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

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.