Forty-one Thieves: A Tale of California by Angelo Hall (best desktop ebook reader .txt) 📕

Robert Palmer's diggings on Fillmore Hill are still plainly seen from the stage road on the other side of the cañon of the Middle Yuba; but he who has the hardihood to cross the cañon 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 cañon, 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 cañon, 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 cañon 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