The Strangling Arm.

 By J.H. Matheson
The San Fracisco Call
December 25, 1895

It is unpleasant to look back and think this horror all over again. When my mind reverts to it my hands mechanically close, and the palms become sticky with a cold moisture.

At the time of this occurrence I was acting in the capacity of United States Revenue Officer, and found myself up in the northern part of Nevada, near the Indian reservation quarters, at a new mining settlement.

 

The saloon was the best-equipped institution in camp, and I was there a great deal during my stay, which was cut short in a most terrifying manner. I noticed from the ay of my arrival that a young Piute Indian frequented the saloon and played poker with the white men a great deal. Generally he was

successful and played his hands with intelligence. He always came into the room about 6 and remained until he was ahead of the game, leaving abruptly without even nodding a farewell.

One evening during a severe snowstorm, when the saloon was pretty well filled with gamblers and miners, the Piute walked in and began to play. In less than an hour he had cleaned up over $2000, most of it being the savings of a white man who had just come in, from his claim. As the play progressed I saw that bad blood was rising between the two; the white man was particularly cross. Every time he lost his face would scowl up and cursed the Indian roundly in an undertone. His, opponent never changed his expression, and finally it came down to the last stake of nearly $200. The miner drew two cards and the Indian one. Everybody else was out of the game. The Indian called the miner for his last dollar and threw down a full hand three queens and a pair of sevens.

 

Those who stood near saw by the white man's face that he had lost. For the first time during the week I was there the Indian smiled contemptuously across the table.

Quicker than a flash the miner whipped out his knife, and, rising from his seat, fairly shrieked, "Take that, you red devil," and made a lunge at his opponent.

 

He failed to deliver the goods in a vital spot and the blade swept across the cheek of the redskin, drawing a gush of blood that splashed all over the cards.

Instantly the two closed in on each other and reeled out into the snow, struggling and striving to kill. As is the custom in the mountains the other men stood back and let them fight it out. They swayed to and fro, cutting

and slashing each other like maniacs. All of a sudden the Indian fell forward and the crimson blood poured out of his mouth as the death rattle came in his throat. In less than a minute he was dead and soon began to stiffen.

 

 

The white man, with the exception of a few flesh wounds, was unharmed. After the fight was over the crowd went back into the saloon, and the victorious man drank himself into a wild, howling drunk, pouring out the bitterest invectives over the conquered. After each drink he went to the bar and looked at the corpse to assure himself that the last spark had

fled. Toward morning, after the excitement had died down I started for my room in the little hotel half a mile up the gulch.

 

 

 

I had gone perhaps a hundred yards when I heard a wild, mocking burst of laughter but a short distance behind me, and in another moment the miner passed, trailing the bloody arm of the Indian in the snow, having taken it

from the dead man as a trophy of war. He staggered on, while I stood looking at him in horror. A long trail of red marked his course to the room immediately adjoining mine, into which he reeled .cursing and laughing almost in the same breath. The sound of his demoniacal jeers in the morning air were terrible to hear.

 

 

 With great caution I got into my room, not caring to further disturb the man, who was crazed with drink and maddened by the sight of his victim's blood.

 

With little noise I lay down on my couch, but found it impossible to sleep. In the room next I could hear the drunken miner muttering to himself, and as though he were talking to the bloody arm and calling up the incidents of his ghoulish work. Finally the gibberish ceased and presently I heard the fiend snoring in peaceful sleep. While I lay there wondering whether or not retribution would be meted out to the murderer, the snoring suddenly ceased, and the next instant I heard a harsh sound as if some one was choking. Immediately following this came a long, half-smothered yell, a suppressed curse and a gasp that could only come from a man dying from strangulation. In a few seconds came the dull sound as of a falling body, and I could almost picture a form in its last convulsions.

 

I got up, stepped out on the narrow porch, and peered into the room.

There on the floor, his eyes bulging from their sockets and looking upward, lay the white man, with the Indian's gnarled and twisted hand half hidden in his purple throat, the arm bending lovingly around the neck, quivering with fury and smearing its coagulated blood into the dead man's face as the powerful fingers choked their victim to death.