Days of '49/Chapter 15

A small herd of lean long-horned wild cattle edged cautiously out of the trail on the bluff above the river and paused, peering and sniffing as they looked up and down the valley, and across into the camp. They were light tough cattle, used to feeding on parched grass and hunting their own water. They stared uneasily, then swung about, turning on the trail, meaning to go back. There was a headlong rush of two horsemen at their flanks, the shrill ya-i! of the vaqueros, and the cattle bolted down the steep trail, stumbling, sliding, falling.

The two small wild, nearly black vaqueros followed recklessly, throwing up merry yells.

Their hair was long, untrimmed; their heads were bound with bright cloth; they wore high-crowned wide-brimmed hats, strapped under their chins, buckskin breeches, with heavy leather bound around their legs. Each man carried a knife in his right legging.

The saddle trees they used were little more than bare wood and rawhide, with a high knob horn. The seat was softened by hides strapped across it The stirrups were wide, thick, of heavy wood, and the men rode with straight legs.

Their riatas were of plaited hide. Hair ropes, however, were used for picketing, as coyotes chewed leather. The first toy that the son of a vaquero had was a riata.

The two vaqueros sent the cattle at a gallop through the camp and bunched them in the butcher's rough corral. They reined up, saluted the Americano butcher good-naturedly, and waited, grinning. They could not speak English. They brought cattle and took away gold. They did not know how much gold; but they took it to Don Ramon. The barter was as rudely primitive as that of hill tribes of negroid savages who brought down goat's flesh to exchange with coast dwellers for salt.

Hales came to them. They answered him eagerly and, though half or nearly all Indian, they were polite.

Yes, Don Ramon Arnaz lived some thirty miles off, toward the sea; yes, he had a wife and children; yes, they had heard of Don Miguel Carrillo; yes, they would take the señor and the señorita to the rancho. And God must love a gringo, they said, to make him look so like a Spaniard and speak so well the tongue!

They became excited at the mention of José de Sola. Ah, Mother of Heaven, care for him. He was dead!

"José de Sola, dead!"

"Si, señor, it is the truth. Don Ramon himself had said it!"

There had been a fight with Americanos. Don José had been killed. His head had been cut off to be shown to some gringo who had offered much money for it.

Time meant little to them. Haste was something unknown in California until the cursed gringos came with it. The vaqueros camped that night by the butcher's corral, slept under the serapes and on their horse blankets, and the next morning they were up early, ready to start with Hales and Lucita.

It was a long ride. No one spoke of Don José. The vaqueros, with the instinct of birds and the horsemanship that sent them scrambling over rough places like wild goats, cut across country, through timber, down hills that had no trails but those of wild animals, came out into nearly treeless valleys through which round-topped hills billowed; then, near the end of the day, reached Don Ramon's rancho.

The house was an oblong, one-story adobe, thatched with tules and mud. The floors were earth, partly covered with worn mats. The corral was near the house and by the corral the ramada, a shelter with a roof only where the vaqueros loafed and camped. There were trees by the house, no vegetation. It was like many of the more remote ranchos.

The Californians, particularly those at a distance from the cities, were not sybarites; they lived in the saddle, ate beef, held a rodeo twice a year and slaughtered cattle for hides and tallow; they were not educated but they were gentlemen; on times of holiday they dressed richly and preserved always something of the manners of Old Spain. When the family went on a visit to another rancho, or rather on a tour of visits, the laces, the combs, the dresses, the mirrors, all that was valuable, were packed in a heavy chest and taken on the wagon. The ranch house was left open, unwatched. Few of these ranch houses had doors. In bad weather the doorway was hung with hides. Visitors were always welcome; whether they remained over night or for a month, they were welcome. The simple faith of this pastoral people was that what God has given, the guest may use.

Don Ramon was a tall, straight man with a gray beard. His sombrero weighed about six pounds. He wore a yellow sash and velvet jacket. The silk and velvet were not cleaner than much dust and wear usually leaves such things, but they were silk and velvet; and he had others, fresher, more fine, for festival days.

He came from the house as the party drew near, and took off his sombrero as he saw that Lucita was such a one as his own daughters. His head was bound with a scarf. He was patriarch among a cattle-raising people.

Hales dismounted and removed his own sombrero.

"Señor Arnaz, this young girl in madness has run from her parents to be with the man she loves. She is Señorita Lucita"

When Hales had finished, Don Ramon helped Lucita from her horse and took her to the doorway, calling upon his wife who was already there, listening.

He came again to Hales and said:

"It is true, señor, that one of the de Sola brothers has been killed. I know both of them. Which one is dead I do not know. The first report said that both were dead, but I am now sure that one lives.

"As my own daughters, to all of whom God has given worthy husbands, she will be treated. The gringos, señor, steal my cattle and horses. They drive my cattle into mining camps where men are hanged for stealing a shovel, but where all men eat stolen beef that is mine. The de Solas, señor, now take what men they can find to ride with them, and many vaqueros are among them, and some are thieves. Don Esteban from the first did not care. Don José, señor, soon ceased to care about what cannot be helped, and Don Diego, señor—he whose horse it was the gringos stole—Don Gil is a man without mercy. Punishment be upon the heads of gringos who began the robbery! While breath lives in either of those brothers, he will seek Neveenson to brand him!"

"To brand—that is terrible," said Hales. "To kill, yes. But to brand—that shouldn't be, señor!"

"They whipped Don Esteban, señor! Why? Because he did not choose to sell a horse which was not his own! He would rather have been killed. Mother of Heaven, if gringo or any man, señor, though he be King of Spain, should lay a whip upon my back"

Don Ramon became so swollen with passion at the thought that he could not say more. His dark eyes gleamed terribly. Then he apologized, saying he knew of Señor Hales, had heard good words of him from one who had only curses for gringos; and that the coming of Señorita Lucita showed how justly had the good words been spoken.

He took Hales into the house for a glass of wine and much talk.

The old Californian did not say so in as many words, but he let it be understood that the de Solas had often rested at the remote Arnaz rancho and been always welcome.

Hales remained for two days with Don Ramon, then headed northward, returning to trails that led through diggings, moving upward toward Sacramento; and a few days later he entered the wild and gloomy camp of Diamond Gulch.

He had not been in the camp three minutes before learning that Col. Nevinson, greatly elated by the news of Don Esteban de Sola's death, had passed that way a few hours before.

Diamond Gulch was so called because a party of miners had paused one noonday, months before, in its dark and gloomy shadows to make tea and fry bacon.

"Boys," said one of them jestingly, "here's a diamond!"

He reached into the water at his feet for a bright pebble. He never picked up the pebble. His hand darted an inch deeper into the water, snatching at a tiny yellow gleam as he shouted:

"Gold, by jingo!"

Tea and bacon boiled and burned on the coals, forgotten. Shovels and pans were tumbled out of packs, and the feverish rattling of gravel began.

Within a week a thousand miners were scattered—or rather, pressed elbow to elbow-up and down the gulch. Claims were only eight feet square, and nearly every one was a rich claim. Within a month five thousand miners swarmed like bees over rotted fruit along the banks.

Stores, hotels, saloons, even bowling alleys appeared. In ten days there had been a full-grown camp; then canvas buildings began to be displaced by the thump of hammer and grinding hum of saw. Freighters had brought in lumber.

Diamond Gulch flowered almost over night into one of the richest camps of that rich region; but the wealth of Golconda could not long supply treasures for these conquistadores of shovel and pan. Diamond Gulch, toward the close of '49, had fallen almost as rapidly as it rose, and was touched by decay. Soon most of its buildings were deserted, and it rotted like a town stricken with plague.

By the close of September many, even most of the miners, had gone, hurrying off after other echoes, seeking pound diggings. Those that remained were washing tailings, that is, re-washing dirt that had passed once through the cradles and sluices. The tailings of some camps were profitably washed two and three times. Anything under an ounce a day was considered very meager in '49.

There had recently been in Diamond Gulch a young man who was the correspondent for the New York Herald; he was making a tour of the camps, writing his impressions.

One day for a while he watched a party of drunken miners in the El Dorado saloon divide their time and money between the bar and a monte game conducted by a tall, pale, immaculate and immobile gambler, whose features appeared as expressionless as a piece of ivory. His left hand was in a bandage. Some weeks before a bullet meant for his heart had gone through his hand, and he had then coolly killed the half-drunken and loss-angered miner.

Even at that, there had been talk of hanging the gambler. Diamond Gulch, losing its distinction of being rich diggings, had in it many restless and discontented men who thought it something of an enviable distinction to make Diamond Gulch known for frequent and quick hangings. But the gambler had very coolly held up his wounded hand and hands asked with expressionless calm if any man expected him to sit quietly and let man the miner take a second shot?

The gambler, though his left hand was useless, continued to deal monte; but much of his luck was gone. His losses were frequent and heavy. But he took them without a flicker of anger or change of expression.

The young correspondent of the New York paper, having his head confusedly filled with impressions that he knew very well he could never get coherently to paper, retired to the empty dining-room of the Ohio House, which was quiet at that hour and afforded a table, to write as best he could.

Sometime later he glanced up. A queer little fellow had entered unnoticed and stood at a distance, watching with a kind of eager admiration as the newspaper man's pencil dashed across page after page. He was indeed an odd specimen of a miner, small, young, wearing a slouch hat much too large, boots much too large, a red flannel shirt also too large, and canvas trousers big enough for a man twice his size. He had a cheerful impudent smile, up-turned nose and bright friendly eyes.

"Hello," said the newspaper man agreeably.

"'Ello yerself."

"What can I do for you?"

"A bloke mus' 'ave a bloomin' lot o' learnin' to write fast as wot yer can!"

"What would you do if you found a nugget so big you couldn't lift it? You'd scramble and scratch pretty fast, wouldn't you?"

"Not me, I udn't. I'd yell f'r Bill."

"Who's Bill?"

"'E's my pardner. Yer ought ter see Bill. 'E'd myke three o' you. Me an' Bill we're rich. We ain't been 'ere long. We jus' bought a claim wiv a good cabin down the river. We're stayin' the winter. Washin' tailin's. Bill'e says we'd better stay where there's hounce diggin's than go chasin' habout. An' Bill 'e knows. 'E's a '48-er, Bill is. I come to camp f'r some candles. Saw you writin'. Wisht I c'd write. Bill 'e won't write f'r me. Says 'e can't spell perlite. I wisht I could write," and the small cockney looked wistfully at the pad of scribbled sheets.

"What would you write?"

"Letter."

"Who to?"

"Miss Tesler down in Frisco."

"Oh. Do you know her! I've heard of her. Her father was killed."

"I 'eard it. I want 'er ter know if she needs some money she c'n 'ave wot I got. Me an' Bill's rich. She was good ter me onct."

"Look here, you dictate that letter. I'll write it."

"Will yer, 'onest! An' fix it up to sound heducated?"

"Sure."

"Yer a good un!" said the cockney, sliding eagerly onto a bench across from the man of letters.

"Go on. Tell me what to write."

"I'll give yer the hidee. You myke it sound good."

The little cockney wrinkled his forehead and put his head between his hands, laboring for words. He, who was talkative as a magpie, became almost tongue-tied at the thought of having what he said put on paper. With effort he began:

"Miss Tesler, dear ma'am, I ain't never learnt' 'ow ter write, but I want yer to know— 'Ow's that?"

"Fine!"

The cockney gazed absorbedly at a rafter, and presently losing some of his self-consciousness began to rattle along eagerly, saying to Miss Tesla that what he had was hers because there was plenty more that he and Bill could dig out.

The newspaper man had to slow him down time and again, for this man of the pen, being a born newspaper man, realized that the world was crowded with people who could write as well as himself, but that not often could one get down on paper the rich crisscross jargon, a mingling of city slums and camp slang, of this wise street-bred youngster, who was still nearly awed by the mountains, topped with pines, washed by whirling rivers. The newspaper man guessed, too, that if Miss Tesla had ever been interested in this little fellow that she had been interested because of his odd speech and unique alertness; so now, as nearly as possible, his words were put down literally.

"—nights the wind it goes through the big trees like somethin' wearin' of soft floatin' clothes wot don't catch on the branches, an' it sounds big an' soft. Sometimes deers come right down where we can see 'em"

"Just a minute—all right. I've caught up. Go on."

"I nearly forgot somethink. That gam'ler Dawes' e's up 'ere. Honly'e calls 'isself somebody else. Mr. Clifton. I've kept 'way from 'im, cause Bill 'e says if 'e's goin' by 'nother nyme an' was to see me an' knowed I knowed 'im, 'e might shoot me. Then Bill says' e'd 'ave to break 'is bloomin' 'ead for 'im. Bill says 'e udn't mind breakin' his bloomin' 'ead, but 'e'd 'ate orful to 'ave ter bury me. Bill says diggin' of a grave Bill is jes' so much waste labor. Bill 'e's the fines' man on hearth. Stryght! 'E stys away from camp so 'e won't want ter play monte. 'E mykes me lug the grub, 'cept when it's too 'eavy"

"Tell her some more about the mountains. She'll like that."

"I didn't know mountins got so big as wot they are 'ere, an' the river at night when yer harf asleep it jes' talks like a foreign girl wiv a sweet mouf, honly yer can't un'erstand 'er, but yer wisht yer could. Bill 'e was sick onct but 'e said I was such a bum cook 'e 'ad ter get well 'cause I'd 'ave killed 'im sure wiv my grub. I like Bill. We quarrel hall the time"

"Fine!"

"Now," said the eager little cockney, squirming about into an attitude of tense attention, "yer wrote wot I said like I'd 'ave done if I c'd write, did yer?"

"Sure."

"Read me it!"

"My dear Miss Tesla. Unfortunately my scholarship does not permit me to address you in the language of the pen, but I have made the acquaintance of a gentleman who numbers writing and reading among his few accomplishments"

"Gor blimey, that's wot I'd sy if I knowed 'ow! She'll like that letter fine!"

"What name shall I sign?"

"Martin Ho'Day. We come on the ship tergether, me an' 'er."

Hales entered Diamond Gulch and stopped at the Ohio House for dinner. He learned at once from a barroom full of angered and half-drunken men that there had been a robbery of more than a thousand dollars in dust, and something near a hundred dollars in gold coin which Col. Nevinson had paid the night before.

Gold coins were about as rarely seen in the camps as women, as good women. If anything, coins were the more rare.

Col. Nevinson had stopped with his party for the night. He had been greatly excited over the news which had reached him, a day or two previously, that Esteban de Sola had been killed, his head cut off, taken to Sacramento and put on exhibition.

If this were true the colonel would pay, gladly, sir! the reward he had offered! He had drunk a good deal and talked much. The de Sola gang, sir, had their tails between their legs. They wouldn't be up around these mines anyhow. Horsemen, he said, could not move around through the mountains easily enough to satisfy such cowards as the greasers. They, sir, wanted to ride where they could run easily!

He had bought champagne and paid for it in gold coin. The coins were passed from hand to hand and examined in the candlelight; after which they had been returned to Mullins, the proprietor, a gawky, excitable backwoodsman who had turned tavernkeeper. Mullins later put them, with a pouch of gold dust, under his mattress. This was more a gesture toward security than a precaution.

The colonel and his friends had left the first thing in the morning, and Mullins went about his business without thought of his gold until Mr. Clifton came down stairs. Mr. Clifton ran the monte game in the El Dorado, just across the street, but boarded and roomed at the Ohio House, which was a two-story building anchored to the side of a hill.

Mr. Clifton was pale, quiet, aloof, and regarded by Mullins as a gentleman.

"Too bad yuh had that headache last night," said Mullins. "The colonel he was shore interestin'. Ever see the colonel?"

"No," said Mr. Clifton quietly. "I never had that pleasure."

"Say, I'll just show yuh somethin' the colonel he left. The boys was all took by surprise."

Mullins went from the barroom and returned at a frantic gallop, yelling:

"Boys, I been robbed! Dust an' coin gone!"

Much excitement followed and a great clattering of tongues.

Mr. Clifton, as usual, took no part in the conversation. He ate his breakfast and went across to the El Dorado. His left hand was still bandaged. He dealt monte with one hand though players or lookout would have to shuffle for him.

Hales, arriving shortly before noon, heard of the robbery before he had washed the dust from his throat.

His arrival was quickly talked of up and down the street, for he wore a sombrero, but wasn't a greaser; and there were some who had heard of him in San Francisco.

It was not long, a few minutes in fact, until Mr. Clifton stated that he had a return of his headache, closed his game and entered the Ohio House without passing through the bar room, where Hales and others, while awaiting dinner, listened to an impassioned orator denouncing the unknown thief; cheers went up at any mention of a rope.

Mr. Clifton went up stairs to his room, which overlooked the street. He closed the door. It was without a lock of any kind. He placed a stool against it so that the stool would offer some resistance if any one pushed against the door. Then he bent down, placing an ear almost against the floor near a crack and and listened to the conversation in the barroom below. He took off his coat,, folding it carefully, methodically.

Not a shadow of of expression crossed his face. He removed the money belt that he wore next to his skin, and quietly removed a handful of gold coins. For a moment he looked about thoughtfully, after which he took up some of his paper-backed novels and began to place the coins, one at a time, here and there among the pages. When all the coins had disappeared, he stacked the novels and tied them, then placed the package in plain sight on the floor. He crouched to the floor with an ear against a crack and listened, but his expression did not change at any time. He seemed to have something of the wary, sensitive alarm of a wild animal, and much that resembled its interminable patience.

The miners went stamping into the dining-room, and shortly afterward there was a knock on Mr. Clifton's door.

"What is it, sir?" asked the gambler quietly.

"One of the boys said he seen yuh come in. Ain't yuh feelin' spry?"

"Thank you, Mr. Mullins, sir. But I am subject to headaches. At such times I wish to be alone and remain quiet. I will be all right in a day or two. But I find the attack I had yesterday returning."

"Don't feel well 'nough to see a feller f'r a minute, d' yuh?" asked Mullins through the closed door.

"No. Who?"

"Feller named Hales."

"Never heard of him, sir."

"Didn't 'low yuh had. He's askin' 'bout a feller. Gam'ler named Dawes. I told him yuh knowed lots o' gam'lers. He said he'd like to speak with you."

"I never heard of Dawes," Mr. Clifton replied quietly.

"I'll tell 'im. Bad feller to monkey with, this here Hales, so some of the boys was sayin'."

"Pardon me, sir, but I have a severe headache and wish to rest."

"Awright, awright, awright," Mullins answered, and went off, scraping his feet heavily, as if the weight of his boots was about all that he could lift.

The dining-room was entirely of rough lumber; the tables were planks; the benches were planks. The food was placed on the tables in platters and each man grabbed for what he wanted and helped himself. There were some fifteen or twenty men at the tables, rough, hungry, strong fellows, champing and chewing, their bellies warm with whisky, their food-clogged mouths loud with raillery for one another and curses for the thief that had blotted the good name of Diamond Gulch.

Before the meal was half-finished they heard the heavy, rapid thumping of booted feet running through the barroom. An excited man appeared in the doorway, bawling:

"We got 'im, fellers! Git a rope! We got the thief an' money! Boys bringin' 'im. Git a rope, some o' you!"

Then he turned and bolted out of sight, and the men who were eating forgot food. Knives, with chunks of meat on the points, half lifted to the gaping bearded mouths were thrown aside. Oaths were mumbled hastily in surprise; there was a bustling scramble to get legs and feet from under the tables, a stumbling rush for the door.

Hales stood up, paused at the deserted table to finish a cup of coffee, then went into the barroom. It was empty. The men had rushed out of the front door, into the rough dusty street. They stood in a scattered line looking up the street to where, a group of men were hurrying toward them hustling, partly dragging a little fellow whose voice was loud in protest.

One man with lumbering run came on before. This was Jeb Nelson, storekeeper, a fellow with a beard and bald head. Always he wore a hat, and always well back on his head as if proudly showing his bald forehead.

"Boys, we got 'im" cried Jeb puffing. "See here, Mullins!" He cupped his palms under Mullins' nose. "There you are!"

Men crowded about, staring down at the gold pieces, and cursed.

"He come into my place," said Jeb, breathless from running. "Bought some tea an' stuff. Then he said: 'Col. Nevinson ain't the only man what's got real money. Looky here. You fellers got so excited over money—I got some, too. Jes' thought I'd show you!' He throwed down a twenty-dollar gold piece!

"'Where you get this?' I asked him, quiet-like.

"'I got plenty more,' he said. Then he showed me some more. An' I jes' naturally fell on 'im, an' yelled for Sam Thompson who was in the back room eatin' sardines an' crackers. It's yore money, Mullins!"

"Git a rope, fellers!" a drunken man squawked, and the cry was repeated.

"That's shore my money, boys!" said Mullins, plucking at the coins, greedily.

"Diamon' Gulch she don't give no thief time to pray!" said a miner proudly to Hales.

Some man had unsteadily hurried up the steps into the barroom and came back with two bottles of whisky. He waved both in wavering arms.

"Hoopee! Hang 'im!"

These men seemed bloodthirsty and many of them were drunken. Hales looked upon the gathering crowd with disgust. He believed as readily as any that the fellow was guilty. From the time he had left San Francisco until he glanced down into Jeb Nelson's palms he had not seen a gold piece.

And as one sober miner said to him:

"If the only hen egg in camp is stole an' you see yolk on a feller's beard—he's guilty, ain't he?"

"But how can a man have been such a fool as to show the coins?"

"Pardner," said the resolute and sober miner, "a man what's fool enough to steal somethin' in Diamon' Gulch ain't goin' to display no great amount o' brains no time!"

"Hang 'im!"

"Stop jawin' an' hang 'im!"

The camp of Diamond Gulch was sprawled by a river that ran at the foot of a towering, gloomy wall of rock. The men stood in the dusty street, under the high sun, and without a trace of mercy, just as though deaf, glowered at the little fellow who had been thrust forward into their circle; and the drunken men among them lifted an impetuous cry of:

"Hang 'im, the dirty thief!"

This little fellow had not been in Diamond Gulch long. He and a partner were mining down the river.

"Better 'fess up, 'cause we're shore goin' hang you, an' sudden!" said Jeb Nelson.

He was an odd little fellow, but youth nor oddness made a favorable impression on these outraged miners. His hat had been knocked off. His shirt, his boots, his trousers, were too large. But the little cockney did not appear really frightened. He stared about him in a kind of uneasy trustfulness, as if he knew miners too well to think that they would hurt him. Now and then an eager little hopeful smile broke through his earnestness.

"I never stole nuffin! 'Ones', boys! Me an' Bill kept that gold from wot we 'ad when we bought our houtfits in Sakermento. You jus' hask Bill! I jus' thought I'd show 'im there"—he gestured toward Jeb Nelson—"Colonel Nevinson wasn't honly one that 'ad coin!"

A drunken man howled:

"What the hell's gittin' the matter with this here camp, lettin' a damn thief talk!"

"Feriner at that!"

"I ain't no foreigner—I'm Henglish, I ham! Ask Mr. 'Ales there—I know 'im. You send f'r Bill! 'E'll tell yer!"

"Do you know this man?" Jeb Nelson asked Hales.

"No," said Hales, "I do not."

He had no recollection at all of a little cockney in a big cap at whom he had glanced for a moment in the Magnolia at the time Miss Tesla appeared to deal monte.

Voices bawled together:

"Hang 'im!"

A rope appeared with a noose on it. Miners frequently fitted the noose and even stretched a man's neck a bit to frighten him into a confession.

"It's your money, Mullins. You set the rope," said Jeb.

Mullins stepped forward. Men held Martin's hands. Mullins slipped the noose. Drunken hands grabbed the rope and jerked. The little cockney fell and writhed in the dust, choking, pulling at the rope.

"Here! Here!" said Jeb Nelson angrily, shoving the drunken, knocking some of them aside. "We got to do this right. Sam, you climb up there on the porch an' pass the rope."

The Ohio House, being built on the side of a hill, had a frame of studding about ten feet high supporting one side of it.

"Aren't you going to give this man a trial?" asked Hales.

"What does he need of a trial?" asked Jeb. "He's guilty, ain't he? Ain't he, boys?"

Yells answered that he was, guilty as hell!

"But give him a trial," said Hales. "Get his pardner. Hear what the fellow has to say."

"We'll go git his pardner after we hang 'im—an' hang the pardner, too!" some one shouted.

"Yes, an' we'll hang you too if you try to monkey!" a drunken man cried at Hales. "This here is Diamond Gulch, feller!"

The rope had been passed over a beam, and men grabbed it. Hales knocked them back, caught the rope, with a fling sent it over the cross piece so that it fell loose upon the ground; and Hales said:

"Look here, give this man a trial! He can't escape. Get his pardner. Hear his story. Be fair! There'll be as much justice whether you hang him now or an hour later!"

"Aw dry up!" Voices booed and baahed. "Hang you too!"—"This here's Diamon' Gulch, she is!"

"Boys, ow, don't 'ang me! Send f'r Bill! 'E'll tell yer. I ain't stole nuffin'! Bill 'e's a '48er, 'e is! Send f'r Bill!"

Men tried to drown his voice with contemptuous jeering and yowing; they called Hales a greaser, cursed, yelled loudly:

"Diamon' Gulch she don't give thieves no trial!"

Two or three sober miners had lined up silently by the side of Hales; and Jeb Nelson pushed his hat farther back on his bald head, scratching vigorously,

"Boys," said Jeb, "le's get that there pardner. An' if we don't like his story, we'll hang 'em both!"

Wrangling followed. The folly of the drunken admitted of no reasoning, but there were sober and serious men who backed up what Jeb had said.

While this was going on, a pale inscrutable face looked down upon them from an upper window, keeping well back, out of sight.

Jeb Nelson had some trouble in getting a committee to go with him down the river after the partner, Bill. Nelson knew him slightly. He was a big fellow, might be dangerous. It was thirst, not fear of anybody, that made so many of the men reluctant to go a mile down the river. Jeb called upon the most sober. Hales and three other men marched off with Jeb, leaving Martin O'Day in the shadow of the Ohio House watched over by two men while other miners went trampling into the barroom for further drinks.

"There he is," said Jeb Nelson, and pointed. "We'll jes' mosey up, quiet-like till we all get 'round him."

They looked ahead to where a big man stood knee deep in icy water, shoveling gravel into a sluice box. As they came near he paused, leaned on his shovel, and regarded them with steady, untroubled, friendly gaze. He was a huge man. It would take many men and a strong rope to swing him.

"Howdy," said Bill Burton, taking out his pipe, feeling for tobacco. Then— "Say, if you ain't Dick Hales!"

"Yes," said Hales.

"I seen you in 'Frisco, time you won twenty thousand on the turn of a card. I ain't bet on a card since. Promised little pard I'd lay off monte. You fellows ain't seen anything of a little pee-wee luggin' a sack o' flour down the trail? He went f'r grub."

"Yes," said Jeb Nelson. "We seen him."

"Why, what's wrong?" demanded Burton, dropping his shovel, stepping from the water toward them. He towered above them and they were not small men. "What's wrong? What's happened to my pard?" He gazed anxiously from one to another, then steadily at Hales. "Tell me!"

"Your pardner," said Hales, "had some gold coins. There are not many in camp, in any camp. Mullins was robbed and the miners thought"

Burton scowled dangerously. He glanced from face to face, puzzled. Then he laughed, roared with laughter. Echoes struck from the wall of rock that deeply cradled the river and came back mockingly.

"Yo-ho-ho! You fellows took Marty for a thief! Steal? Him? Say, we've lugged them coins up an' down the river diggin's ever since we left Sacramento. We showed 'em to the boys up to Rainbow one day—half the miners there'd never seen gold coin."

"You still have them, of course?" asked Hales.

"Sure. Always had plenty of dust, an' sort o' kept the coin for good luck. They was part of the first money Marty ever had. He won it off Stewart Dawes—same fellow you had trouble with, I hear, Mr. Hales. I wouldn't want Dawes to know how little pard won 'em. An' he's here, or was. Marty saw him"

"Dawes, here!"

"Calls hisself Clifton, or something. You boys come up to the cabin. I'll show you that we got coin."

His stride was twice as long as that of the men with him. He stopped every few steps, turned, waited for them, and talked. To Hales he seemed a true Titan of the mountains; a massive man, well built, of prodigious strength and generous simplicity.

"!" said Jeb Nelson aside to Hales. "It's good you stopped them boys. He ain't no more guilty 'n I am!"

They went to the doorway of the cabin, and Burton entered, saying:

"Crowd in, boys. Crowd in. Lots o' room. Guess I'll kick up a fire an' put on the bean pot. Have 'em warm. Little Pard 'll be hungry when we come back. Say, I'll bet you he spluttered when you fellows 'cused him of stealin'! Him steal! Ho-oh-ho!"

Burton stooped, got down on his knees on the dirt floor, reached under the bunk, groped about:

"I wonder did he take that pouch—it ain't—yes, it is, too here"

He stood up, shook the pouch, setting up a faint jingle, then drew wide the mouth of the pouch, and tumbled the coins onto the bunk—more coins than had been in Mullins' sack.

"I'll just take these along up to the camp to show the boys," said Burton, scooping them into his hand, thrusting them into his pocket.

Hales was standing outside of the cabin, rolling a cigaret. He felt a sort of inner trembling, like that of a man who has barely escaped from wretchedness, for he, as much as any one, had believed the little cockney guilty of thievery. At that moment across his memory there seemed to come the echo of a thundering voice that had swept with majestical passion over a mob of angered men, reckless men, who, too, had brought a rope.

"—better ten guilty men live than put to death one innocent"

Burton walked by the side of Hales, telling how Little Pard had written to Miss Tesla and why; telling, too, how, with only bullets and street dust, he had won gold from the gambler Dawes; and also telling of what a great partner the little cockney had been.

"—lot of blue jays up to Rainbow. Little Pard used to feed 'em—had 'em so they'd come right up to him. Made me think of a blue jay hisself, perky and always hoppin' around. The miners up to Rainbow thought the world of him. They'd get round him an' get him to talkin' of London. Little devil, he never had no money in his life. Don't yet hardly know what money's for. Steal? Him! Rainbow she played out, so we come down here to winter"

They crossed the river. Its high rocky banks showed how angry it could be when swollen by the winter rains. Hales kept to the foot log, but Burton, in hip boots, waded in, walk ing easily through the tumbling current.

They came into the street of Diamond Gulch. No one was in sight. They came near the Ohio House. Burton paused, knocked out his pipe against the heel of a boot, straightened up, towering, looked at Hales who had stiffened suddenly.

Burton looked toward where Hales stared, and his glance rested on what seemed to be a bundle of clothes dangling under the hotel—like a small scarecrow, or effigy. He gazed, frowning doubtfully. He rubbed the back of a hand across his eyes, and peered.

"Why, what"

He moved a few steps nearer, staring. "Why, that can't—why" In a low dazed voice he said, "Is that—why, they've hanged him!" There was an utter blankness in his eyes as he turned toward Hales, questioningly.

Then half-dragging his feet he moved closer, staring fixedly. The pipe dropped from his fingers. He opened his mouth, but did not speak. Again he looked at Hales, and again peered up at the small body.

In the shadow of the gloomy mountains, where a whirling river ran, the miners who would not let a thief talk or have a trial had hanged Martin O'Day, nameless waif of the streets.

Now, overhead, there was the trample of drunken jigging, the sound of fuddled laughter. Burton stared up as if looking through the floor and walls, watching. His eyes went back to the dangling body.

"Why, Mr. Hales, they've hanged him?"

It was a question, pitifully low, and the look in his eyes was the look of a man who has been greatly injured and can not imagine why.

"Yes," said Hales, "they have hanged him."

Jeb Nelson's voice, and the voices of the miners with him, added curses, pathetic, reproachful.

"But—but—" Burton spoke in a troubled tone, almost blankly, "—but they sent you fellows down to see me. It's not like miners to do that"—he lifted his arm, pointing as if wearily—"without a hearin'." His voice deepened—"They've hanged him—why, they've hanged my pard!"

His eyes began to glow with the pain that is half anger, and in heavy trampling he turned, wrath gathering upon his body like an aura. Some one was dancing a jig above where the hanged man dangled. Men were laughing.

Burton, with heaving strides, leaped toward the stairs. The boards crackled under his feet. He stopped in the doorway, towering there, glaring fixedly at the crowded room of men that leaned, elbows to bar, that sagged against the walls, grinning, laughing, cheering a drunken fellow who, with toppling lunge and whisky-heavy feet, was trying to prove that he could dance.

Eyes fell on Burton. Men who saw him grew abruptly silent. Other men, looking to see what was bringing silence, turned, stared. The drunken miner clattered on for a moment amid the stillness, then felt the chill and stopped.

"You hanged my pard," said Burton slowly, deep of voice. "My little pard."

"He stole Mullins' money!"

"You lie!" Burton thundered.

"We found it on 'im!"

"Show 'im the coin, Mullins!"

"Mullins, show 'im!"

"Mullins, quick—my God, he looks crazy!"

"Why," bawled a drunken man, "the dirty little thief, he had the gold!"

Burton's hand went into his pocket and came out. He swung back his fist. His oath was ferocious, and with the shout of " there's gold!" he threw, powerfully, a handful of gold pieces straight into the faces of men. Those who were struck cried out, hurt. Others dodged. Men uneasily began to edge far away, stumbling toward the dining-room door. Most of them were drunken and they were guilty; now they knew it.

"Why don't you hang me—I've got more"

Again he threw.

Voices babbled in curses. The men cursed, not him but themselves, futilely, as they stared, backing off, stumbling. They were not cowards, but they were afraid.

"Say, lissen, pardner," a fellow began, holding out a placating hand.

Burton struck him; then striking, jerking, hurling whomever he could reach, rushed upon them.

When Burton came from the barroom he left only wreckage behind him, and some men with cracked heads.

As if Hales did not know, Burton spoke, hoarse with pain:

"They hanged him, my little pard—they hanged him!"

Hales lowered away the rope and Burton received the small body in his arms. His trembling fingers loosened the noose and cast it off. He held the chilled body as he would have held a sick child, and with solemn tramp set off down the river.

Hales, moved by a sense of pity, hurried after him, going with him, a mile down the river to the cabin.

Together they dug the grave in stony ground. And when the grave was covered over, Burton went to a large boulder that two men could scarcely have moved. He stooped, grasped it in his arms, straightened, and bore it to the grave for a head stone.

So it was that Martin O'Day was buried where at night the wind goes through the big trees like something that wears soft floating garments that do not catch on the branches, where the mountains stand with eternal vigilance, and the whirling river has the sound of foreign girls babbling with sweet mouths in an unknown tongue.

After they had returned to the cabin, Burton sat for a time on a bunk, repeatedly running his fingers through his tangled hair and glancing from one part to another of the room.

"—I've got to get out o' here, an' sudden. Can't stand it here. I don't care where I go, only I've got to get away from here. There's nothin' I want to take. Just a blanket. No tools. I'm done mining."

Burton poked his foot at two large buckskin pouches that he had thrown contemptuously on the ground.

"You can buy a horse or mule. I mean to leave this afternoon. We can go together," Hales told him.

"I wouldn't buy nothin' in this camp. I'll walk."

"There's a good deal of dust to be packing along a trail."

"I don't care. What's the good of it, any of it? Gamblers, gamblers' women, an' storekeepers—biggest robbers of all! they get most of what us miners dig. I've worked hard all my life, been a sailor, been in lumber camps, now minin'. Any time I got money I got drunk—till Little Pard come along. All us miners are the same. We work hard, then robbers get it. Them de Solas are gentlemen," said Burton bitterly, "'long side of saloonkeepers an' gamblers. Miners haven't a lick of sense. What's it all worth? What can I do? I don't know nothing but drinkin', gamblin' an' work. I can't set down an' do nothing. I don't have any sense when I start in spendin' money—but I'll be damned if gambler or woman gets Marty's share out o' me. I'll throw it back in the river first. Ain't I ever goin' to forget him, Mr. Hales?"

"No. Never."

"Then let 's get to hell out o' here an' hurry."

"Yes. But I want to stop in camp and have a word with that gambler, Dawes."

"Marty was wrong, I guess, in bein' afraid of him in feelin' funny about him. I guess he was one man in camp that didn't have nothin' to do with it. You didn't see nothin' of him? No. Neither did I. I'd have killed him particular if I had. I know I would."

Then Burton laid his curse upon Diamond Gulch, upon all the men in it, upon all who would ever come into it; and, as if the great Keeper of Vengeance heard, Diamond Gulch soon lost the yellow glint from among its sands, became played out; miners departed; its buildings became empty and rotted, and desolation as if from a plague settled upon what had been a famous and roaring camp.

The sun went behind the hills in the middle of the afternoon at Diamond Gulch, and a long gloomy twilight lay over the rugged land until night came.

Toward the end of the afternoon Hales went into the Ohio House where Mullins, with head tied up, sat amid the wreckage, while a few miners stood about and said it served him right, and worse would have been better.

"Where'll I find that gambler?"

Mullins, with no interest, told him.

Hales went up the stairs, knocked on the door.

"Who's there?" asked a low quiet voice.

"Dick Hales. Open this door."

As he spoke Hales tried the door, but something was against it.

"Ah, just a moment, sir"

There was a pause, silence, then the light step of some one approaching the door. As Hales felt the prop removed, he pushed the door wide and faced the gambler, whose coat was off. Neither knife nor gun was in sight. The gambler stood tall, pale, expressionless, and steadily met Hales' dangerous look.

"What is it, sir?" asked Stewart Dawes, quietly.

He held his left hand, more heavily bandaged than usual, half across his body. With his right hand he brushed at his forehead, holding his long white fingers against his brow as if to ease slightly a headache.

"Why did you leave San Francisco in such a hurry—after Tesla was killed?"

"I was not in San Francisco, sir, when Mr. Tesla was killed." He spoke calmly, with no trace of fear, no anger.

"No?"

"No. I had the day before engaged passage on a small schooner. I went on board that evening, early, and retired. I am subject to nervous headaches. I was suffering from one that evening. I knew nothing, sir, of Mr. Tesla's death until I heard of it in Sacramento."

The gambler was quiet, convincing; he appeared now to have a headache.

"You left without settling at your hotel," said Hales.

"I did not, sir. I inquired for the proprietor and he was out. I was ill. I then paid the clerk. If he says I did not pay, it merely means, sir, that he took advantage of my departure to keep the money."

"Why did you leave the city—in such a hurry?"

"Sir, I could not remain after the humiliation to which you had subjected me, most unjustly. My standing was ruined. I came into the mines and took another name."

"But this morning you told Mullins you had never heard of Dawes?"

"Yes, sir. And do you think that I should have told him who I am or that I should have wanted to see you?"

"Uhn," said Hales. Then "You know, of course, that you are thought to be the man that killed Tesla."

"I do not. I never heard that before, sir."

"Didn't Nevinson tell you? Didn't you see him last night?"

"No, sir. I was ill and"

"Headache comes in handy, doesn't it? Some things about Nevinson I don't like, but he said he was going to ask some questions of you. You knew of that, didn't you?"

With inflexible paleness and calm the gambler said:

"No, sir."

"And you did not know that the man who killed Tesla had shot at me?"

"No, sir."

Then, quietly, with level gaze, "I, sir, have reasons that I shall never forget for hating you. But I never shot at any man, except at his face. I could not meet you face to face in San Francisco because my wrist was injured. You had trampled on it. You would have had all the advantage. If I were an assassin, sir, here today I could have shot you from my window."

"You could, eh? An' have been hanged, promptly. But now, when I knocked, didn't you think I meant to shoot you?"

"No. Why would you shoot me? I have done nothing, sir, to hurt you. It is you who have injured me. I can never forgive you for striking me in the Magnolia when I asked for a loan."

"Why, damn your soul, you told me you cheated and wanted a split!"

"No, sir," the gambler answered with imperturbable dignity. "You misunderstood entirely, sir. I cannot recall the exact words, but I was, sir, a little embarrassed by the need of asking a loan from a comparative stranger. If you had not trampled on my wrist, sir, one of us would have been killed. But I was helpless. Some day, sir, we may meet again, face to face. I shall give you a gentleman's warning, of that I pledge my word."

"Damn your word," said Hales, exasperated by the cool plausibility and calm of this man. "Dawes, I believe you are lying from start to finish. But today I've already seen one man that I thought guilty put to death—and he wasn't. I've looked for you in a lot of camps. Now I've found you, you're lying out of it. You say it's got to come if we meet again, so why not give me a gentleman's warning now?"

"I am unarmed, sir."

He moved his crippled hand slightly into view, and slightly turned his right hand, then pressed it again against his forehead.

"You've got a gun, or borrow one. We'll have the miners measure off any distance you say. All I ask is, just before the command to fire, you say whether or not you killed Tesla. Dawes, if you'll say yes, I'll give you the first shot!"

The gambler looked at him steadily for some time, gently rubbing his fingers back and forth along his brow. His bandaged hand lay against his breast. He spoke evenly, quietly:

"I say no, now and for all time. I have a very severe headache. I can hardly stand, or see. It is unfortunate that I must be making excuses for myself, but my head is really bursting, sir. I have not been able to rest today because of the noise."

"I don't know what to make of you, Dawes. How'd you hurt your hand?"

"A miner shot me, sir. Then I killed him."

"I don't know what to make of you. But I've seen one innocent fellow—I thought him guilty as hell, too But, Dawes, I believe you are a dirty, cold blooded blackleg, and about the only reason you haven't taken a shot at me from a window, or when this door was opened, is because you know the miners would hang you!"

Dawes answered without a flicker in his tone, and his face, pale and thin as an ascetic's, remained inscrutable as ivory:

"You say that, sir, to an unarmed man—who is sick."

"Anyhow I've said it. You know whether or not you deserve it."

The two men stood for a time and looked at each other steadily, and without words. Then Hales turned on his heel and walked off.

Dawes put out his arm, his left arm, thrusting out the bandaged hand, pointing it; but he hesitated, did not call or move. Then Hales, without a backward glance, passed from sight.

Dawes stepped back into his room and closed the door. He stood for a moment, thoughtfully looking down at his bandaged hand; then with teeth and fingers he untied a string, threw off the cloth, and disclosed a derringer. He dropped the gun on the bed, and for a long time massaged his left hand. The pain and strain of holding the derringer in his crippled hand had been severe.