Evening Mail – Fremantle 23 March 1908, page 1
Never was his guilt in question: never, if the system of capital punishment is right — and there are none of us mortals capable of definitely settling that problem— was there a fitter subject for the gallows than Smith.
Many hold that capital punishment forms a violation of our social system; that the carrying out of the maxim, “A life for a life,” is nothing but a barbarous custom of bygone ages. But the law of this twentieth century says that if one man robs another of his life, then he shall die for the deed. It is the duty of the powers to be to adhere to this law, for they are told that it is the most effective deterrent to the heinous crime of murder. So that in executing Smith, the community is satisfied that there has been an expiation of his crime. The law has had its grim revenge, and it is content.
Tale of Tragedy – A Brutal Crime
Miner Murdered in his Sleep
The Last Chance Mine
William Clinton -His Life – And Death
Eighty Feet Below
Clintons Camp – A Warning!
At Clinton’s Camp, “Watch yourself, tonight, Bill! ” The words jerked out with a curious hesitating suddenness from the youth at the door of the hessian camp, appeared to surprise the slightly older-looking man who stood inside. “Why?” he questioned. ” I don’t think you’ll be safe here tonight,” was the reply. William John Clinton, a blacksmith’s striker on the Great Fingall gold mine at Day Dawn, stretched his brawny arms and chuckled amusedly, “Goodnight, Jim,” he called, “don’t forget you’re always welcome.” Strong words had echoed round the shanty a short hour before, the subject of conversation being a woman. But all was quiet now, as three men prepared for rest.
A long retort—a long, low groan, twice repeated. George Bloomer wakes up from his sleep. He had been dreaming badly, and now smells powder. A sound of heavy, short breathing from the next room draws nearer. A man’s figure enters, and the erstwhile sleeper hears a hoarse mutter,
“I’ve settled him, Shot him in the back of the head.”
Darkness, only slightly relieved by the far-off glimmer of myriad stars. Dogs barking dolefully in the distance. Several figures are moving around the old abandoned workings on the Last Chance Lease. Horror abroad on the dark air. A long, low whistle sounds from Clinton’s camp, and a heavily laden figure staggers across the intervening space. His breath comes in unequal gasps, and suddenly he relinquishes his load, which falls to the earth inertly.
Clinton’s Camp with the Last Chance Shaft in the distance. The dotted line shows the blood trail.
Corpse Carrier at the Last Chance Lease
A moment later, and a strength born of demons seems to animate this toiling shape. He is dragging his burden now, and as the approach to the workings is neared, the starlight seems to deepen. The rays strike directly upon a face, fast set in death—on glazing eyes and stiffened limbs, on matted hair, clotted with lifeblood. Next instant, a murderer’s muscles are strained for a supreme effort, and a mangled corpse hurtles through the air, to fall with a thud—eighty feet below.
The Great Fingall Sunday Shift
Sunday morning, Jan 5, and the sun is swinging high above the Great Fingall Mine. The early shift is going off duty, and a casual inquiry is being made for an absentee. Has anyone seen Bill Clinton? Yes, several saw him last night! Sober? One said Bill had gone to Cuddingwarra “Oh, well, he’s lost his shift, anyhow!” The big cages glide down from the shaft head, and the bustle of another day continues.
Blood Specked Tracks – Suspicion Aroused
Twenty-four hours later, a man named Baker, whose camp adjoins that of Clinton, tells of sundry curious tracks he has seen leading to the old workings on the Last Chance Lease. He also spoke of bloodstains, and before long was a leading party to the spot indicated. Yes! The tracks are certainly very distinct. It looks as though two persons had dragged some heavy burden along just here and flung it down. He called for somebody to go for the police, and who’s got the longest rope handy? Willing volunteers were at hand to descend to the depths, and there, half-buried in mullock, the skull smashed in, and an upward bullet wound in the throat, is discovered the corpse of William Clinton, the man who had missed his shift. Above, in the sunlight, curious groups gathered and bent over the blood-specked trail.
William John Clinton – The Victim – 26 years old – Image TROVE
