Page:Scribner's Monthly, Volume 12 (May–October 1876).djvu/47

Rh to correct his misstatements regarding Californian resources and social habits, and to restore Mr. Raynor's possibly shaken faith in California as a country especially adapted to the secure investment of capital. "As to the insecurity of life," said the editor, indignantly, "it is as safe here as in New York or Boston. We admit that in the early days the country was cursed by too many adventurers of the type of this very gambler Hamlin, but I will venture to say you will require no better refutation of these calumnies than this very miner whom you admired. He, sir, is a type of our mining population; strong, manly, honest, unassuming, and perfectly gentle and retiring. We are proud, sir, we admit, of such men—eh? Oh, that's nothing—only the arrival of the up stage!" It certainly was something more. A momentarily increasing crowd of breathless men was gathered on the veranda before the window, and were peering anxiously over one another's heads toward a central group, among which towered the tall figure of the very miner of whom they had been speaking. More than that, there was a certain undefined restless terror in the air, as when the intense conscious passion or suffering of one or two men communicates itself vaguely without speech, sometimes even with visible sign, to others. And then Yuba Bill, the driver of the Wingdam coach, strode out from the crowd into the barroom, drawing from his hands with an evident effort his immense buckskin gloves. "What's the row, Bill?" said half-a-dozen voices. "Nothin'," said Bill, gruffly, "only the Sheriff of Calaveras ez kem down with us hez nabbed his man jest in his very tracks." "Where, Bill?" "Right here—on this very verandy—fust man he seed!" "What for?" "Who?" "What hed he bin doin'?" "Who is it?" " What's up?" persisted the chorus. "Killed a man up at One Horse Gulch, last night!" said Bill, grasping the decanter which the attentive bar-keeper had, without previous request, placed before him. "Who did he kill, Bill?" "A little Mexican from Frisco by the name o' Ramirez." "What's the man's name that killed him—the man that you took?" The voice was Jack Hamlin's. Yuba Bill instantly turned, put down his glass, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and then deliberately held out his great hand with an exhaustive grin. "Dern my skin, ole man, if it ain't you! And how's things, eh? Yer lookin' a little white in the gills, but peart and sassy ez usual. Heerd you was kinder off color, down in Sacramento lass week. And it's you, ole fell, and jest in time! Bar-keep—hist that pizen over to Jack. Here to ye agin, ole man! H—ll! but I'm glad to see ye!" The crowd hung breathless over the two men—awe-struck and respectful. It was a meeting of the gods—Jack Hamlin and Yuba Bill. None dare speak. Hamlin broke the silence at last, and put down his glass. "What," he asked, lazily, yet with a slight color on his cheek, "did you say was the name of the chap that fetched that little Mexican?" "Gabriel Conroy," said Bill. CHAPTER XXXVII. MR. HAMLIN TAKES A HAND. capture had been effected quietly. To the evident astonishment of his captor, Gabriel had offered no resistance, but had yielded himself up with a certain composed willingness, as if it were only the preliminary step to the quicker solution of a problem that was sure to be solved. It was observed, however, that he showed a degree of caution that was new to him—asking to see the warrant, the particulars of the discovery of the body, and utterly withholding that voluble explanation or apology which all who knew his character confidently expected him to give, whether guilty or innocent—a caution which, accepted by them as simply the low cunning of the criminal, told against him. He submitted quietly to a search that, however, disclosed no concealed weapon, or anything of import. But when a pair of handcuffs were shown him he changed color, and those that were nearest to him saw that he breathed hurriedly, and hesitated in the first words of some protest that rose to his lips. The Sheriff, a man of known intrepidity, who had the rapid and clear intuition that comes with courageous self-possession, noticed it also, and quietly put the handcuffs back in his pocket. "I reckon there's no use for 'em here; ef you're willin' to take the risks, I am." The eyes of the two men met, and Gabriel thanked him. In that look he