"Now look here, Mamie, it is all right to be sorry that Mr. Cummins got killed. Every honest man and woman in Nevada County is sorry. But you didn't cause his death, any more than I did. I never felt meaner in my life than I did that day, holding those horses and looking down into the barrel of that robber's gun. He had me, until he started for Cummins. And it was all over so quick, I hardly knew what happened. But I can't quite forgive myself for not jumping down after that robber as soon as ever he uncovered me. It would probably have been too late; and the horses would have run away, most likely; but still I wish I had jumped. But because I didn't jump I'm not going to hold myself responsible for Cummins' death. The robbers must hang for it, and not you and me. As for what you said, I don't believe it made any difference at all. They were bound to get all the gold on the stage that day; and they knew Cummins had some."—

"That's just it, Mr. Bailey, and that's what makes it so hard for me."

Mat saw he had been swept off his feet by his own eloquence, and so he tried again.

"Well, they would have got it anyhow. They might have wasted a minute or two more hunting for it, but they would have found it, and Cummins would have fought for it just the same."

"Yes, that is what I've thought," said Mamie. "Oh, why did he risk his life so?"

"I'll tell you, Mamie," said Mat, "everybody in this country is crazy about gold—miners, gamblers, bankers, robbers,—everybody. They're like hungry wolves, ready to tear one another to pieces. Only the wolves have more sense. Gold is of no earthly use to anyone. I'm sick and tired of the whole business." And Mat rose, hat in hand, to go.

"I hope you'll call again, Mr. Bailey," said the the girl shyly. Here was a friend in need! A great bashful, manly fellow, so kind and sympathetic!

"I'll be more than pleased to," replied Mat, determined to prove his philosophy that there are things far more precious than gold.

Fascinated with the idea, he loitered in the neighborhood longer than he would otherwise have done; and, glancing back at the dear girl's house, he was astonished to see "Bed-bug Brown" emerge from the cellar. Brown saw him at about the same time. There was no escape for either, so they drifted together good-naturedly. The little man extended his hand:

"Congratulations! When is the wedding to be?"

Bailey simply smiled, and said:

"Bed-bug Brown, detective!"



CHAPTER IX

The Home-Coming of a Dead Man

Meanwhile the body of the murdered man—noble countenance peaceful now after twenty-five years of adventure—had been traveling eastward to its final resting place. The body of William F. Cummins came home in state—home at last, where the familiar caw of crow and tinkle of cow-bell might almost conjure the dead back to life again. Three years before, at the time of the great Centennial, when, in the full vigor of manhood, Will Cummins had visited his native town, no sounds had so stirred old memories of fields and mountains as those homely sounds of crow and cow-bell.

Then neighbors had flocked about the bold Californian, eager to press his hand and to look into his fearless eyes. Now, robbed and murdered, he came home again, life's journey ended. The quiet village was appalled, and shaken with anger. Friends and neighbors flocked to the funeral—indignant youths, solemn old men and women. True, the younger generation had hardly known of the Californian's existence. To them he seemed to have come out of the Sierras like a Rip Van Winkle, who slept soundly on, asking no questions. But to the old men he had died a youth, full of promise. They remembered well the eager buoyancy with which he and his comrades had set out for the gold fields. Middle-aged men and women remembered his school days in Reedsville, when he was one of them, when they were all healthy, merry boys and girls together.

The funeral over, and the Californian safely laid in his native soil on the hillside, men gathered in groups on the corners of the village street, or stepped into the bank to look at the six-shooter which had failed their friend in his hour of need. The local minister, gazing upon the dead man's revolver, was heard to remark:

"They that take the sword shall perish with the sword."

But the bystanders would not endure the doctrine. Their Anglo-Saxon blood recoiled. And a former Californian, who was an old friend of Cummins, stepped forward and said:

"Mr. Lamb, Will Cummins was not afraid to perish with the sword. And, if he could have drawn that revolver, there would have been two dead robbers. This doctrine of non-resistance is wrong, dead wrong. We proved that in California, just as you people proved it here in the Civil War. Will Cummins was not afraid to defend his rights."

"But," replied the minister, who in spite of his name seemed eager for the combat, "the Civil War was a national crime. Think of the hundreds of thousands of young men, North and South, who perished."

"Yes, Mr. Lamb, the war was a crime. And Jeff Davis and the other criminals ought to have been hanged, just as those stage-robbers ought to be."

"Don't you see, my friend," replied the minister, "that violence breeds violence?"

"Then," rather scornfully, "you think Will Cummins did wrong to defend his property?"

"He would have been alive to-day if he hadn't."

"But that's not the point. Will Cummins died for a principle. He believed in self-defense, and was not afraid to risk his life."

"Of course," said the minister, "I admit that he was a brave man. But Christ said, 'if any man take away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also'—'turn the other cheek'—'resist not evil'—'they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.'"

"Well," said the Californian, "I don't dispute the fact that people who carry weapons are likely to get killed. What I say is, I admire a man who is not afraid of getting killed when he knows he's right. It may be just as honorable to perish with the sword as to be crucified."

This statement, savoring of the heresy that was introduced into American thought both by soldiers returning from the Civil War and by men returning from the lawless life of the West, rather shocked the minister, who was a good and sincere man. But he only said:

"Surely, you are a Christian?"

"Well," replied the Californian, "I don't know. If Jesus Christ said self-defense is wrong, then He was mistaken."

Here the argument ended. But the theme is a fruitful one; and every thoughtful man and woman in Reedsville was bound to consider it. Dead men tell no tales and make no arguments. Will Cummins slept peacefully on. But the facts of the case were too plain to be ignored; and the Californian's doubt of Christ's infallibility was widely discussed.

It was indeed a great issue, involving the fundamental principles of Christianity. A brave man, who is not a scoffer, attacks the doctrine of non-resistance, and lays down his life for the faith that is in him. A martyr, then. Martyrdom in itself cannot establish a principle; but we respect martyrdom. Turn the argument around: the martyrdom of Christ did not establish the correctness of His teaching.

But this leads to a further question, namely, the nature of Christ—was Christ human or divine? We may honestly say He was both; for if ever man was inspired He was. But He might have made mistakes, as other inspired teachers have done. And what did He really teach? Not one word of Scripture was written by His hand. The spirit of Christ—this is the important thing. The letter killeth, the spirit giveth life. Did He not caution us to look not to Himself but to God? "Why callest thou me good? One there is who is good, even God" ... "Not those who say, 'Lord, Lord,' but those who do the will of My Father which is in heaven."

Self-defense is a duty which civilized man owes to civilization. Will you tell me that the hundreds of thousands of Armenians who, making no resistance, have perished like sheep at the hands of the Turks, were better men than the four thousand who fled to the mountains and fought off their persecutors till help arrived? Read of the heroic defense, when for fifty-three days the men of that gallant band, with a few rifles, saved their women and children from worse than death. I say these men performed a duty to God and man—to the Turk himself, into whose black heart they shot more virtue and honesty than ever were implanted by the hundreds of thousands who died like sheep.

Civilized man must maintain himself, else the world will relapse into barbarism. To perish with the sword in defense of home and friends may be a sacred duty. If I have any quarrel with the Californians it is not with their courage and daring. These were exemplary. And if it is right to defend one's life, it is right to defend one's property, by means of which life is supported.

But the dead men sleep soundly there on the hill, unmindful of praise or blame, and old man Palmer, himself in a pauper's grave by the Middle Yuba, robbed in his turn, and by a trusted friend, tells no tales, for he sleeps serenely.



CHAPTER X

The Travels of John Keeler

John Keeler had found his friend the sheriff at the Citizens' Bank, putting up money on a bet that Cummins' murderers would not be caught within a year. Sheriff Carter was dealing in futures, as it were. Nothing would have pleased him better than to lay hands on those highwaymen; but,—thoroughly discouraged at the outlook,—like a true sportsman he enjoyed the humor of betting against himself in the vague hope that such action might lead to something. He was more than pleased to see Keeler, whose mysterious air clearly indicated that something was up. They walked immediately to the court-house, and were soon closeted together.

"Now look here, Keeler, if you're going to play detective, you don't want to hang out a sign, 'John Keeler, Detective.' There's blood in your eye. Any crook could spot you a block away."

Keeler laughed, and looked rather sheepish.

"Well," he said, "there's no harm done, I reckon. Those fellows are probably a thousand miles from here by this time."

"What makes you think so?" asked Carter. "They may be right here in Nevada City. Some of those fellows can throw a perfect bluff on a pair of two-spots."

"Well, Carter, I thank you for your suggestion. After this, I'll be careful. That is, I'll appear to be careless. I haven't any inkling as to where those thugs are, and I've come to you to get some points."

"I don't blame you a bit, Keeler, for wanting to look into this affair. Cummins was your partner once; and a better man never lived in Nevada County. I hope to God I can string up the men who killed him. Just step in here."

In an ante-room Carter had set up two straw men dressed in the discarded clothes of the highwaymen.

"Of course, this ain't going to help much," explained Carter, deprecatingly. "But it does give you a fair idea of the height of those fellows. Mat Bailey was in here the other day to help me with these dummies. He seems to have a pretty good idea of what the men looked like."

As his mission to San Francisco was confidential, and inasmuch as Palmer's Mrs. Somers was an unknown quantity, Keeler refrained from mentioning her. He proceeded to San Francisco that day; looked up Mrs. Somers, who gave him the names and descriptions of a dozen bad men of Nevada County; and the next day he returned to hunt up some of these same bad men. One of them was O'Leary of You Bet, whom he found without trouble. But he got very little encouragement from O'Leary; and he very soon discovered how hard it is for an honest man to get any sort of satisfaction from thieves and liars.

In the absence of any definite information he resolved to turn eastward, across the Sierras. He was on the right track, as we know. As far as Omaha it was not so very difficult to make a fairly thorough search for the criminals. However, this took time, and although he happened to pick up information here and there about a couple of rather odd-looking Californians traveling eastward with gold, he often felt that he was on a fool's errand. He fell in with Californians everywhere. If the building of the transcontinental railroad had served no other purpose, it had sent a steady stream of people away from the gold fields—a circumstance that made his mission seem all the more hopeless. Among so many how could he distinguish the criminals? True, he could distinguish an ex-miner among a thousand. And whenever such a man extended his right hand and said, "Put it there, partner!" Keeler could not refuse the proffered hand-clasp.

At Louisville he encountered a man whom he was sure he had seen in Nevada City. The man evidently recognized him also, and for an instant Keeler thought he saw a wild gleam in the man's eye. Then it was, "Put it there, partner!" and Keeler placed his clean right hand into the grimy palm indicated.

"The drinks are on me, this morning," said the man, marching him off to the nearest bar. And Keeler was so much in the humor of the thing that he was soon telling the story of the Frenchman who took lessons in English from a Kentuckian:

"What do you say in Anglais when one offer you a drink, and you accep' le invite?"

"Don't care if I do," replied the instructor.

"Don car fido," repeated Frenchy. "And what eef you do not accep' le invite?"

The Kentuckian looked grave, slowly shook his head, and finally answered in despair:

"You've got me there, Frenchy!"

The Californian laughed heartily—rather too heartily, Keeler thought; and then inquired:

"Going East or West?"

"Westward for me," replied Keeler; "and you?"

"Well, I reckon I've played my last game of poker in Nevada City. The East for me. With a little dust for capital, this country seems right good. Why, out there in the Sierras, you know as well as I do, the soil's too poor to feed lizards. Not much like the blue grass country of Kaintuck."

"Well," said Keeler, "if I had made my pile, Maryland would be good enough for me. As it is, California is all right, barring those same pesky lizards."

"The boys set too stiff a pace out there, though," replied the ex-miner. "Why, many a Saturday night I've seen fellows drop into town with a hundred and fifty dollars in dust, and then borrow the money to take the stage out Monday morning."

"I don't go in for sporting myself," said Keeler, "so I guess my character won't be ruined. The churches have got started, and they are giving the saloons a good deal of trouble."

"By thunder! that reminds me," quoth the Californian, "this here is a Christian country, and I'm going to join the church, first thing I do."

"And spin California yarns to a Sunday-School class," suggested Keeler. "Bet your class will be a large one."

"I'll do it, by thunder! The very thing! And I'll shoot any lad as gets impertinent."

Keeler was clearly out of his element, and thought it time to terminate the brief acquaintance.

"John Keeler is my name; and I can swear I've seen you in Nevada City. But you have the best of me."

"Why," replied the Californian, as cool as you please, "my name's Darcy."

It was the man who had killed Will Cummins! But John Keeler was none the wiser, as Darcy quickly saw. He and Collins had reached Louisville undetected. Had there assumed the character of honest miners, shipped their bullion by express, a part to New Orleans and a part to Philadelphia, and were on the point of dissolving partnership.

Darcy soon afterward assumed the name of Thorn, set up in the lumber business at Union City, Indiana, where it is but a few steps across the border into Ohio,—and became a prosperous and respected citizen. He actually associated himself with the leading church of the town and was looked upon by the young men as a Californian who had succeeded.

Honest John Keeler, who was well acquainted with the type, as he thought, could only remark, as his train sped westward, "There is a sensible miner! One who has safely transferred his money from saloons and gambling dens and robbers to the famous blue grass country. Good luck to him!"

He had well-nigh forgotten the incident when Darcy was arrested three years later.

A whole year had passed before Keeler returned home, discouraged. In the meantime, as we shall see, the snows of the Sierras had not chilled the budding affections of Mat Bailey; but the hot sun of another California summer had stricken down old man Palmer. Keeler mistrusted that something was wrong, as he had not heard from his old friend for several months. Fortunately, his wife and child were well and happy, but they had impatiently waited for his return. From them he had heard every week or two.

At length he was safely back across the Sierras. The canon of the American River had never seemed more terrible as the train hovered over the brink of it. And now they were at Colfax, the junction of the narrow gauge railroad, whence, at nine cents a mile, you travel northward to Nevada City. The iron bars on the high, narrow windows of the station, the low whistle of the little engine, like the lonesome cry of a wolf, as it took the high trestle over Bear River, the very bars of dirt in the river bed far below, proclaimed to John Keeler that he had returned to the land of robbers and gold mining.



CHAPTER XI

The Snows of the Sierras

After the heat and turmoil of a day when the children have been especially vexing, what mother does not smile in forgiveness upon the peaceful faces of her offspring, whose characters in sleep appear as spotless as the sheets which cover them? So smiled the sun upon the grown-up children of the Sierras asleep under the winter snow. After the heat and turmoil of the summer, the mad search for gold was over. Save when there was a heavy snowstorm, the Graniteville stage traveled over the mountains, as usual; but no highwayman molested it. It would have been a practical impossibility for a robber to have made off with booty. The snow was light and feathery, and the drifts were often twenty-five feet deep. The web-footed snow-shoes of New England could not be used with advantage in such snow, so recourse was had to skis. But it was difficult to manage these upon the steep trails of the canons, so that people generally were content to hibernate like grizzlies. Many a miner, glad to indulge his liking of conviviality, would take up his residence in some mountain village for the winter, spending with a liberal hand the precious yellow dust that he had worked so hard to get. Many, forced to keep the wolf from the door, found work with lumbermen and ditch companies.

In my opinion, Mat Bailey and Dr. Mason had a decided advantage over both miners and villagers. Like the man-o-war's man of song they enjoyed steady occupations summer and winter, and spent much of their time in the open. The cold was never extreme, the thermometer very rarely dropping below zero Fahrenheit. The dust of summer was buried deep under the gleaming snow, and the air was crisp and exhilarating. Often the doctor was one of Mat's passengers. Often he would leave the stage where some trail wound down into a canon, and putting on his skis glide away among the great pines, which, covered with snow and ornamented with shining icicles, were scattered over the mountain slopes like great wigwams of white canvas. A doctor anywhere is a welcome visitor and a friend in need; in the wilderness, in the depth of winter he ranks but little lower than the angels. Often, coming to a lonely cabin, fairly buried in snow-drifts, he would climb in through the gable window of the loft; and no doubt his descent to the patient lying below suggested the arrival of a heavenly visitor.

One glorious winter day Mamie Slocum through Mat's persuasions accompanied him from Nevada City to Graniteville. He wanted her to see the magnificence of the Sierras in winter. Mamie needed little coaxing. Indeed, her admiration for Mat was making her unmindful of very eligible suitors. Besides, she enjoyed life in the open almost as much as he did. But I suspect on that beautiful winter morning both enjoyed each other's society even more than the scenery. As far as North Bloomfield, she was the only passenger, so well had Mat and the weather bureau contrived matters. He explained that he was really in need of her assistance, for in the open places where the snow had drifted across the road, it was often necessary to attack the drifts with a snow-shovel. He would then pass the reins to Mamie, who, demurely perched aloft, rosy-cheeked and most bewitching, was a picture for an artist.

No wonder Mat should have grown confidential and talked about his personal history—which was usually bad form in California, where present fortune counted for everything and family history was regarded as ancient history. He told her how in boyhood he came to California from Virginia with his parents. That was back in the fifties, when respectable women were so rare in the gold fields that their arrival was hailed by the rough miners with a sort of religious fervor. One of Mat's earliest recollections was a scene with emigrant wagon and camp-fire in the background, and in the foreground his mother, clasping him by the hand and greeting a score of bearded men, who, with hats off, were paying her homage.

He could remember, too, how they had come over the mountains through Emigrant Gap, passing the graves of the Donner party. The tragedy of the snow-bound emigrants had made a deep impression upon his imagination. He spoke of it to Mamie, and she rather saucily inquired what he would do with her if they, too, were caught in a severe snowstorm.

"In the first place," said Mat, "I wouldn't let you start out in a snowstorm. And in the second place, if we should get caught, on the return trip, we would make for the nearest shelter and stay there till traveling was safe again."

"Oh, dear, what a stupid adventure that would be! There's very little excitement in this civilized country."

Mat laughed. "So this is what you call a civilized country? I don't see any signs of civilization except this road and the water ditch yonder."

Mat was quite right. In every direction the frost-king held sway over an unbroken wilderness. The massive ranges of the Sierras, clothed all in white, were as majestic and as untamed as when Fremont and Kit Carson gazed down upon them from their snowy summit. To cross that mountain barrier, ninety-three hundred feet above the level of the sea, would require as much heroism as ever. The wise old Indians knew better than to attempt it; and so did the miners. Only a Fremont or a Kit Carson might pass over that awful divide in safety, pushing on through the deep drifts, half their mules and horses dead, and their comrades staggering with exhaustion. How absolutely essential was that stage-road, winding over the snow fields!

Soon Mat perceived signs that made him anxious. They would reach Graniteville without mishap. But the return trip to-morrow? A falling barometer could not have made him feel more certain of an approaching storm. He began to question the disinterestedness which had led him to show Miss Slocum the splendor of the winter landscape. The girl's gay chatter could not drown the voice of his accusing conscience. Fortunately for Mat, at this juncture Dr. Mason came to the rescue like a fairy godfather.

They picked the doctor up at North Bloomfield. His baggage included not only his skis and medicine-case but a violin as well. For the doctor was a musical genius; and it had been his proud achievement to construct his own instrument, which friends vowed was as excellent as a Stradivarius. Often of a winter evening his music was more sought after than his medicine. Mamie was delighted.

"So there's going to be a party to-night," she exclaimed. Mat promptly seized the opportunity to secure the lion's share of the dances, and immediately congratulated himself upon the approach of the storm, hoping it might bring a whole series of parties.

"Bless you, my children," said the doctor, "it will be a pleasure to call off the figures for the likes of you." The word "eugenics" had not been coined as yet, but like all wise physicians the doctor believed in the idea. It made his heart rejoice to watch the budding affection of these normal, healthy young people. And he knew the magic of the violin. And so they waltzed on to their heart's content in the large dining-room of the hotel at Graniteville. At midnight, the feathery snow began to fall, insuring several other blissful nights. Between dances they looked out of doors and windows; when the drifts buried the whole first story of the hotel, the warmth of that great bare room seemed even more genial.

"The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men— Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell."

When refreshments were served, so pleased was the doctor with his young friends' pleasure, that he drew them aside to tell them a bit of his family history.

"My family," said the doctor, "lived for many generations in Ayrshire, Scotland, neighbors to the family of Robert Burns. And, like the poet's people, they were very poor. No wonder! The poor man has no chance in the old country. Years ago an ancestor of mine leased a tract of worthless swamp land for forty-nine years at a penny an acre per year. By hard labor and perseverance he drained the land and made it productive. So when the forty-nine years were up and the family sought an extension of the lease, the rent went up to one pound an acre. This was pretty hard; but by frugality and perseverance the family still prospered. At the end of the second forty-nine years the rent demanded was five pounds an acre. Think of it—twenty-five dollars a year! That was too much to endure, so my father, then a young blacksmith, was sent over to Canada to buy land. He bought three farms of a hundred acres each, one for himself, one for his brother, and one for their father, paying four dollars an acre. Here again the rich man had the upper hand. For this same land had been sold by the British Government to capitalists for twenty-five cents an acre. Of course, my people had no money to pay cash down, but they quit Scotland nevertheless. They came over in 1832, in a small sailing vessel, which took four weeks to make the passage. Then came another struggle. The land was very productive, but money was scarce and crops brought hardly anything. But at least the Mason family had enough to eat. Finally, after many years, the mortgages were paid off, and the family established."

The doctor paused, and Mat thought he saw a reason for Scotch grit. He contrasted such a history with the get-rich-quick methods of California!

"America," continued the doctor, "is the land of opportunity. With good health and industry the poor man can succeed." And he looked at Mat significantly.



CHAPTER XII

The Golden Summer Comes Again

The golden summer had come again. To old man Palmer, living alone on the top of Fillmore Hill, the great snow banks stored high upon the mountains meant abundance of water for mining. The strange flowers of California, yellow and red, grown familiar now after many years, made their appeal to him. With the returning summer he welcomed the yellow bird with red crown and black wings. He loved the exhilarating air and the glorious sunshine. But I am afraid the golden glow of morning suggested gold.

He was cleaning up several square rods of bed-rock in the ancient river bed on the hill-top, and the dirt was rich in gold. Every morning early, leaving his breakfast dishes unwashed, he carefully shoveled this dirt into his sluices, and watched the water carry mud and sand away. Once in a while he would shut off the water to examine the rich amalgam at each cleat across the trough, removing that which was saturated with gold and replacing it with fresh mercury. This clean-up was going to be especially good, and he was glad to be alone.

Treasure like this would tempt his lawless neighbors. He wanted no such rogues round as they had at Angels Camp, Calaveras County, where, according to his last copy of "The California Democrat," the post-office had been robbed of a thousand dollars, including one hundred dollars' worth of postage stamps. Postage stamps! He laughed to think to what straits thieves had come in Calaveras County.

Then he thought of his own hard-earned treasures, safely locked up in the Hibernia Bank of San Francisco and with D. O. Mills of Sacramento. Some day kindred back in Connecticut would have cause to praise his frugality and self-denial. Sometimes he thought of his blasted romance and of the poor woman in San Francisco who scrubbed floors for an honest living. Ah, well, life is hard. His own years of toil were nearly over, as he knew by unmistakable signs. Perhaps this rich clean-up would be his last. And so it was; though nearly two years elapsed before a merciful Providence released the old man from this world where thieves break through and steal the fruits of our labors.

The Woolsey boys, young men now, with the strength of the hills in bone and muscle, were the old man's chief reliance. They could see that he was failing, and felt sincerely sorry. They noted with what grim determination he stuck to his work. The tenacity inherited from a hundred generations of strong men, farmers, sea-kings, warriors, nerved his old arms and kept strong the will within him.

One day about the first of August, in the early afternoon when the sun is hottest, they found the old man within doors, washing dishes.

"Sit down, Mr. Palmer," said John, the older of the boys, "and we will do the dishes for you."

"Well, boys, go ahead. I know what famous pot-wrastlers ye be. I can't compete with you." And he gladly sat down, to examine a legal document the boys had brought him. For one Dupre, who had a rough farm at the bottom of the canon and sold the old man vegetables, had sued him for damages, because the dirt washed down from Palmer's diggings had covered up a few square rods of grass land. The damage was slight, but the Frenchman was thrifty, and had sued for a round sum. Palmer was quite willing to pay actual damages, but he had refused to be robbed. A compromise had finally been made, and Dupre agreed to withdraw his suit upon the payment of fifty dollars. To this contract the old man now affixed his signature, in a very shaky hand.

"There, I'm glad that's settled," said he. And a moment later he had fallen out of his chair upon the floor.

Miner's paralysis! Even the Woolsey boys knew the symptoms. They lifted the old man up and put him on his bed, gave him whiskey, and then consulted as to their next duty. They could not leave him there alone upon the mountain-top; nor was it an easy matter to descend to the bottom of the canon for help.

"You stay here, Charley," said John, "and I'll go for Dr. Mason."

"That won't do, Jack. It will be five o'clock before you can cross the canon, and dark by the time you reach North Bloomfield. Alleghany City is the place to strike for. Get Dr. Lefevre over there. They say he can cure paralysis if any man can."

"It's no easy trip to Alleghany, either," said John thoughtfully. "The canon of Wolf Creek is as bad as the canon of the Middle Yuba. And there's Kanaka Creek beyond."

"Then again, whichever way you go," responded his brother, "you ain't sure of finding the doctor. Better take the old man with us and make for Alleghany, I guess."

This seemed the most feasible plan. So they saddled Palmer's sure-footed horse, put his sick master into the saddle, and started down the trail across the canon of Wolf Creek. It was a long, hard trip. To the Woolsey boys, holding and steadying the old man, the canon had never seemed so deep. At last they reached the Plumbago Mine, on the opposite height, where they borrowed two mules to carry them the rest of the way. It was easy going now as far as Chipp's Flat. Late in the evening they climbed the steep trail from Kanaka Creek to Alleghany City, took their charge to the hotel, and hunted up Dr. Lefevre.

So began a long, hard sickness, the first serious sickness Robert Palmer had suffered since his arrival in the gold fields. For days he lay helpless. As soon as he was sufficiently recovered to take notice of his surroundings, he begged to be moved from the noisy hotel, with its sickening smells, to the cabin of an old friend named Lee, who lived some distance from the main street.

There are not more than half a dozen streets in Alleghany City, the principal one being the road along the mountain-side, which, leaving the village, climbs up over an ancient stream of lava, and crossing the summit of the mountain plunges down to Forest City. Dr. Lefevre was the only doctor in the two "cities," and spent much of his time crossing the high ridge that separates the two. He often wished that the miners, in pursuit of gold-bearing gravel, had dug a passage-way through the ridge, as they had done on the opposite side of Kanaka Creek, where there was a tunnel from Chipp's Flat to Minnesota. But on this side of the creek they mined for quartz. However, the miners were good patients, and some day the doctor hoped to return to France with the gold his skill had earned him.

With a Frenchman's zeal for science and thoroughness, he was a most excellent physician. By the first of October, Robert Palmer was cured. To the doctor it seemed almost a miracle; and he cautioned the old miner kindly:

"Mr. Palmer, one can never tell about this malady. To-day you are well, thanks to your remarkable constitution and a Frenchman's art. Next month, perhaps"—and he shrugged his shoulders.

"If you have any business matters to settle, monsieur, any affair of the heart, any will to make, you had better attend to such things while the good Lord gives you strength."

Robert Palmer heeded this advice; and so, a few days after, when he had returned to his house on Fillmore Hill, he wrote the following remarkable document:

"Fillmore Hill, Oct. 12, 1880.

"I, Robert Palmer, the undersigned, of sound mind, declare this to be my last will and testament. After my death it is my will that after all just, honest debts and expenses are paid, if there is any property left that it shall be divided equally between my nieces and nephews: that is, each one shall receive an equal share; and it is also my will that should a majority of my nieces believe money or other property placed in the hands of any of their number would not be used properly the others shall hold such money or property and pay it to the owner at such times and in such amounts as they may think best: and it is also my will that the same plan shall be adopted and carried out with regard to my nephews as I have named above for my nieces, except my nephews shall hold the property.

"Now then be it known that I hereby appoint as my administrators or executors, to execute and carry out the above my will, the following named persons, (to wit), John Hintzen of Forest City, Sierra County; John Haggerty of Moore's Flat, Nevada County, and Henry Francis of Moore's Flat, Nevada County: also James B. Francis of Reedsville, Mifflin County, Pennsylvania; to act without bonds, and also to act without the interference of any court of law or any Public Administrator whatever; to act at all times and under all circumstances to the best of their judgment in settling my affairs: if they have patience they may hear any pleas my relations have to offer, but I wish them in the end to stand firm and resolute on their own judgment, and take time to settle the concern whether it need one year or twenty years.

"And furthermore it is my will that if the above named persons cannot act conveniently then if two or more act they shall have the same power as if all acted; but if only two act they shall both agree on all the matters, but if more act then the majority may rule.

"Robert Palmer." Oct. 12, 1880.

Only one who knows the spirit of early California can understand this document. Its beginning is modest: "if there is any property left." What amount was the old man about to distribute? He was too cautious to mention it; and when his friend John Hintzen of Forest City, in whose safe the will was deposited, wrote asking for a list of the property, the old man parried the question.

Another curious feature of this document is that the old man chose two executors. He did not care to trust any one friend too far, apparently.

Robert Palmer, Democrat, paid his respects to courts and lawyers. His executors were "to act without bonds, and also to act without interference of any court of law or any Public Administrator whatever." He might better have trusted the courts, as we shall see, for his friends failed him. After thirty years the executors all died; and to this day the will of Robert Palmer is an unsolved mystery.



CHAPTER XIII

The End of the Trail

The gold that with the sunlight lies In bursting heaps at dawn, The silver spilling from the skies At night to walk upon, The diamonds gleaming in the dew He never saw, he never knew.

He got some gold, dug from the mud, Some silver, crushed from stones, The gold was red with dead men's blood, The silver black with groans; And when he died he moaned aloud, "There'll be no pocket in my shroud."

Joaquin Miller.

John Keeler, returned from his travels, became Palmer's trusted messenger to Hintzen, to whom the old man sent a copy of his will. Keeler was provided with another copy to deposit at the court-house in Downieville, county seat of Sierra County. For although Robert Palmer disliked courts and lawyers, he deemed it wise to file a copy of his will at the court-house. This he could do without telling Hintzen, so he instructed Keeler, after having seen that gentleman at Forest City, to continue over the mountains to Downieville, as if on private business.

Honest John Keeler, after a year spent in tracking criminals, had little liking for this new mission. It seemed as if his old friend thought all men rogues. Such a sweeping condemnation would include himself, and he resented the insinuation. However, the old man was still feeble. So Keeler set out on foot across the mountains.

It had been some time since he had been as far as Chipp's Flat. There he sought out the old cannon, long since dismounted, and sitting down upon it he thought of the changes wrought in that neighborhood within his recollection. In Civil War times, eighteen years before, miners of Chipp's Flat and vicinity had enlisted in the Union Army. There had been a full company of a hundred men, and the cannon had been a part of their equipment. But the cannon had not left that California mountain-side; and the soldiers themselves had got no further East than Arizona, for in those days there was no transcontinental railroad. Now that there was one, Chipp's Flat had no need of it. Save for two or three scattered houses the mining town had disappeared. The mountain ridge had been mined through from Minnesota, and now that the gold-bearing gravel had been exhausted, Chipp's Flat, except in name, had gone out of existence.

The next thing of interest was the dirty blue water of Kanaka Creek, and the clatter of the stamping mills on the other side of it; for Keeler was not much used to quartz mining. The name "quartz mining" seemed misleading, for the wash from the crushed rock was distinctly blue. It was evident that these quartz mines were paying well, as Alleghany had every appearance of a live mining town. Keeler stopped at the hotel there for dinner. It seemed strange that intelligent men should so lose their heads. Great quantities of liquor were being consumed at the hotel bar, poker games were in full blast, and there was a cemetery handy.

Keeler was glad to leave Alleghany to climb over the mountain ridge to Forest City. Now to the eastward the lofty peaks of the Sierras hove into view, dwarfing the mountain ridges of the gold fields. He paused to inspect the ancient stream of lava which crossed his path, and considered once more those convulsions of the earth which had thrown the ancient river beds to the hill-tops, and of which California earthquakes are a constant reminder.

Arrived at the summit of the ridge, he looked down upon Forest City, a straggling village in a barren valley denuded of forests. Church, school, and cemetery gave the place an air of permanence; but some day it might disappear, like Chipp's Flat. It lay almost beneath him, so steep was the road down the mountain. Beyond, up the bare valley of a mountain stream, lay the trail to Downieville, nine miles away. His mission to Hintzen performed, he would spend the night at Forest City, and push on to Downieville the next morning.

Hintzen kept the general store at Forest City, a business more certain and profitable than gold-mining; and having a reputation for strict honesty, he had become a sort of agent and business manager for the miners. He was one of the few men Robert Palmer trusted; therefore he received the document from Keeler's hand without surprise. But he could not repress a smile at the testator's extreme caution and resolved forthwith to ask for a list of his friend's securities.

"How is the old man now?" he asked.

"Mr. Palmer has had a close call," replied Keeler. "But he is good for a couple of years yet, I reckon."

"Sit down, Keeler, while I write him a note. You'll find a whiskey toddy up there at the end of the counter.—Beg your pardon. Forgot your temperance principles. There's fresh spring water in that bucket."

Next morning Keeler pushed on up the ascending valley of the mountain torrent. The horns of a wild sheep by the wayside reminded him of earlier days when game was plentiful. The only wild creatures along the trail to-day were rattlesnakes. With these he was well acquainted. But it did give him a start to find one twined about a branch of a bush.

An hour's steady climbing brought him to the top of the watershed between the North and the Middle Yuba. Here a scene of wild grandeur lay before him. Bare crags on either hand guarded the pass over the divide. Immediately in front lay a whole system of deep canons, clothed with primeval forests, wild and forbidding. Beyond towered a chain of rough, bare mountain peaks. Keeler paused to wonder anew at the vastness of the Sierras.

Then he plunged down from the ridge and was soon traversing one of the most lonesome and gloomy trails in all the mountains. The tree trunks were covered with yellowish green moss. In one place stood a pine stump fifty feet high with the upper hundred feet of the tree thrust into the earth beside it. At another place a huge log blocked the trail. Then he crossed a brook and was among chaparral and manzanita bushes. Then he was among the pines again, listening to their voices, for a breeze was blowing up the canon. Now he came to a spooky region which had been swept by fire, with bare tree trunks, broken and going to decay, standing like ghosts of the forest. Beyond was a clump of young firs with gray stems, so straight and perfect as to be almost uncanny. Or was it the traveler's overwrought imagination?

Now the trail turned at right angles along the steep side of a canon, and he heard the music of the mountain torrent far below. Half a mile further on, where the trail crossed the brook at the head of the canon, it doubled back on itself along the other side. The traveler refreshed himself at a mossy spring by the side of the trail, then, as he emerged from the canon at a sudden turn, Downieville appeared. It lay far below him, at the forks of the North Yuba. How musically the roar of the river came up through the autumn stillness! Sign boards pointing to the Ruby Mine, and to the City of Six, prepare the traveler for the discovery of some settlement in the wilderness. But he is hardly prepared for such a beautiful and welcome sight. Here, tucked away among the mountains as tidily as some Eastern village, lies the county seat of Sierra County. But this is California and not Maryland, for yonder comes a mountaineer up the trail with his pack horses.

Keeler lost no time in descending and transacting his business at the court-house. But after his lonesome walk over the mountains something he saw here appealed to his imagination. It was a human skull, which had belonged to a murderer. The murdered man was a Frenchman, killed for his money. This was Keeler's first visit to Downieville since the crime, and as he had known the Frenchman he determined to visit his grave.

The cemetery is up the river beyond the edge of the town; and here, in more senses than one, a traveler finds the end of the trail. Men and women whose life journey had begun in New England, Old England, Wales, Ireland, France, Denmark, or Russia, had here come to their journey's end.

At the cemetery gate, fastened by a wire, was the quaint sign:

"NOTICE PLEASE PUT THIS WIRE ON AGIN TO KEEP IT SHUT."

A beautiful clear mountain stream flows along one side of the ground and pours into the river below. A lone pine chants requiems over the dead; and yellow poppies with red hearts spring out of the graves. Many of the headstones are boards, naturally; and one poor fellow, whose estate at death was probably a minus quantity, is commemorated by a strip of tin with his name pricked into it. There is a fair proportion of pretentious monuments, which were drawn by ten-horse teams from some distant railroad station.

Marked by such a monument was the grave which Keeler sought. The symbolism was striking,—a broken column, an angel holding out an olive branch, and Father Time. And this was the verse of Scripture carved in stone:

"Man walketh in a vain shadow: he heapeth up riches and cannot tell who shall gather them."

Forgetting the murdered Frenchman in the forcefulness of the text, Keeler wondered if Robert Palmer's journey, too, would end like this.



CHAPTER XIV

Golden Opportunities

In California Opportunity knocked at every gate—not once but many times. It returned again and again, most persistently, and intruded alike on men awake and feasting, or asleep and dreaming. John Keeler had hardly spent an hour in Downieville before he had met a Golden Opportunity. On approaching the town he had passed several short tunnels dug into the hillside, and at the court-house he met the owners of one of these tunnels. Smith came from Ohio,—he had for many years been a teacher, and was a member of the Grand Army of the Republic. His partner, whom he introduced as a Confederate veteran, was a Virginian. As partners, the blue and the gray were almost irresistible. Three hundred dollars invested in their shaft would mean a rich strike.

But other Opportunities had left Keeler rich in experience and short of cash. He could not use Robert Palmer's money as his own; so he could only smile, rather sadly, and wish his new friends success. How many of his acquaintances had invested good money in a hole in the ground! Even the most prudent, in some unguarded moment, had parted with thousands of dollars, like the dog in the fable which dropped the real bone to seize the shadow. There was Mack, proprietor of the hotel at Graniteville, making lots of money at his business and losing it all in mining ventures. Only the other day Mack had remarked that if his savings had been allowed to accumulate in some good bank he would now be worth some fifty thousand dollars. As it was, he was as poor as his humblest guest. Even Dr. Mason, canny Scot though he was, could not forget the sight of ninety thousand dollars' worth of gold bullion he had once seen piled up at North Bloomfield, and so was persuaded to gamble with his earnings. He had lost as much as Mack. How rosy is the rainbow, and how evanescent the pot of gold at the end of it! California had swallowed up more wealth than its gold could ever repay, as Keeler well knew. It was only occasionally that some lucky devil, or some prudent, saving man like Robert Palmer, after thirty years in the gold fields, had anything to show for it.

So Keeler, pondering the deceitfulness of riches, sadly made his way back across the mountains. Even then Fate was weaving her web about his old friend Palmer, who was soon to lie in a pauper's grave. Francis seized a Golden Opportunity.

Francis had so far prospered that he had moved to San Francisco. In the city he could watch the stock market, as he told himself privately. To his friends he announced that failing health demanded the change, albeit the exhilarating air of the Sierras was far more beneficial than the dampness of the sea coast. But Francis, inheriting ten thousand dollars from one of his deceased brothers, had moved to San Francisco, taking with him sundry hundreds and thousands of dollars, entrusted to him by his Pennsylvania friends for investment. Everybody had faith in the integrity of Henry Francis.

The next summer, when the blue-bells were in blossom at Grass Valley, he passed through that prosperous mining town on the narrow gauge bound for Nevada City and Moore's Flat. This was the summer of 1881, nearly two years after the murder of Cummins. A still, small voice accused him of something akin to highway robbery; and it gave his conscience a twinge to pass the well-known stump which had concealed the robbers. It was bad enough that the robbers were still at large, a fact that reflected upon him. "Bed-bug Brown's" mission had proved a fiasco. But the thing that really worried Francis was his own mission and not the fruitless one of Brown's. If his own proved fruitless his conscience might be better satisfied.

But business is business, and the day was fine. Francis was a gentleman and something of a scholar. His face showed refinement, and his hands were as soft as a gambler's. He was fairly well read, and he could have told you, when the stage crossed the South Yuba, that "Uvas" is Spanish for "grapes," and that the name "Yuba" is a curious English abbreviation of "Rio Las Uvas."

When next day he crossed the foot-bridge over the Middle Yuba, where it tears along in its deep, wild canon below Moore's Flat, he was less interested in Spanish or in the grandeur of the scenery than he was in reaching Robert Palmer's. He had not hired a horse at Moore's Flat, as the livery man might be curious; so he had sauntered along through the village, greeting old friends and chatting with them now and then until considerable time had been consumed, but he knew that the old man would put him up for the night.

It was late in the afternoon before he reached the top of Fillmore Hill. Old man Palmer, much broken in health, as Francis remarked with a degree of inward exultation immediately reproved by his conscience, greeted him affectionately.

"Well, Henry, I almost thought you had forgotten me. But, of course, I knew better."

"You must remember, Mr. Palmer, that it is quite a ways up here from the city. The narrow gauge from Colfax is little better than a stage coach. It means a trip of fifty miles into the mountains to get here."

"Well, I'm mighty glad you've come. As soon as you've rested a bit, I want to talk business."

Francis argued with his conscience that the old man had invited him. How could he have refused to answer the summons? Palmer ushered him into the house, where, seated comfortably in the kitchen and welcomed by dog and cat, he partook of the old man's hospitality. Palmer was evidently much wrought up; and, as soon as his guest had rested a little, proceeded to business.

"You got my letter?"

"Yes, Mr. Palmer."

"Hintzen has informed you that I've named you as one of my executors?"

"Yes."

"And you will be willing to act, I hope?"

"Well, Mr. Palmer, I hope that won't be necessary for many years to come."

"The Lord only knows how long I have to live. It was rather hard for me here last winter. But I guess the mountain air was good for me. However, I'm going to spend next winter at Sherwood's. The Woolsey boys say they'll take good care of me; and I'm going to deed them my claim."

"Better come to San Francisco. I saw a friend of yours down there the other day, a Mrs. Somers, who always inquires about you."

"And how is she getting along these days, Francis?"

"She appears to be well. Says hard work agrees with her."

"Glad to hear good news of her. She writes me occasionally. Remember me to her when you see her."

"Then you don't think you'll go below with me?" ("Going below" was local parlance for going to San Francisco.)

"No. I'd feel like a fish out of water in that big city. I'll be comfortable at the Sherwood's. I'll have to depend upon you to send me some money occasionally."

"Hintzen writes me that he has your will locked up in his safe. I suppose you have given him a list of your property?"

"He has written me asking for a list; but I'm not going to give him any." If the old man had not trusted Francis so implicitly he might have noticed an expression of relief light up that gentleman's dark eyes.

"So I handle your funds, and Hintzen holds your will," smiled Francis. "Do you think that is fair to either of us?"

"Oh, as for the will, I've kept a copy, which you may as well look at." And he fetched the document.

Francis read it over very carefully; and then looked up with an expression of undisguised satisfaction.

"I'm glad you put it that way," he said. "You leave it to us to act in accordance with our best judgment, whether it takes one year or twenty years. That leaves us free to dispose of securities to the best advantage, and not sacrifice them in a falling market."

"Yes, I was thinking of that investment you advised me to make a year ago."

Francis winced a little; for the old man probably knew how low a certain stock had fallen.

"I see you've named my brother back in Pennsylvania as one of the executors."

"Yes; as most of my heirs live in the East, I thought your brother could hunt them up, and let you do business through him."

"That is a good idea. But don't you think Hintzen and Haggerty ought to have a list of your property? If you should die, and they found on examining your books and papers that you had trusted me but not them, why, naturally, they would feel hurt."

"Well, Haggerty's an Irishman, and Hintzen's a Dutchman. You are an American like myself, and, what's more, a Democrat after my own heart. I want you to hold the funds."

"If you feel that way, I wish you wouldn't tell anybody. For if they knew I had money belonging to you people would suspect me of helping myself to it."

Francis had been rehearsing this speech for several days; but was now rather surprised that he had the nerve to utter it. But the old man trusted him. Was not Francis almost a son to him?

If he had been, he could not have inherited the old man's property more surely. He stayed over night on Fillmore Hill; and when he departed next morning, he took with him bank books and securities and a letter to Palmer's banker which made Francis the custodian of all his money. He even took a small chamois skin bag filled with gold nuggets which the old man had saved. And he left behind at the house on Fillmore Hill not a receipt or a paper of any kind that would indicate that Palmer ever had had any money. They had burned all such tell-tale records; and Henry Francis felt that he was guilty of something baser than highway robbery. Yet, if the stock market should take an upward turn, all might be well.



CHAPTER XV

Three Graves by the Middle Yuba

Gaily bedight A gallant knight, In sunshine and in shadow, Had journeyed long, Singing a song, In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old— This knight so bold— And o'er his heart a shadow Fell as he found No spot of ground That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength Failed him at length, He met a pilgrim shadow— "Shadow," said he, "Where can it be— This land of Eldorado?"

"Over the Mountains Of the Moon, Down the Valley of the Shadow, Ride, boldly ride," The shade replied, "If you seek for Eldorado!"

Edgar Allan Poe.

Robert Palmer's diggings on Fillmore Hill are still plainly seen from the stage road on the other side of the canon of the Middle Yuba; but he who has the hardihood to cross the canon will find the mine worked out, the water-ditch dry, and the old man's house pulled down. The basement of the house still affords shelter to adventurers who come to dig for Palmer's hidden treasure. There is no other treasure on that barren hill-top, for the Woolsey boys, to whom the old man deeded his mine, worked out the paying gravel long ago.

At the bottom of the canon, and just across the cold, rushing river, is a clump of rose bushes, which mark the spot where the Woolsey brothers lived with their mother and old Sherwood, their step-father. Beyond the rose bushes, in the edge of a meadow, are three lonely graves, covered by the branches of alders, unmarked save for flat field stones, and unknown except to a few ranchmen who drive their cattle up the river for summer pasturage. The first burial was that of one "Scotty," a ranchman. In 1915 there was living at the Soldiers' Home in the Napa Valley an octogenarian, last surviving member of the Keystone Club, who had helped to dig Scotty's grave. In the middle grave by the Middle Yuba lies the body of Robert Palmer. The third grave is that of Sherwood. No doubt these Californians rest as peacefully as those whose mortal remains have been gathered into the cemetery at Downieville. Mother Earth has received her children back into her bosom, and day and night the river chants their requiem.

In September, ten weeks after Henry Francis's visit, Palmer put his house in order, and with Sammy, the cat and his dog Bruce, sought protection at Sherwood's. For Sherwood he had little respect; and he thought Mrs. Sherwood a silly woman to have brought her boys to such a home. But the boys were now grown men, friendly, generous, and strong. The old man had no better neighbors.

He insisted, proud and independent to the last, that he should provision the family for the winter. So he drew on Hintzen, who packed in an abundance of good things from Forest City. Every night the old man sat by the stove. He liked to stroke Sammy's sleek coat and listen to the cat's affectionate purring. He liked to tell how his dog Bruce had saved his life. For it seems Palmer had once started off for Forest City by night, was stricken with a paralytic shock, and, falling unconscious in the woods, was finally rescued by neighbors who had heard the dog's insistent barking.

When the snow was deep in the canon, and the supply of provisions was getting low, the old man ordered more from Hintzen. He recalled the severity of New England winters, and talked of the friends of his youth. He began to plan a trip East in the coming summer, directed John Woolsey to inquire as to the expense of such a trip, and proposed to employ him as a traveling companion. And feeling the need of some money, he bade Mrs. Sherwood write a letter for him to Francis, signing it with his mark.

For some unaccountable reason Francis made no answer, and the old man seemed much disturbed. Other letters were dispatched. Still no answer. After long waiting a letter in a feminine hand, postmarked "San Francisco," and addressed to "Rob't Palmer, Moore's Flat," found its way through the snow-drifts to Sherwood's ranch. It was from Harriet Somers. But no letter came from Francis.

Finally Sherwood suggested a registered letter. In a few days a receipt came back, followed by a letter in which Francis explained that he had just returned from a trip to Honolulu for his health, and that he hoped when he was better to go up into the mountains to see Mr. Palmer.

But the old man's strength was failing, and worry over Francis had resulted in another paralytic shock. Dr. Mason was summoned, and made his way into the canon on skis. He found the patient in bad condition, suffering from miner's paralysis in its worst form. Still, the old man rallied, affixed his mark in lieu of signature to a letter ordering medicines and other necessaries from Hintzen, and forbade the writing of alarming letters to his relatives. He hoped to weather the storm again as he had done under Dr. Lefevre's treatment.

But patient and nurses had their premonitions. He would call out in distress, "Mrs. Sherwood, please help my hand," and she, taking the stiffened fingers in hers, would soothe him so. He came more and more to depend upon her. Told her he trusted she would do whatever was needful; and, sure sign of the coming end, spoke of his relatives in the East. Save for the astronomer nephew, he had seen none of them for more than thirty years; but his heart went out in tenderness towards them. He spoke of his brothers and sisters and their promising children. Weeping, he told of his beloved mother, who died when he was a boy of seven years and left him heart-broken.

He talked about making legal provision for pet cat and dog, which did not forsake him in his weakness. Mrs. Sherwood, remarking upon such extravagance, asked:

"You have considerable means, Mr. Palmer?" And he, grown less secretive under her patient nursing, replied:

"Why, yes, I have considerable money."

The days went by, and he got no better. But his mind was clear; and he resolved before it was too late to reward his benefactors. So a justice of the peace was summoned, and a deed of the old man's claim on Fillmore Hill was drawn up, making the property over to the Woolsey brothers. Without hesitation he described his boundaries in legal fashion; and he signed the deed with his mark, before witnesses. Furthermore, he told the boys where they would be likely to find rich gravel; and they afterward had cause to praise the old man's judgment.

He became as gentle as a woman. Indeed, Mrs. Sherwood, who had hung up some of his family portraits about his bed, remarked that in his sickness he very much resembled the astronomer's mother, his sister. He comforted his friends, and told them his wishes in case he was "caught in a worse snap," as he put it.

About this time he was stricken with blindness. Mrs. Sherwood was much affected. She took down her Bible and read to him. And she read the beautiful litanies of the Episcopal prayer-book. With her boys she knelt in prayer by his bedside. The blind eyes moistened; for the strong man's heart and brain still served him well.

Only a few days before the end, when the whole body was apparently paralyzed, Dr. Mason inquired if there was any business which he wished attended to, and Robert Palmer replied:

"My affairs are settled; and, Doctor, you will be paid for your services."

The last day of April had arrived; but the snow banks were still deep in the canon. Nothing further had been heard from Henry Francis, but the old man at last seemed reconciled. Perhaps Francis was not well enough to come through the snow. It was Sunday, and at midnight came the fatal stroke. He did not regain consciousness, and died peacefully on Tuesday afternoon, May 2, 1882.

Then strange things happened. Hintzen, a large, heavy man, unused to exercise, appeared on snow-shoes at Sherwood's house and asked if Mr. Palmer had said anything about his property. No! And though the dead man lay within, he turned away and immediately put back to Forest City. Henry Francis was notified. But Henry Francis did not make his appearance. And the snow drifts being deep, Robert Palmer was buried by the side of Scotty, like a pauper.

No, not like a pauper; for there was still twenty-nine dollars standing to his credit at Hintzen's. And this sum defrayed his funeral expenses. Out of rough planks, lying about to mend sluices, the Woolsey boys framed a coffin, for which they procured handles at a neighboring village. And Mrs. Sherwood, faithful nurse and spiritual adviser, laid the old man out in his best clothes. The rugged face showed no look of annoyance. After thirty-three years of honest striving the old Forty-niner slept the sleep of the just.

The doctor's bill remained unpaid, a circumstance which would have annoyed Robert Palmer exceedingly, were he further concerned with the affairs of this world. It would appear that Henry Francis deemed it good policy to assume no obligations. So for thirty-three years that honest debt remained unpaid; while in the meantime Francis, Hintzen and Haggerty became wealthy, lost their money, and passed on to their reward. The doctor, long since removed from North Bloomfield, thieves, and murderers, was finally paid by Palmers of a later generation.



CHAPTER XVI

When Thieves Fall Out

When news of Robert Palmer's death reached his relatives, pity for his lonesome life of self-denial was swallowed up by pleasant anticipations. But weeks and months passed by with no word of encouragement from his executors. Finally, Mrs. Sherwood, thinking the heirs were being defrauded, wrote East urging that some member of the Palmer family visit California. So the astronomer nephew, at considerable expense to himself, was delegated to cross the continent. At the end of August he found himself in the Sierras once more. On horseback he visited Sherwood's ranch, and his uncle's house on Fillmore Hill, ran the gauntlet of rogues at Alleghany, and passed on over the mountains to Forest City and Downieville. It was a glorious outing, in spite of the dust. How brightly the stars shone down on the Sierras! But the further he investigated the deeper grew the mystery. Dr. Mason told the story of the sixty thousand dollars loaned by Robert Palmer to the water company. But the three California executors, reputed honest men, assured the nephew there was no money to be found. Bankers in Sacramento and San Francisco were polite but disappointing. All the astronomer brought home was Mat Bailey's story of the murder of Cummins, a copy of Robert Palmer's will procured at Downieville, and a problem which defied his higher mathematics. "Set a thief to catch a thief;" the astronomer was an honest man.

A few months after his return from California, the tangled web of my yarn began to unravel. Mat Bailey had reported that nothing had been heard of the highwaymen "from that day to this." But John Keeler's work had not been done in vain. O'Leary of You Bet, the Nevada City jail-bird, had been duly impressed with the handsome reward offered for the apprehension of the murderers. So every time he met an old acquaintance he talked about the murder of Will Cummins. It was a simple method of procedure, and it did not prove immediately successful. As it was about as easy to be a vagabond in one locality as in another, he drifted from place to place—first to Sacramento, then to San Francisco, then over the Sierras to the mining camps of Nevada, then through Utah and Wyoming, till at last he found himself in jail in St. Louis.

There, three years after the murder, he found his old pal J. C. P. Collins—but how changed! Could that coarse and bloated countenance belong to the fastidious and pleasure-loving Collins?

"Well, Collins, I hardly knew you. How does the grub here compare with what we used to get at Carter's boarding-house?" O'Leary referred to the jail at Nevada City.

"This must be your first week in St. Louis," replied Collins, "if you haven't put up at this hotel before. Been caught stealing again, I suppose?"

"That's me. Only the matter of a lady's purse that was of no use to her."

"Well, women are the cause of all my trouble. They drag a man down worse than drink. They are a bad lot, are women."

"Why, you're a regular preacher, ain't you? You used to be a ladies' man."

"That was in California."

"How's the wild and woolly?" asked Collins, presently, looking his old pal over contemptuously.

"Oh, I know I ain't stylish like you Eastern dudes. I'm a honest miner, I am. And I don't wear boiled shirts like you."

"You're honest, all right. We'll leave that to Sheriff Carter. Remember how he caught you stealing that Chinaman's dust? I can see that Chinaman's sign now: 'Heekee & Co., Gold Dust Bought.' By the way, what's become of my old flame back there?"

"Oh, a lady? I don't remember no ladies that was acquainted with gents like us."

"I don't reckon you know the girl I mean. She wasn't in your class, that's a fact."

"Maybe I can tell you if you'll just say her name."

"Well, I'm inquiring after Miss Mamie Slocum, the sweetest little girl in Nevada City."

"You're joking, sure. That girl never had any use for the likes of you. Mat Bailey would knock your head off if he heard you breathe her name."

"Insult me as much as you like. 'No fighting' is the rules of this hotel. I asked you, how is that little girl? Sweet on Mat Bailey, is she? Well, I'm glad of it."

"Yes; she and Mat have been good friends ever since Will Cummins was killed."

"So? How's that?"

"Why, you know she came down on the stage that day, and saw it all. Some say she knew the robbers and helped them find Cummins' bullion. I guess Mat was in the deal, too. Anyhow, she and Mat have been good friends ever since, as I tell you."

"Now look here, O'Leary, you're dead wrong. That girl is as innocent as you are."

"Sure! The judge just sent me up for snatching a purse, you know."

"I tell you that girl knew nothing about the hold-up."

"It must have happened after you left California, or you wouldn't be so sure. I'll tell you about it. Stage comes down from Moore's Flat. Mamie Slocum talks and laughs with Will Cummins. Sees where he stows his old leather grip. Sings out to the robbers, 'That's Mr. Cummins' valise under the seat there.'"

"That's a lie, and you are a fool to believe it!"

"I'm telling you the facts."

"The facts! Why, man, wasn't I there? And don't I know just what happened?"

Astonished at this outburst, O'Leary looked hard at Collins. There was no mistaking his earnestness; and he only leered at the other's astonishment. O'Leary was discreet enough to say no more; and Collins seemed to think his secret safe enough in the keeping of an old pal two thousand miles from the scene of the murder. But that very night O'Leary telegraphed to Sheriff Carter of Nevada City:

"Man who killed Cummins in jail here. Come at once.

Pat O'Leary."

John Keeler and Henry Francis happened to be at the railroad station the next morning, when Carter started for St. Louis; and he showed them the telegram.

"When thieves fall out," remarked Keeler; and Francis winced. Was it because he foresaw that the ten thousand dollar reward would be claimed? or was it for some other reason? Keeler wondered.



CHAPTER XVII

Brought To Justice

There was no serious doubt in Sheriff Carter's mind as to the importance of O'Leary's telegram. He hoped that the murder of Will Cummins was, at last, to be avenged; and, as he had admired and loved that chivalrous man, he resolved to use every means in his power to bring the murderers to justice. But he realized what a difficult task it would be to get them hanged.

There was a strong sentiment in California against capital punishment. There seemed to be little objection to murder committed by private citizens, but people raised their hands in horror at what they were pleased to call judicial murder. What right has the State to take so precious a thing as human life, even though the life be that of a hardened criminal? Carter was sick at heart. He had watched the most depraved characters, fed and clothed and guarded at the public expense, spend their days in shame and utter uselessness. It would have been a mercy to have terminated their existence; and it would have instilled respect for law in the minds of other criminals.

But the immediate problem of Sheriff Carter, as it is the immediate concern of this story, was to capture the murderers. Carter went armed with proper legal documents, handcuffs, and a pair of derringers—for the sheriff of Nevada County could shoot straight simultaneously with both hands. Two faithful deputies accompanied their chief, and all three were well supplied with the sinews of war in gold and bank-notes.

Arrived at St. Louis Carter immediately got in touch with O'Leary, and cautioned him not to alarm Collins, for proper circumspection might lead to the capture of both murderers. Showing his credentials to the proper authorities, he took them into his confidence, and thus made sure that Collins would not be discharged from jail without his knowledge. Then he and his deputies retired to their hotel for rest, refreshment, and poker.

In less than three days the chief of police showed him a letter written by Collins to Thorn. The missive ran:

"dear Thorn, alias Darcy,

don't let your old pal bother you eny I suppose you are having a revival in your church about this time and converting a great many sinners. give my kind regards to the widow Brown, and I hope she will marry you soon. I expect to leave this hotel in ten days, so will need $50. send post office order, St. Louis, general delivery.

Your old partner, J. C. P. Collins."

It was evidently a blackmailing letter. The sheriff remembered Darcy of old, and the chances seemed good that Thorn alias Darcy was the other highwayman. So, taking O'Leary along to assist in the identification, he set out for Union City to deliver Collins' letter in person. No doubt this Thorn was a harder man to catch than Collins. He had had sense enough to change his name and to join a church. So Carter approached Union City rather cautiously, leaving O'Leary with one of his deputies in Chicago with orders to wait for a telegram. Accompanied by the other deputy he arrived at Union City rather late at night, to avoid publicity.

There he learned that Thorn had been in town nearly three years. That he was engaged in the lumber business, was prosperous, highly respected and was prominent in the leading church of the town. He was away on business in Chicago at the time, but was expected to return in a week or two, as it was rumored that he was soon to marry.

The sheriff's disappointment was much relieved by the receipt of a telegram the next morning:

"We have got Darcy corralled here. Come at once.

Pat O'Leary."

"Just as well that we brought O'Leary along," remarked Carter to his deputy. "You stay on guard here till you hear from me."

In Chicago the sheriff found that his deputy had promptly arrested Darcy on O'Leary's identification, and had had the man locked up. But on visiting the jail, Carter was considerably in doubt if he had ever seen the prisoner before. The Darcy he remembered was smooth shaven, bronzed through exposure to the California sun, rough and rather desperate in appearance. This man wore a beard, was well dressed, rather pale from confinement in his office, and of sanctimonious countenance.

"But that's Darcy, all right," O'Leary assured him. "Same eyes, and same mole on his neck. Just read him that letter from Collins, Mr. Carter."

At the name of Collins the prisoner winced visibly. For some time he had realized that Collins might betray him; and he had thought seriously of ending that scoundrel's career.

Carter followed up the advantage quickly.

"I think this is Mr. Thorn of Union City?" he inquired politely.

"That's my name," said the man, "and I live in Union City, as I told the officer."

"I've just come from Union City," replied Carter quietly, "and happen to know that you are a respected citizen of that place. Don't suppose you ever heard of J. C. P. Collins of Nevada County, California?"

"I was a miner in California several years, but I don't remember anybody by the name of Collins."

"It's singular then that Collins should call you his old pal and address you as 'Dear Thorn alias Darcy.'" And Carter presented Collins' letter.

"You're wanted, Thorn, alias Darcy, for the murder of William F. Cummins." The sheriff looked at the prisoner so sternly that the man wilted. "Collins has owned up, and you might as well do the same."

"O God!" groaned the man, "my sin has found me out. I killed Cummins with my own hand; and I am ready to pay the penalty."

His religion had not been all humbug, by any means; and now he asked permission to visit Union City to make public confession of the murder. But Carter had left Collins in jail at St. Louis, and saw no reason to delay the arrest of that scoundrel in order to gratify the wishes of a confessed murderer. So he proceeded to St. Louis at once, arrested Collins, who seemed rather shocked and grieved to meet his old friend the sheriff once more; and hurried the prisoners back to California.

There was great excitement in the gold fields, you may be sure, when it was announced that Will Cummins' murderers were safely lodged in jail, more than three years after the crime. Surely, California was becoming civilized, and at last Nevada County was actually to try a couple of men for murder.



CHAPTER XVIII

The End of J. C. P. Collins

At Nevada City, with its pleasant homes scattered on the hills either side of the deep gorge of Deer Creek, the traveler lingers awhile to drink in the romance of the gold fields. Roses and poppies that bloom profusely in the front yards are "emblems of deeds that are done in their clime." The very soil, like the flowers that spring therefrom, suggests gold and the red blood so freely shed for it. Here and there are eloquent, though silent, reminders of the exciting days of placer mining and highway robbery, when Wells Fargo and Company brought treasure out of the mountains guarded by armed men.

At the court-house Nevada County is advertised as the banner gold county of California, with a total output of $300,000,000; a yellow block on exhibition represents the bullion taken from the Malakoff Mine in one month, and valued at $114,289. In a showcase at the Citizens' Bank are exhibited four of the buckshot which killed T. H. Girard on October 31, 1887. Also, a bit of hemp rope with a tag, on which is written:

"The end of J. C. P. Collins Feb. 1, 1884 Compliments of Sheriff Carter."

In vain one may search for a similar reminder of the highwayman Darcy, the actual murderer of Will Cummins. But at the scene of the murder, the stage-driver of the present generation tells his passengers that Darcy was paroled several years ago, after spending thirty years in prison. He may add that Darcy, the ex-convict, is an inert and lifeless creature, married to a paroled woman as lifeless as himself.

Darcy's friends in Union City would not have it appear that their model citizen was a murderer. They protested stoutly, and in the end the tax-payers for thirty years were burdened with the care and keep of the criminal.

As it has already been remarked, murders in Nevada County were common enough; but a murder trial was almost unheard of.

The State tried Collins first. He had no friends, except of the baser sort; and his conviction might make it easier to convict Darcy. Mat Bailey and Mamie Slocum were important witnesses for the State; and Collins himself, poor debauchee though he was, was man enough to clear Mamie of all suspicion. She freely told of her conversation with him when he had recommended the gallantry of gentlemen of the road. And she admitted that she had always been haunted by the suspicion that the highwayman with whom Cummins had grappled might have been Collins, who had so strangely disappeared after the robbery. No; she could not identify him as the man who asked about Cummins' valise. She was not sure about his voice. She was too much frightened to be sure of anything.

As Collins seemed less interested in saving his own worthless life than in establishing the innocence of Mamie Slocum, he was promptly convicted. The judge sentenced him to be hanged on Friday, Feb. 1, 1884.

Sheriff Carter could not see why, if Collins was guilty, Darcy was not. But good souls from Union City showed how exemplary had been the life of their brother since he came among them, and the lawyer whom these good people employed pointed out the shame and disgrace that would be suffered by a worthy family if one bearing the name of Darcy should die upon the scaffold. It is strange that in such cases the lawyers on the other side do not show that the shame and disgrace come with the commission of the crime, and that honest punishment endured for the same is the one means left the criminal to atone for the injury he has done the good name of his family.

There was no doubt as to Darcy's guilt; and he was man enough to have paid the extreme penalty willingly. For thirty years he lived the monotonous round of prison life, becoming more and more like a dumb animal, and paroled at last in his old age little better than an automaton—the qualities of daring, thrift, and religious enthusiasm long since dead and gone.

Throughout the trial of both men, Henry Francis was an interested spectator. The court-room seemed to have a fascination for him, although he was now a rich man with important demands upon his time. It was whispered about that the Pennsylvanians had spent a hundred thousand dollars hunting the criminals down; and some people were fanciful enough to see in Henry Francis the highwaymen's Nemesis. He made a very dignified Nemesis indeed. He looked grave and thoughtful, and his newly acquired wealth lent dignity to his refined countenance.

But it occurred to John Keeler that somehow it appeared as if Francis imagined himself sitting at his own trial. He seemed to show an almost eager interest in the subterfuges and the raising of legal dust by means of which counsel for the defense endeavored to blind the eyes of the jurors. Keeler hardly dared to let his fancy run on to logical conclusions. It seemed too much like condemning a man without giving him a trial. Yet he could not help being haunted by the thought that some thieves are too shrewd to assume the risks of highway robbery. In his own mind this thought constituted the one valid argument against capital punishment. For if common scoundrels are to be executed what severer punishment is left for the more crafty villain? But he could see that a sensitive nature like that of Francis was capable of infinite suffering; and he thought of the words of Scripture, "Verily they have their reward."



CHAPTER XIX

The Home-Coming of Another Dead Man

"The mills of the gods grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small."

For example, there was Robert Palmer, who after thirty years spent in the gold fields had accumulated considerable treasure. But choosing to dig for gold and to live among adventurers, thieves, and speculators, he had come to distrust human nature. He became so secretive that even at the approach of death, when the kindly French doctor had given him fair warning, he would confide in only one man. Verily, he had his reward.

Incidentally, the three Californians whom he had named as his executors prospered. They may not all be included among the forty-one thieves of this story, but it may not seem unreasonable to suppose that Henry Francis made it worth while for Hintzen and Haggerty to keep quiet. The point is that all three executors prospered—and then died penniless.

Hintzen made so much money over at Forest City that he left for Arizona, where he invested in copper, and lost everything he had. Haggerty, who remained in his store at Moore's Flat, where he had made money rapidly, speculated and lost all, including the savings of a few poor people who had trusted him. Henry Francis speculated in the stock of the famous Comstock mine, in the adjoining State of Nevada, lost the fortune he had wrongfully acquired, and died broken-hearted. It was only six years after Palmer's death that he collapsed, and was taken home to Reedsville, Pennsylvania.

Here, ostensibly the victim of tuberculosis, he lingered a year to taste the bitterness of poverty and wretchedness. Then he died, and suffered the usual eulogy poured out by country ministers.

A charitable author must admit the virtues of his "heavy-villain." The sun rises upon the evil and the good, and rain descends upon the just and the unjust, for the simple reason, no doubt, that no other arrangement would be possible, inasmuch as there are no people who are entirely good and none who are wholly bad. In every man the forces of good and evil are at war.

If Henry Francis yielded to temptation there were extenuating circumstances. In the first place, Robert Palmer's will distinctly stated that everything was left to the judgment of the executors. They were to stand firm and resolute on their own judgment "and take time to settle the concern whether it need one year or twenty years."

Possibly Francis reasoned that investing the old man's money in a certain way would, within a very few years, double the estate, and thus render a service to the heirs. And if at the end of three or four years the event had proved the soundness of his judgment, was it wrong to exercise that judgment in further ventures? The will gave him twenty years. Weren't the executors acting "at all times and under all circumstances to the best of their judgment?" If conscience demurred that Hintzen and Haggerty were left in the dark, so that "their judgment" had come to mean simply the judgment of Henry Francis, had he not proved that judgment good?

He knew that when he had given the heirs to understand that there was no property, he had prevaricated. But had he not heard their pleas with patience, just as the old man had directed? And if Robert Palmer's estate were settled right then, at the end of four years, would the heirs complain of circumstances which had doubled their inheritance? No doubt conscience inquired if Francis was thinking of postponing settlement indefinitely. And no doubt prudence suggested a settlement now when all was going well. But once let the estate slip from his control, and he would become a comparatively poor man; while the twenty-nine heirs might squander their money foolishly.

While he was debating the question, it was only proper to keep the money well invested. And if at the end of the fifth year his securities had shrunken seriously in value, it was natural to wait another year for values to become normal. When the crash came, the injury to his vanity hurt him more than his wounded conscience; that he had learned to soothe, but his pride had never before been humbled. And so it was said that Henry Francis died of a broken heart.

His sister Mary, who nine years before had brought back to Pennsylvania the corpse of the murdered Cummins, was now summoned to carry another dead man home. True, he lived a year to contemplate the ruin of fortune and honor, but he was mortally wounded. Most pathetic of all, he was resolved to suffer in silence. Brothers and sisters should not share in his disgrace. He had gambled and lost. But he would not tell them that he had gambled with his honor.

There is still balm in Gilead, even for a sinner! It was good to feel the touch of his sister's hand, to taste the delicacies that only she could prepare. The last long journey over the plains, at the end of which he would find rest on the hillside where Will Cummins slept, was almost as peaceful as his. He had renounced the world of thieves and gamblers, and was going home.

Arrived in his native valley, he marvelled at its beauty. Why had he ever left it, to risk life and honor in the pursuit of riches? Man's needs are so simple! How easily he might have thriven among such kindly neighbors! None of them could be called rich, but they had an abundance of this world's goods, with something to spare for him, the returned prodigal. What does it profit a man to gain the wealth of California and lose his own soul? Had he lost his soul, then? He had proved unfaithful to his friend. Or had he been simply unfortunate? Ah, well! he hardly knew. He was eager to see Robert Palmer again in the world to which he was hastening. Then he would confess all, and be forgiven. For Robert Palmer had loved him like a son. Yes, that was what made the cup so bitter!



CHAPTER XX

The Bridal Veil

"Where ancient forests widely spread, Where bends the cataract's ocean fall, On the lone mountain's silent head, There are Thy temples, Lord of All!"

Andrews Norton.

As the trial and execution of J. C. P. Collins were the last acts in his worthless career, so they were the last but one in the courtship of Mat Bailey and Mamie Slocum. These comparatively young people were married soon afterward. They were married and did not live happily ever after; but they certainly enjoyed greater happiness than that which fell to the lot of their friends, John Keeler and Dr. Mason only excepted.

During a long life John Keeler reaped the reward of sterling integrity. To the end of his days he remained a poor man. But no one in all Nevada County was more highly respected. Not that he was much interested in what other people thought of him, as he strove simply to win the respect of his own exacting conscience.