indian woman.
The mailman said something in the
Sioux tongue. which he’d learned after a
fashion. Lavina shook her head indicating
that she didn’t understand. She spoke to
him in French, his tongue derived from
family descent.
“All the people at Lake Shetek are
dead,” she said. “All but me.”
The mail carrier stared at her curiously.
“I guess you're another of those Canadian
-half-breeds strayed across the, border,” he
said. “But you’re pretty white for a squaw.”
“Mr. Rousseau,” she answered, “I’m not
a squaw. Look at me. I’m Mrs. Eastlick.
You know me well. Three of my children
are dead. I’m trying to find out if the other
two are dead or alive. Please help me.”
The mail carrier was all apologies and
all assistance. He told her that a few of
the Shetek settlers had survived. Baptiste
Rousseau lifted the spent woman up be-
hind his saddle and carried her to the
home of a settler called Dutch Charley,
eleven miles from the swamp. . There
Lavina Eastlick rested. Then she was taken
to the home of settler Ireland who was
mourning the abduction of his daughters.
He was now a widower and had been
wounded eight times. Pale as a ghost, he
was nevertheless determined to help his
neighbor find her two youngsters.
“I have good reason to believe that
Merton and Johnny are alive,” he said
gravely. “When I last saw Merton on a
trail he told me that he-was going to try
to make it to some settlemeht with his
baby brother.”
Lavina went to sleep in the stricken
settler’s cabin. Many times she awoke dur-
ing the night imagining that she heard
Johnny crying. Next morning, kindly
Baptiste Rousseau returned to help her
find her children.
All three—the wounded, grieving wo-
man; the wounded, helpful man; and the
postman set out on horses. At ten A.M.
they spotted Indians on the top of a hill.
The three turned their horses and rode
around the hill till they were out of sight.
Later they were riding down another hill.
From its top-Lavina looked down to see
(Continued on page 60)
ae 59
IN MINNESOTA
~~ A Collection of True Cases
by WALTER N. TRENERRY
wi — A U pee
oa Lh Aet
: |
wy ie vo .
a
THE MINNESOTA HISTORICAL SOCIETY
St. Paul, 1962
APPENDIX
Those Who Were Hanged
1860, March 23 Ann Bilansky St. Paul
On Match 8, 1859, Stanislaus Bilansky, the third member of a classic
triangle consisting of himself, his wife, Ann, and his wife’s lover, John
Walker, came down with an indispesition which all the medicines
carefully administered by his wife did not cure. He died on March 12
of arsenic poisoning. Convicted of murder, Ann fought a yearlong bat-
tle with the executive, legislative, and judicial powers of Minnesota,
but ultimately lost and faced the gallows. Mrs. Bilansky was the first
and only woman hanged in Minnesota. See Chapter 3.
1861, March 1 Henry Kriegler Albert Lea
Kriegler (also spelled Kriegerlee and Craggler) was unkind to his
wife, who found refuge with the family of Nelson Boughton. On a
summer’s day Kriegler confided to a neighbor that he was going to stab
Boughton. A week later, on September 6, 1859, Kriegler did so. In view
of the circumstances, Kriegler’s assertion that Boughton provoked him
by stabbing at him three times with a pitchfork was not believed.
Kriegler went to the gallows “on the Commons in the Village of Albert
Lea” in the presence of a large number of witnesses.
1868, March 6 Andreas Roesch St. Peter
On September 6, 1867, Roesch, a Swiss immigrant of sinister reputa-
tion, came across sixteen-year-old Joseph Saurer, who was hunting and
carried a gun. Seizing the weapon, Roesch struck the boy repeatedly
with it, killed him, and carried his body to a near-by lake. Andreas
219
SIOUX INDIANS, HANGED AT MANKATO, MINNESOTA, on 12-26-1862.
No pioneer woman went through more harrowing and ghastly |
experiences than this Minnesota wife and mother
TERRIBLE HORROR OF
LAVINA EASTLICK
by Bryan Johnson ;
. WESTERN FRONTIER, March, 1976,
USKET FIRE LEFT JAGGED, splintered seams in the
pine walls of the granger shanties built around Lake
Shetek in the four-year-old State of Minnesota. The Indians
who didn’t have muskets shot blazing arrows into stacks of
summer hay, turning them into flaming pyres that red-
dened the morning sun. A whizzing tomahawk missed a
fleeing settler, but landed in a cow’s skull.
Inside the large log house of John Wright, the young
matron, Lavina Eastlick, felt no fear of the six Sioux who
had forted up with the settlers. But she was trembling with
fear of their kinsmen rampaging and burning and chanting
a tribal paean of war on the outside.
Lavina was barefooted. She and her husband and family
had fled to the Wright cabin after settler Charlie Hatch had
ridden in to give frantic warning that the Eastern Sioux had
bolted their reservation, fifty miles away, and hit the warpath.
Everybody trusted old Pawn and his five Sioux in the
Wright cabin. They were spared confinement to the reser-
vation to live as friendly Indians on John Wright’s farm.
It was Pawn himself, rifle in hand, who had hurriedly opened
the door for the Eastlicks when they came to join the other
residents of Shetek settlement in Wright’s home.
A native of New York, Lavina Eastlick was twenty-nine
years old when she settled in the Minnesota wilderness with
her husband, John Eastlick. They had drifted from one
frontier to another in the fashion of so many restless wan-
derers never understanding what they actually wanted of
this boundless Western earth. Back in the East the Civil
War had recently erupted at Bull Run. Bullets and cannon
balls were ripping the seceding South. But here in the boom-
ing new Midwest existence added up to usual tranquility
and hard work.
Wheat grew a hardy forty bushels to the acre on land
that, for centuries, had been uncultivated Sioux hunting
ground. Lavina toiled with her husband breaking bush and
forest for the fields taking shape around their cabin. Five
children were in their household—Merton, eleven, who was
the oldest, Fred, Frank and Giles, whose ages the records
do not give, and Johnny, the baby, whom young Mrs. East-
lick had borne fifteen months before.
Nobody expected any trouble from the eastern division
of the Sioux who had been placed by treaty on their reser-
vation seven years before. Minnesota politicians and land
agents had lured homesteaders to a state badly needing
population by assuring them that “the redskins were licked.”
They were supposed to be so thoroughly conquered that the
Federal Government didn’t bother to do much policing
of them.
Old Pawn and his five Indians seemed to be living proof
of what had been said by glib tongues and in the pretty
brochures. John Wright had let them pitch their tepees on
his land, feeling that they might be valuable go-betweens
with the reservation Indians. Pawn spoke passable. English.
Settlers regarded him as being no more dangerous than an
elderly farm dog that had lost its teeth.
HREATENING rumbles were heard from that dumping
ground of the Eastern Sioux after the Union split apart.
Because of the war, an annual subsidy due each Indian was
not paid by Washington. Washington needed all available
cash for the arming of palefaces to fight palefaces. The
thieving traders on the reservation then denied the Sioux
credit for flour and bacon and other necessities of survival.
By the second year of the North-South shambles the In-
dians were literally starving. They hated farming, so had
never learned to grow subsistence food. But as they hunted
sparse, dwindling game, they cast angry glances at the home-
steads which had usurped their hunting grounds and at the
despised wheat displacing grass over which the huge buffalo
herds had once grazed. ;
Lavina Eastlick shared the momentary fears of-other set-
tlers when neighbors told her that only one in ten braves
had taken to cutting his hair, plowing the soil and wearing
government issue jean pants instead of deerskin breech-
clouts. That dominant ninety per cent remained sullenly and
proudly “blanket Indians,” holding the “cut hairs” in fierce
contempt.
These granger settlers should have learned from such
omens. A home guard should have been organized; sentries
should have patrolled the tiny settlement of Shetek with
its eleven cabins ranging up and down the lake for a couple
of miles. Lavina Eastlick, with her neighbors, simply trusted
in the arm of the Lord and the word of Pawn.
Lazy, peaceful Pawn with hardly enough gumption to
slap off the mosquitoes nipping his face when he sat fishing
on the lake’s shore; friendly Pawn romping with the chil-
dren, telling them Indian tall tales which made their eyes
bulge, handing them little gifts of blunted arrowheads and
dolls made from cornshucks; Pawn, always telling the par-
ents what they wanted to believe—that the reservation Sioux
might make noise but not trouble. ;
This morning of August 17th, the Eastlicks were staking
their lives on more of Pawn’s promises. Charlie Hatch had
come with the frightening information that the runaway
Sioux had already killed a settler named Voight, and
wounded one named Koch, .
Pawn and his five Sioux were making a great commotion
inside the cabin. They were loading rifles previded by the
settlers and pounding raw lead into balls of shot. “You men
not brother,” Pawn shouted. “We very sorry for you. We
fight the bad Indians. We chase ’em off like crows.”
Mrs. Koch entered “wet to the waist” from having waded
a creek, sobbing hysterically about her husband. “They broke
into our cabin,” she told Pawn between torrents of tears. ©
“They grabbed his gun, shot him and dragged him away.
Now,” her voice cracked in her misery, “he’s lying face —
down in a pile of mud out in our barnyard.”
“Me very sorry,” Pawn answered. “If two whites go with
me, I bring him here.”
None of the white men volunteered for the task. Women
began arming themselves. John Eastlick handed Lavina a
37
"§ pS Mrs. Lavina Eastlick with Merton (standing) who carried the baby, Johnny, to safety.
“y Minnesota Historical Society
fies bed Slat Soteee See Su
Pe tel eters
Diether wh ee i
Minnesota Historical Society Photos
broad-bladed hunting knife telling her to use the weapon
“if it became necessary.” Men, by Lavina’s own account,
took horses into the back part of the house to keep them
from being driven away by the warriors. They knocked out
pieces of chinking on every wall for still more knotholes
and got clubs and axes and put them upstairs with the
women.
There was a thundering barrage of hoofs outside—a soar-
ing chorus of Sioux battle cries that curled the hair of adults
and made children run shaking with fear to their mothers.
Systematically the war band was pillaging every cabin and
having a carnival doing it.
Lavina saw them storm into the abandoned cabin of a
settler named Smith who was gathered with the other refu-
gees at John Wright’s. The warriors came whooping out
with a load of clothing, shaking the garments to free them
from the contamination of having been worn by whites,
then carefully folding them. Afterwards they raced their
horses gleefully around Smith’s fields stamping to rubble
his corn and wheat and oats. They kept yelling and shooting
while cutting absurd and obscene capers on their ponies.
From their posts the settlers looked on in stunned amaze-
ment. The majority had come from Eastern states where
Indians were seldom seen outside of circuses. Few of these
hapless people—lured here by print—had ever experienced
the rampant brutality of an Indian raid.
A faded brochure, issued by a land agent occupying some
safe office, dropped from an eave of the house to land at
Lavina’s feet. She tore it in half furiously, then handed
the two pieces to Pawn for gun wadding. The white men
were talking confusedly. Smith, whose fields had been ruined,
and his neighbor, John Rhodes, were standing with knees
shaking harder than when they had gotten religion at this
summer’s revival meeting.
Lavina turned to the Sioux on whom they were all de-
pending for life. “Pawn,” she asked desperately, “what can
we do now?”
“Shoot,” he answered. “Shoot! It make bad Indians go
away.”
John Wright ordered the men to follow Pawn’s instruc-
tions. A blast was fired from the cabin by Mrs. Wright
standing at a knothole pressing a firm hand on a trigger.
But Lavina noticed that two or three of Pawn’s friendly
band did not fire.
She wondered why.
Her voice was edged with suspicion when she spoke to
Chief Little Six of the Eastern Sioux led the attack.
her husband and the frightened Smith. “Don’t waste all of
your ammunition,” she said sharply. “Let the Indians shoot
first. Otherwise they’ll mow all you men down before you
can reload.”
Pawn glanced at her sharply. “I go talk with bad Sioux,”
he said abruptly. “All you stay here.” (Continued on page 58)
Indians camped near a river outside a white settlement prior to the mass massacre.
as
TERRIBLE HORROR OF
LAVINA EASTLICK
(Continued from page 39)
He walked out of the cabin, two or three
of his followers behind him. The settlers
watched him parley with the war band.
To their great relief, the braves turned
their horses and rode away. But the word
that Pawn brought them once more set
off fear and division.
“They go,” he said, “but more braves
close. They come and burn this house. All
better leave for timber.”
THE MEN began debating. Some were
for flight, others insisted on making
a stand inside the house. The defenders
had no strong leader. Some of the whites
ran out of the house. Others chose to stay
and take their chances. Lavina grabbed
her baby, Johnny, leaving in her excite-
ment her knife and sunbonnet on the bed.
Holding the infant tightly, she sped across
the prairie with those who had decided on
flight. Trailing swiftly behind her were
John Eastlick, senior, and the other four
children.
The harried settlers reached a swamp
two or three miles from the settlement.
Behind them could be heard the chilling
howl of pursuing Sioux. Pawn would turn
up later. During the chase, Lavina was
wounded in the foot. But grimly she held’
on to her baby, grimly managed with . its
bleeding and swelling pain to keep up with
the rest of the party.
At the edge of the swamp, the men de-
cided to make a stand. The women and
children were ordered to hide in its in-
terior but could only penetrate a few yards
because of muck and mud. Temporarily
a clump of high grass would offer them
precarious shelter.
Then came the barrage of bullets from
all sides.
Men, women and children screamed in
agony as bullets ripped into their flesh.
The two-year-old baby of a family named
Ireland was shot through the bowels. La-
vina took a second wound when a ball
ripped through her clothes to graze her
side. A third struck her head and narrowly
missed the brain. Still she kept her grip
on her baby while urging her other young-
sters to trust in God for their deliverance.
The whites retreated into the jungle of
grass wading into mudholes and puddles
of dank water where disturbed snakes
hissed angrily. The Indians followed, crawl-
ing on hands and knees after their prey.
John Eastlick laid down his life for his
family. He sprawled twitching from an-
other volley that came tearing through the
tall grass into his stomach. From her hid-
ing place Lavina heard him moan twice.
“John! John!” she called anxiously. “Are
you shot?”
No answer came when she spoke the
third time. The children began whimpering
. and crying, asking over and over again if
their father was dead. Lavina bit her lips
hard. ;
“Hush,” she warned, “you must keep still
—or you'll be killed.”
There came a lull in the fighting. A lull,
Lavina guessed, because most of the men
had been slain. But three shots hit Mrs.
Smith in the hip. Her husband and his
partner, Rhodes, had run like rabbits leav-
ing other men to defend their families after
the exit from the cabin.
Now came shouted commands, in broken
English, for the whites to surrender. Only
one male of their party was left alive, and
both he and his wife were severely wound-
ed. Everett was the name of that couple.
58
The wives and children of the settlers now
had ‘no choice except to throw themselves
on the mercy of the savages.
Lavina bunched her children around
her. “Come,” she said stonily. At the edge
of the swamp, she stumbled over the body
of her husband. Kneeling down, she kissed
the face of the still warm corpse, felt the
hands that had turned cold, then said what
words of comfort she could to the chil-
dren facing that same stark possibility of
death. So frozen with terror was the be-
reft mother that she could not shed a tear
for the father of her youngsters.
Staggering from her wounds, held up by
her two oldest sons and Mrs. Wright, La-
vina Eastlick crept toward the place of
capitulation. One of her other boys car-
ried the baby. The weary family reached
the edge of the swamp where other captives
were gathering one by one. Then Lavina
gazed into the faces of the warriors who
led the band,
There was Pawn and Chief Little Six of
the Eastern Sioux!
Pawn had been a spy for Chief Little
Six while living among the whites and
pretending friendship. Pawn, at the sugges-
tion of Little Six, had persuaded half the
settlers to abandon the citadel of John
Wright’s cabin and flee into country where
they could be picked off like squirrels.
The treacherous Indian ignored Lavina’s
accusing stare. There was more important
business to be attended to—parcelling out
the women to his victorious warriors. Mrs.
Koch was claimed by a strapping brave
who led her off. A few minutes later, her
screams were heard from a clump of bush-
es. The two teen-age daughters of Rosa
Ireland were appropriated by a Sioux
tribesman whose face bore the deeply in-
dented cuts of many battles with palefaces.
Pawn spoke, but not in the whine he used
to beg meals at settlers’ cabins. Harshly he
addressed pretty Mrs. Everett and her
friend, Mrs. Wright.
“Me no kill you two,” he said. “Me
want you to be my wives.”
Mrs. Wright realized that an answer
would avail nothing. But Mrs. Everett re-
sisted.
“No,” she screamed. The young woman
ran toward her gasping husband, her neck
bleeding from a wound sustained in the
fight. Pawn’s gun roared. Mrs. Everett
fell dead. Without the flicker of an eyelid,
the Sioux calmly reloaded his rifle.
Lavina and another matron, Mrs. Duley,
were allotted to a giant of a warrior who
took one of them by each hand. Lavina
was holding her baby. She now handed
the infant to Merton, the eleven-year-old.
“Carry Johnny as long as you can,” she
said. “Try to keep the other children to-
gether.”
PAWN had promised the women that
their children could follow them and
would not be harmed. But Mrs. Duley’s
son was shot after she had journeyed fif-
teen yards with a second child held in her
arms and another tugging at her dress.
Just-widowed Lavina Eastlick then saw
two of her children murdered in cold
blood.
Little Freddie was struck over the head
with a club by a squaw, then held high
and dashed to the ground. Giles had dis-
appeared. The belief has always been
that he was killed. His body was never
recovered. Frank knelt, holding up his
hands. With blood gushing from his lips,
he called: :
“Mother, mother!” :
Then he collapsed from a brain injury
caused by a club.
Bleeding from her own wounds, scream-
ing and cursing Pawn, Lavina tried to
break loose from the iron grip of her
captor. Pawn raised his gun and aimed at
the kindly woman who had so often given
him sweets and coffee in her cabin. She
felt once more the searing sting of a bullet
in her flesh, her fourth wound that day.
Heavily she fell to the ground.
How long she lay there she never knew.
But she was dimly conscious of Merton
passing by with the baby—passing on, too,
thinking , that she was dead. Finally she
stirred in a half-daze. “Ponies may be
behind me,” she thought. “I—T’ll have to
move on or they’ll step on me.”
She stumbled to her feet. Her mind was
a blurring whirl reflecting the faces of her
dead children and husband. Weaving along,
but managing to stay on her feet, she
made a few yards down a trail.-A young
Indian, perhaps a scout for the vanished
war band, appeared to beat her over the
head with his rifle.
Again Lavina fell. For two hours she
managed to keep perfectly still feeling
that other warriors might be prowling
around. Then she sat up, holding on to a
bush for support. She touched herself to
find that she was bleeding badly. Rain had
started to fall. But not enough of it de-
scended to wash the blood from _ her
wounds.
She sat there till dark. Then she heara
the voice of little William Duley calling
“Mother, Mother,” followed by, “Mrs.
Smith, Mrs. Smith.” The Duleys and the
Smiths had been close friends back in the
settlement. Again struggling to her feet,
Lavina Eastlick started back toward the
swamp hoping to find the bodies of her
own dead children.
She found William Duley dying, his
face turned toward the ground. Not far
away was the corpse of Mrs. Smith, whose
husband had left his family to be mas-
sacred. The rain was now a drenching
torrent. Lavina took off her apron and
wrapped it around her shoulders for what-
ever protection it might give her from
that tempest of water.
Lightning was ‘flashing. Somewhere in
the distance hungry wolves: were howling,
attracted by the’ smell of man flesh blown
along by a high, driving wind. Lavina
recognized more dead children as she kept
searching for her own. In one spot she saw
the three youngsters of the Everetts. One
of their sons was dead. Another was lying
on his back sobbing in his sleep like a
child that had worried itself out crying.
A daughter named Lilly lay with her head
Minnesota Historical Soctety
isbbern set dae
ewe Oe Tee ey ee eee
Lh a
Ogi
MURDER IN MINNESOTA
dollars from him. Amazingly, Lemke lived long enough to describe the
crime and identify his murderer. Moshik was hanged wearing the same
black cap that Harry Hayward wore on a similar occasion in 1895. Just
before leaving this world he seemed primarily concerned about the
preparations for his journey. First he complained, “You haven't got the
rope tight enough about my neck,” and then, in his last words, “My legs,
my feet,” urged that his limbs be bound more tightly. Perhaps his sug-
gestions sped him on the way; he was dead in three minutes.14
1898, October 20 Joseph Ott Granite Falls
Ott was a German Jew who turned to farming in western Minne-
sota. A thoroughly brutal character, he found his chief recreation in
beating his wife. She had twice begun divorce proceedings but each
time had been persuaded to rejoin her husband. On May 18, 1898, he
again beat the unhappy woman with his fists but this did not satisfy
him. Seizing a leather bludgeon loaded with shot, he beat her to death
as she pleaded for mercy. After saying farewell to his six children, he
mounted the gallows saying coldly, “I bid you all good evening,” and
danced on air in the presence of some four hundred spectators.15
1901, March 29 Franz Theodore Wallert Gaylord
Wallert had domestic troubles and finally separated from his wife.
three months of living apart, he returned surreptitiously on
August 20, 1900, set the barn afire, then killed his wife and four of
his five stepchildren with a butcher knife. A posse of neighbors caught
him. As he was swung off on the same scaffold from which Ott had
dangled in 1898, “Not a word did he utter.” In view of his record
there was not much he could have said.1¢
1902, February 18 Andrew Tapper Chaska
On June 3, 1901, Tapper, age thirty-five, infatuated, wretched, and
enraged, stabbed Rosa Mixa, an eighteen-year-old waitress in the same
hotel at which he worked as bartender and hostler, and cut her throat
with his pocketknife. In passing sentence on Tapper, Judge Francis
Cadwell said, “I am opposed to capital punishment,” a sentiment with
which the condemned man no doubt heartily agreed, “but the law is
as it is, and I had to obey it.” Tapper was hanged on the same gallows
from which both Ott and Wallert had dangled previously. A hundred
and fifty observers, sworn in as deputy sheriffs, attended the event.17
224
4
4
.
MURDER IN MINNESOTA
ford said, “I wish you all good luck. These are the last words I have
to say on earth. Goodbye.” The man’s name was not Crawford, but he
refused to give his family name and his secret died with him.21
1906, February 13 William Williams St. Paul
When on April 12, 1905, Mrs, John Keller tried to break up the
passionate attachment of Williams and her sixteen-year-old son,
Johnny, the Cornish immigrant shot both the boy and his mother,
Williams’ hanging was bungled; the rope was six inches too long, and
he choked to death. Williams was the last person executed in Minne-
sota. See Chapter 12.
226
*,
APPENDIX
1903, March 6 Charles E. L. Henderson Duluth
Henderson was a Negro barber and a veteran of the Spanish-Amer-
ican War. When on June 21, 1902, he suspected that Ida McCormack,
his mistress, was wavering in her affections, he hid in a closet until he
overheard her tell a woman friend of her new interest in life. Springing
from his hiding place, Henderson stabbed his faithless inamorata while
her friend, understandably disturbed, jumped out the window. On the
day of his execution he ate two meals of chicken and champagne,
spoke with orotund eloquence for thirty minutes as he stood on the
scaffold, and died bravely. Henderson was the only Negro ever legally
executed in Minnesota. (Three Negro members of a traveling circus,
however, were lynched at Duluth on June 15, 1920, for alleged assault
on a white girl.) 18
1903, March 20 Ole G. Olzson Aitkin
Enraged because his eighteen-year-old daughter, Josephine, was
marrying someone other than the man to whom she was betrothed in
the old country and, it was hinted, because he was exceptionally fond
of her himself, this Swedish farmer stabbed and killed his daughter
with a butcher knife on March 21, 1902. He repented at once but was
nevertheless hanged, muttering, “Jesus Christ, receive my soul.” 19
1904, August 80 William Chounard Walker
Chounard’s career paralleled a popular joke; he played the piano
in a whore house. As he prospered, the whore house became his own.
When his consort, Dora, gave him cause to suspect her faithfulness to
him, he killed her on January 26, 1904. This curious insistence on
chastity in one who ornamented his place of business led Chounard
to the hangman. His death appears to have been edifying. He fell
through the drop while repeating the Lord’s Prayer, and a newspaper
reported with satisfaction, “The execution was successful in every way,
not the least hitch occurring during the entire proceeding.” 2
1905, December 5 Claud D. Crawford Elk River
On November 30, 1904, this veteran of the Philippine insurrection
was riding in a railway baggage car with one George R. Palmer and
others. Crawford and Palmer, confederates in crime, proceeded to
hold up the others, and in the melee Heino Lundeen was killed. The
two men were captured promptly. Palmer confessed and saved his
skin but Crawford was condemned. As he went to the gallows, Craw-
225
4
GA __ st. PETERSBURG TIMES _
-
_&__ SATURDAY, DECEMBER :
Bitterness remains —
over Indian hangings
By TOM KRATTENMAKER
Associated Press
MORTON, Minn. — A mile
from his home on the Lower Sioux
Reservation, Dakota tribal chair-
man David Larsen drives by one of
several local monuments to his
people’s darkest moment.
“T feel a tug at my heart,” says
Larsen, 46, as his car rolls past a
plaque marking the site of military
trials that sent 38 Dakota to the
gallows.
In the largest mass execution.
in U.S. history, the Dakota were
publicly hanged 125 years ago to-
_day in nearby Mankato for battling
white settlers, battles that result-
ed in the deaths of some 500
whites and an unknown number of
Dakota.
Larsen says he féels anger and
bitterness that white history still
blames the Indians,
Minnesota’s ‘Year of Recoiicil:
iation,” a series of proclamations
and symposiums on the 1862 con- -
flict, ends today. Larsen and others.
on the 250-memiber reservation in
southwestern ‘Minnesota say
_they’ré glad it is finally over.
“Tt’8 a farce,” says Vernell Wa-
basha, manager of 4 réservation
pottery shop. Her husband’s
great-great-grandfather was a
principal chief at the time of the
conflict.
“As far as I’m concerned, there
wasn’t any change (this year), ex-
cept more white people coming in
looking at us again,’’ she says.
“You can’t change history. It’s his-
tory and it’s going to be that way.
The whole year should have been
looking ahead at Indians’ future,
changing things.”’
Adds Larsen: “People are still
making a buck off our hard times.
It’s just so frustrating. What gets
meé is this cotild have been so much
better if they had at least got some
of us involved.”
Staté officials and academi-
cians who planned the Year of Rec-
onciliation have deemed it a suc*
cess.
“We discover by reconciling
our past, we find ways to build our
futures together,” Gov. Rudy Per-
_ pich said at an Oct. 31 ceremony —
dedicating a historical marker at a
onetime Dakota internment camp.
_ Accounts differ as to how the
1862 conflict started.
_ History books say that four Da-
kota stole eggs from a white Set-
tler’s farm after an unsuccessful
hunting trip, and that by the time
dca. left the farm, five whites were
dea
Dakota dispute that iacebants
saying the conflict began decades.
earlier when whites invaded their
territory, driving away the game
the Dakota depended on for food. |
“People have been feeling bad
about (the Dakota Conflict) on both
- gides,”’ says Roger Head, execu-
tive director of the state Indian
Affairs Council. “People just didn’t
want to talk about it.
“T think we have accomplished
our goals — reconciliation,” says
Head. “I really believe there’ sa
greater understanding.”
Media coverage, he said}
brought the Dakota some of their
only positive public relations in
200 years. The St. Paul Pioneer
Press-Dispatch ran an extensive
series on the Dakota Conflict over
the year and led an editorial cam-
paign for a posthumous pardon for
the 38 hanged.
Yet here on the reservation,
the ep proposal is dismissed as
_ Tribal leader David Larsen
_ Visits monument to military
trials of Dakota Indians.
one: more guilt-inotivated gectilre,
- The Dakota contend that the trials,
held just outside today’s reserva=
tion boundary, were a mockery
that sent mostly innocent Indians -
to their deaths or prison.
“How can they pardon some-
body when the people didn’t do
anything wrong?” Mrs. Wabasha
asks,
, Once again, they didn’t ask
us,” says Larsen, a school counsel-
or in nearby Redwood F alls. “They -
just went ahead and did this.”
After hearing of the Indians’
objections, proponents of the pat:
don quietly dropped the idea; ac-
cording to a spokeswoman for the
governor.
AP
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