The Cave of Gold<br />A Tale of California in '49 by Everett McNeil (e book reader pdf TXT) 📕

the alcalde waited. There was no movement, no word from the surrounding crowd.

"We will now proceed with the examination of the prisoners. Young man, take your place on the witness stand," and the alcalde turned to Thure.

"Don't get excited. Keep cool," cautioned Bud, as Thure hastened to take his place in front of the barrel.

A hush came over the great encircling crowd, as Thure stood before the alcalde and was solemnly sworn to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Many of those rough bearded men had sons of their own back at home, hardly younger than was the prisoner, who now stood before the bar of justice, with a rope dangling threateningly above his head; and these men found it hard to believe that that wholesome-looking, clear-eyed youth could be guilty of the atrocious crime charged against him. But, there was the evidence; and the laws of the city must be enforced; and their faces grew stern and sad.

Thure told his story in a clear straightforward way; told how he and Bud had gone out for a hunt on that day, how they had heard the death-cry of the unfortunate horse and had slain the huge grizzly, how, just after they had completed the skinning of the grizzly, they had seen the struggle of the old miner with his two assailants and had rushed to his rescue, how the robbers had fled, leaving the miner robbed and mortally stabbed, how they had endeavored to get him to their home before he died, but had failed, and, finally, how the miner had died and they had borne his dead body home and had buried it.

There was hardly a loud sound made while Thure was telling his story. One could almost have heard the great crowd breathing. When he had spoken of witnessing the struggle between the miner and his murderers and of rushing to his rescue, there had been a great stir in the crowd, but it had quickly subsided, so eager were all to hear every word that he uttered. His manner and his story made a deep impression; but, alas, it was soon seen that his evidence had introduced nothing to disprove the testimony of his two accusers that had any stronger proof back of it than his own word and the word of his fellow prisoner, while he had admitted bringing the dead body of the murdered miner home and burying it, admitted having the dead body of the miner in his possession. This, at least, was in direct proof of what his accusers had testified; for they had sworn that they had seen the two boys bear the dead body off with them. It looked as if they had made their story up to fit in with the accounts of the previous witnesses and yet disprove the story of their accusers.

Thure, so far in his testimony, had said nothing of the description the old miner had given of his murderers. He was saving that for the last, to be brought out by the questions of the alcalde, if possible. He wished to make it as emphatic and striking as possible, and yet he did not wish to appear to give it voluntarily; for he was wise enough to see that for him and Bud to accuse their accusers might re-act back on themselves. Fortunately the questions of the alcalde led directly to it.

"You testify," began the alcalde, the moment Thure had apparently completed his testimony, "that you drove the murderers away from the body of the miner. Did you get near enough to them to recognize them again, should you see them?"

"No," Thure answered. "I could only swear that one was a large man and that the other was small."

"Did you discover anything that would lead you to surmise who committed the crime?" again asked the alcalde.

"No, not directly," answered Thure hesitatingly. "But the old miner, just before he died, gave us a description of his two murderers," and he stopped.

"How did he describe them? Why do you hesitate?" asked the alcalde sharply.

"Because," answered Thure boldly, "the description the dying miner gave of his two murderers appears to make us accuse our accusers, as if we were trying to get back at them, when it is God's truth that we are uttering."

"Give us the description. We are the ones to judge of its merits," commanded the alcalde, his face flushing with interest, while the surrounding crowd became breathless.

Bud was looking at the two men; and he saw both of them start at the words of Thure and glance apprehensively into each other's eyes.

"The miner said," and Thure turned his eyes full upon Bill Ugger, "that one of his murderers was a large, red-headed man with a broken nose; and that the other," and his eyes turned to the face of Spike Quinley, "was a small man, with a pock-marked face."

For a moment no one spoke. All eyes were bent on the faces of the two men. There was no mistaking to whom the description applied. Then a harsh laugh broke from Bill Ugger.

"Tryin' to turn th' tables on us, be you?" and again he laughed. "Wal, I reckon, ever'one here believes that yarn. It fits tew pat, not tew be true. So me an' Spike are th' true murderers, be we? Wal, this is sum unexpected an' s'prisin', ain't it Spike?" and he turned to his comrade, grinning and glaring like a huge buffoon; but a close observer might have noticed that his skin had whitened beneath its red beard.

Quinley had started perceptibly at Thure's description of the miner's murderers, but he had quickly controlled himself, and a deadly gleam had come into his wicked little eyes and his thin lips had tightened, as, unperceived by all eyes, except the eyes the movement was intended for, he had turned and given a man standing in the edge of the circle a signal. The man at once had slipped back in the crowd and vanished.

"Powerful s'prisin'," and Quinley turned and grinned back into the face of Ugger. "I reckon you can already feel th' rope a-tightenin' 'round y'ur neck, can't you, Bill? That description sart'in fits us as pat as an old shoe. But th' s'prisin'est thing 'bout it all is, that I don't 'pear tew have any rekerlections of a-committin' that murder. Must have ben dreamin', when I done it."

The eyes of the alcalde, during this brief byplay, had been closely watching the faces of the two men. He now turned to Thure again.

"Have you any witnesses, other than your fellow prisoner, to testify to the truth of your statements?" he asked.

"No," answered Thure; "except that our mothers and our sisters and the folks at the rancho can testify to our bringing home the body of the dead miner and that we told them that we had found him just as I have said that we did."

"That would prove nothing as to who committed the murder. Is there anyone in Sacramento City that knows either of you two boys?"

"No," again answered Thure. "Not that I know of, unless," and his face brightened, "Captain Sutler is here. He knows both of us well. We are expecting to find our dads at Hangtown."

"Captain Sutter is not here," answered the alcalde, "as anyone in the city might have told you; and it is impossible to send to Hangtown after your fathers."

"But, are we to be proven guilty on the evidence of those two men alone, whom I am almost certain committed the crime themselves?" and Thure's face flushed indignantly. "Is not our word, at least, as good as theirs?"

"Young man," replied the alcalde sternly, "that is for the jury to decide. Have you any further evidence to give? If not, and the jury do not wish to ask you any questions," he paused and glanced toward the foreman, who shook his head, "you are dismissed, and the other prisoner can take his place on the witness stand."

For a moment Thure hesitated. He wanted to say something, to do something to further disprove this horrible accusation—but, what could he say or do that he had not already said or done? He had told his story. There was nothing more for him to tell, nothing more for him to do; and, with tightly compressed lips, he turned and walked from the witness stand back to his place by the side of the sheriff, while Bud took his place in front of the barrel.

There was nothing new in Bud's testimony. He could only repeat, in different words, what Thure had already told.

While Bud was giving his testimony, Spike Quinley worked his way up close to Thure; and again a piece of paper was slipped furtively into his hand.

Thure glanced down at the paper. At least here was a chance to escape the worst. If Bud did not make a better impression than he apparently had, then there would be nothing left but to surrender the map, that or hanging. And it must be done soon now, or it would be too late. Thure shuddered at the thought of the hanging; and, with fingers that trembled a little, cautiously opened the paper and read these dreadful words: