It will be necessary to go back a little in order to explain how so extraordinary a charge came to be made against the party in which we are interested.
Bill Mosely and Tom Hadley did not become reconciled to the loss of their stolen horses. They found it much less agreeable to use their own legs than the legs of the two mustangs which had borne them so comfortably over the hills. They cursed the fate which had led to their meeting with Ki Sing, and the poor Chinaman would have fared worse at their hands had they anticipated the trouble which he indirectly brought them.
Bill Mosely was naturally lazy; any sort of work he considered beneath him, and he desired to avoid all possible trouble in the lawless and vagabond life which he had chosen. He took it worse, indeed, than his companion, who was neither so shiftless nor so lazy as he.
During the few days which had elapsed since they were glad to leave the mountain-cabin they had averaged less than ten miles' daily travel. They had money enough to purchase animals to replace those which had been taken from them, but had not found any one who was willing to sell for a reasonable price, and Mosely, though he came easily by his money, was far from lavish in the spending of it.
It chanced that an hour after the arrival of Richard Dewey and his party at the Golden Gulch Hotel, Mosely and his companion, dusty and tired, approached the small mining-settlement, of which the hotel was the principal building.
They had had nothing to eat since morning, and both of them felt hungry, not to say ravenous.
"Thank Heaven, Tom, there's a mining-town!" ejaculated Mosely, with an expression of devotion not usual to him. "Now we can get something to eat, and I, for my part, feel as empty as a drum. It's hard travelling on an empty stomach."
"I should say so," remarked Mr. Hadley, with his usual formula. It must be admitted, however, that in the present instance he was entirely sincere, and fully meant what he said.
"There's a hotel," said Tom Hadley, a minute later, venturing on an original observation.
"So there is; what is the name?" inquired Mosely, who was not as far-sighted as his companion.
"The Golden Gulch Hotel," answered Hadley, shading his eyes and reading from a distance of fifty rods the pretentious sign of the little inn.
"I suppose they'll charge a fortune for a supper," said Mosely, whose economical spirit was troubled by the exorbitant prices then prevalent in California, "but we must have it at any cost."
"I should say so," assented Tom Hadley, cordially.
"You always have a good appetite of your own," observed Mosely, not without sarcasm, which, however, Tom Hadley was too obtuse to comprehend.
"I should say so," returned Tom complacently, as if he had received a compliment.
"No doubt you'll get your money's worth, no matter how much we pay for supper."
Tom Hadley himself was of this opinion, and so expressed himself.
They had already caught sight of two mustangs which were browsing near the Golden Gulch Hotel, and the sight of these useful animals excited the envy and longing of Bill Mosely.
"Do you see them mustangs, Tom?" he inquired.
"I should say so."
"I wish we had them."
"Couldn't we take them?" suggested Hadley, his face brightening at the thought of this easy mode of acquiring what they so much needed.
"Are you mad, Tom Hadley?" returned Bill Mosely, shrugging his shoulders. "Are you anxious to die?"
"I should say—not."
"Then you'd better not think of carrying off them horses. Why, we'd have the whole pack of miners after us, and we'd die in our boots before twenty-four hours had passed."
On the whole, this prospect did not appear to beof an encouraging character, and Tom Hadley quietly dropped the plan.
"Perhaps we can buy them," suggested Mosely by way of amendment. "I've got tired of tramping over these hills on foot. After we've got some supper we'll inquire who they belong to."
Up to this point neither Mosely nor his companion suspected that the mustangs which they desired to purchase had once been in their possession. That discovery was to come later.
Before reaching the Golden Gulch Hotel they encountered the landlord, already introduced as Jim Brown.
Mr. Brown scanned the new-comers with an eye to business. Being strangers, he naturally looked upon them as possible customers, and was disposed from motives of policy to cultivate their acquaintance.
"Evenin', strangers," he remarked, as affably as a rather gruff voice and manner would permit.
"Good-evening," said Bill Mosely, socially. "What might be the name of this settlement?"
"You kin see the name on that sign yonder, stranger, ef your eyes are strong enough."
"Golden Gulch?"
"I reckon."
"It ought to be a good place, from the name."
"It's middlin' good. Where might you be from?"
"We're prospectin' a little," answered Bill Mosely vaguely; for there had been circumstances in his California career that made it impolitic to be too definite in his statements.
"Where are you bound?" continued the landlord, with that licensed curiosity which no one ventured to object to in California.
"That depends upon circumstances, my friend," said Bill Mosely, guardedly. "We may go to 'Frisco, and then again we may not. To-night we propose to remain here in Golden Gulch. Is that a comfortable hotel?"
"Well, stranger, seein' I keep it myself, it mightn't be exactly the thing for me to say much about it; but I reckon you won't complain of it if you stop there."
"I'm glad to meet you," said Bill Mosely, grasping the landlord's hand fervently. "I don't need to ask any more about it, seein' you're the landlord. You look like a man that can keep a hotel—eh, Tom?"
"I should say so," returned Tom Hadley, making the answer that was expected of him.
"You're a gentleman!" said Jim Brown, on whom this flattery had its effect. "Just come along with me and I'll see that you are treated as such."
"What are your terms, say, for supper and lodgin', landlord?" asked Bill, with commendable caution.
"Five dollars," answered Brown.
Bill Mosely's jaw fell. He had hoped it would be less.
"And for supper alone?" he asked.
"Two dollars."
"We'll only take supper," said Mosely.
"Just as you say."
"We're so used to campin' out that we couldn't breathe in-doors—eh, Tom?"
"I should say so, Bill."
"Suit yourselves, strangers. I reckon you'll want breakfast in the mornin'."
"As likely as not." Then, turning his attention to the mustangs: "Are them mustangs yours, landlord?"
"No; they belong to a party that's stoppin' with me."
"Will they sell?"
"I reckon not. There's a lame man in the party, and he can't walk much."
"A lame man? Who is with him?" asked Bill Mosely, with a sudden suspicion of the truth.
"Well, there's another man and a boy and a heathen Chinee."
"Tom," said Bill Mosely, in excitement, "it's the party we left on the mountain."
"I should say so, Bill."
"Do you know them, strangers?"
"Know them?" ejaculated Bill Mosely, who instantly formed a plan which would gratify his love of vengeance and secure him the coveted horses at one and the same time—"I reckon I know them only too well. They stole those mustangs from me and my friend a week ago. I thought them animals looked natural."
"Hoss-thieves!" said the landlord. "Well, I surmised there was something wrong about them when they let that yaller heathen set down to the table with them."
It was speedily noised about in the mining-camp that a party of horse-thieves had had the audacity to visit the settlement, and were even now guests of the Golden Gulch Hotel.
Now, in the eyes of a miner a horse-thief was as bad as a murderer. He was considered rather worse than an ordinary thief, since the character of his theft gave him better facilities for getting away with his plunder. He was looked upon by all as a common and dangerous enemy, on whom any community was justified in visiting the most condign punishment.
Bill Mosely knew very well the feeling he would rouse against the men whom he hated, and, having started the movement, waited complacently for the expected results to follow.
Jim Brown was by no means slow in spreading the alarm. True, these men were his guests, and it might be considered that it was against his interests to denounce them, but he knew his claim for entertainment would be allowed him out of the funds found in possession of the party, with probably a liberal addition as a compensation for revealing their real character.
Horse-thieves! No sooner did the news spread than the miners, most of whom were through work for the day, began to make their way to the neighborhood of the hotel.
There hadn't been any excitement at Golden Gulch for some time, and this promised a first-class sensation.
"Hang 'em up! That's what I say," suggested Brown the landlord.
"Where's the men that call 'em thieves?" asked one of the miners, a middle-aged man, who was sober and slow-spoken, and did not look like a man to be easily carried away by a storm of prejudice or a wave of excitement.
"Here they be," said Brown, pointing to BillMosely and Tom Hadley, who were speedily surrounded by an excited crowd.
"What have you say?" asked the first speaker of Mosely.
Bill Mosely repeated his story glibly. It was to this effect: They had met the Chinaman, who induced them to accompany him to the cabin where his master lay sick. From motives of compassion they assented. When they reached the cabin they were set upon by the combined party, their horses were taken from them, they were tied to trees, where they were kept in great pain all night, and in the morning stripped of the greater part of their money and sent adrift.
It will be seen that the story did not entirely deviate from fact, and was very artfully framed to excite sympathy for the narrator and indignation against the perpetrators of the supposed outrage. Tom Hadley, who had not the prolific imagination of his comrade, listened in open-mouthed wonder to the fanciful tale, but did not offer to corroborate it in his usual manner.
The tale was so glibly told that it carried conviction to the minds of most of those present, and a storm of indignation arose.
"Let's have 'em out! let's hang 'em up!" exclaimed one impetuous miner.
Others echoed the cry, and the company of miners in stern phalanx marched to the hotel, where, unconscious of the impending peril, our friends were resting after the day's fatigue.
We have already described the manner in which Jim Brown burst in upon them with the startling charge that they were horse-thieves.
Of course all were startled except Ki Sing, who did not fully comprehend the situation.
Richard Dewey was the first to speak. "What do you mean," he said, sternly, "by this preposterous charge?"
"You'll find out soon enough," said the landlord, nodding significantly. "Jest you file out of that door pretty quick. There's some of us want to see you."
"What does all this mean?" asked Dewey, turning to Jake Bradley.
"I don't know," answered Bradley. "It looks like a conspiracy."
The party filed out, and were confronted by some thirty or forty black-bearded, stern-faced men, who had tried and condemned them in advance of their appearance.
Richard Dewey glanced at the faces before him, and his spirit sank within him. He had been present at a similar scene before—a scene which had terminated in a tragedy—and he knew how swift and relentless those men could be. Who could have made such a charge he did not yet know, but, innocent as he and his companions were, he knew that their word would not be taken, and the mistake might lead to death. But he was not a man to quail or blanch.
"Hoss-thieves! string 'em up!" was shouted from more than one throat.
Richard Dewey calmly surveyed the angry throng. "Gentlemen," he said, "I am no more a horse-thief than any one of you."
There was a buzz of indignation, as if he had confessed his guilt and implicated them in it.
"I demand to see and face my accusers," he said boldly. "What man has dared to charge me andmy friends with the mean and contemptible crime of stealing horses?"
Jake Bradley had been looking about him too. Over the heads of the men, who stood before them drawn up in a semicircle, he saw what had escaped the notice of Richard Dewey, the faces and figures of Bill Mosely and Tom Hadley.
"Dick," said he, suddenly, "I see it all. Look yonder! There are them two mean skunks, Bill Mosely and Tom Hadley. It's they who have been bringin' this false slander ag'in us."
Richard Dewey and Ben immediately looked in the direction indicated.
Bill Mosely eyed them with a glance of evil and exulting triumph, as much as to say, "It's my turn now; I am having my revenge."
But Jim Brown, who seemed to be acting as prosecuting attorney, had already summoned the two men to come forward and testify.
"Here's the men!" he said, exultingly. "Here's the men you robbed of their horses and tied to trees.—Isn't it so, stranger?"
Bill Mosely inclined his head in the affirmative,and Tom Hadley, being also asked, answered, but rather faintly, "I should say so."
Lying did not come as natural to him as to Bill.
Richard Dewey laughed scornfully.
"Are those the men," he asked, "who charge us with stealing their horses?"
"In course they do."
"Then," burst forth Jake Bradley, impetuously, "of all the impudent and lyin' scoundrels I ever met, they'll carry off the prize."
"Of course you deny it," said Bill Mosely, brazenly persisting in his falsehood. "A man that'll steal will lie. Perhaps you will charge us with stealin' the horses next."
"That's just what I do," said Bradley, in an excited tone. "You're not only horse-thieves, but you'll take gold-dust an' anything else you can lay your hands on."
"Gentlemen," said Bill Mosely, shrugging his shoulders, "you see how he is tryin' to fasten his own guilt on me and my innocent pard here. It isn't enough that he stole our horses and forcedus to foot it over them rough hills, but now he wants to steal away our reputation for honor and honesty. He thinks you're easy to be imposed on, but I know better. You won't see two innocent men lied about and charged with disgraceful crimes?"
"I admire that fellow's cheek," said Bradley in an undertone to Richard Dewey, but he soon found that the consequences were likely to be disastrous to him and his party. The crowd were getting impatient, and readily seconded the words of Jim Brown when he followed up Bill Mosely's speech by a suggestion that they proceed at once to vindicate justice by a summary execution.
They rushed forward and seized upon our four friends, Ki Sing included, and hurried them off to a cluster of tall trees some twenty rods away.
Nothing is so unreasoning as a crowd under excitement. The miners were inflamed with fierce anger against men of whom they knew nothing, except that they were accused of theft by two other men, of whom also they knew nothing. Whether the charge was true or false they did not stop to inquire. Apparently, they did not care. They only wanted revenge, and that stern and immediate.
The moderate speaker, already referred to, tried to turn the tide by an appeal for delay. "Wait till morning," he said. "This charge may not be true. Let us not commit an injustice."
But his appeal was drowned in the cries of the excited crowd, "Hang the horse-thieves! string 'em up."
Each of the four victims was dragged by a forcewhich he couldn't resist to the place of execution.
Richard Dewey was pale, but his expression was stern and contemptuous, as if he regarded the party of miners as fools or lunatics.
"Was this to be the end?" he asked himself. "Just as the prospect of happiness was opening before him, just as he was to be reunited to the object of his affection, was he to fall a victim to the fury of a mob?"
Jake Bradley perhaps took the matter more philosophically than either of the other three. He had less to live for, and his attachment to life was not therefore so strong. Still, to be hanged as a thief was not a pleasant way to leave life, and that was what he thought of most. Again, his sympathy was excited in behalf of the boy Ben, whom he had come to love as if he were his own son. He could not bear to think of the boy's young life being extinguished in so shocking a manner.
"This is rough, Ben," he managed to say as the two, side by side, were hurried along by the vindictive crowd.
Ben's face was pale and his heart was full of sorrow and awe with the prospect of a shameful death rising before him. Life was sweet to him, and it seemed hard to lose it.
"Yes it is," answered Ben, faltering. "Can't something be done?"
Jake Bradley shook his head mournfully. "I am afraid not," he said. "I'd like to shoot one of those lyin' scoundrels" (referring to Bill Mosely and his companion) "before I am swung off. To think their word should cost us our lives! It's a burnin' shame!"
Ki Sing looked the image of terror as he too was forced forward by a couple of strong miners. His feet refused to do their office, and he was literally dragged forward, his feet trailing along the ground. He was indeed a ludicrous figure, if anything connected with such a tragedy can be considered ludicrous. Probably it was not so much death that Ki Sing feared, for with his race life is held cheap, but Chinamen shrink from violence, particularly that of a brutal character. They are ready with their knives, but other violence is not common among them.
Bill Mosely and Tom Hadley followed in the rear of the crowd. They would have liked to improve the time by stealing away with the mustangs which they coveted, but even in this hour of public excitement they knew it would not be safe, and the act might arouse suspicion.
While Mosely felt gratified that the men he hated were likely to be put out of the way, there was in his heart a sensation of fear, and he involuntarily shuddered when he reflected that if justice were done he would he in the place of these men who were about to suffer a shameful death. Moreover, he knew that some day it were far from improbable that he himself would be figuring in a similar scene as a chief actor, or rather chief victim. So, though he exulted, he also trembled.
Meanwhile the place of execution had been reached. Then it was discovered that one important accessory to the contemplated tragedy was lacking—a rope. So one of the party was sent to the hotel for a rope, being instructed by Jim Brown where to find it.
It seemed the last chance for an appeal, and,hopeless as it seemed, Richard Dewey resolved to improve it. "Gentlemen," he said in a solemn tone, "I call God to witness that you are about to put to death four innocent men."
"Enough of that!" said Jim Brown, roughly, "We don't want to hear any more of your talk."
But Dewey did not stop. "You have condemned us," he proceeded, "on the testimony of two as arrant scoundrels as can be found in California;" and he pointed scornfully at Bill Mosely and his partner.
"Are you goin' to let him insult us?" asked Mosely in the tone of a wronged man.
"That don't go down, stranger," said Jim Brown. "We know you're guilty, and that's enough."
"You know it? How do you know it?" retorted Dewey. "What proof is there except the word of two thieves and liars who deserve the fate which you are preparing for us?"
"Hang 'em up!" shouted somebody; and the cry was taken up by the rest.
"If you won't believe me," continued Dewey, "I want to make one appeal—to ask one last favor.Spare the life of that innocent boy, who certainly has done no evil. If there are any fathers present I ask, Have you the heart to take away the life of a child just entering upon life and its enjoyments?"
He had touched the chord in the hearts of more than one.
"That's so!" cried the speaker who had tried to stem the popular excitement. "It would be a crime and a disgrace, and I'll shoot the man that puts the rope 'round the boy's neck."
"You're right," cried three others, who themselves had left children in their distant homes. "The boy's life must be saved."
The two men who held Ben in their grasp released him, and our young hero found himself free. There was a great rush of joy to his heart as he saw the shadow of death lifted from him, but he was not satisfied that his life alone should be spared. He resolved to make an appeal in turn. "Gentlemen," he said, "I am only a boy, but I want to speak a few words, and those words shall be true."
Ben had been a good speaker at school, and hehad unconsciously assumed the attitude with which he commenced declaiming upon the school-rostrum.
"Hear the boy!" shouted several; and there was a general silence. It was a new thing to be addressed by a boy, and there was a feeling of curiosity as to what he would say.
"I want to say this," continued Ben—"that what Mr. Dewey has said is strictly true. Not one of us is guilty of the crime that has been charged upon us. The men who have testified against us are thieves, and robbed us of these very horses, which we finally recovered from them. May I tell you how it all happened?"
Partly from curiosity, the permission was given, and Ben, in plain, simple language, told the story of how they had received Mosely and Hadley hospitably, and awoke in the morning to find that they had stolen their horses. He also described the manner in which later they tried to rob Dewey when confined to his bed by sickness. His words were frank and sincere, and bore the impress of truth. Evidently a sentiment was being created favorable to the prisoners, and Bill Mosely saw it and trembled.
"Let us go," he whispered to Hadley.
"If you wish to know whether I speak the truth," Ben concluded, "look in the faces of those two men who have accused us."
The terror in the face of Bill Mosely was plainly to be seen. Suddenly the minds of the fickle multitude veered round to the two accusers, and shouts arose: "The boy's right! Hang the thieves!"
Then Bill Mosely did perhaps the most unwise thing possible. His courage fairly broke down, and he started to run. Immediately a dozen men were on his track. He was brought back, moaning and begging for mercy, but the crowd was in no merciful mood. Victims they demanded, and when the rope was brought the two wretched men were summarily suspended to the branches of two neighboring trees.
They had fallen into the pit which they had prepared for others.
As for Ben, he became the hero of the hour. The miners raised him on their shoulders and bore him aloft in triumph to the hotel from which he had so recently been dragged to execution.
While Ben rejoiced and lifted silent thanks to God for his narrow escape from a shameful death, he felt no satisfaction in the knowledge that the men who had basely conspired against them had suffered the like terrible fate. He averted his head in horror from the sight, and, innocent as he was of fault, he felt depressed to think that his words had resulted in bringing this punishment upon them.
I have said that he was the hero of the hour. Boys were scarce in California, and the hearts of the miners warmed to him on account of his youth and the memories it called up of their own children far away.
A self-appointed committee waited upon him and asked him to stay with them.
"We'll all help you along," they said. "We willmake your share equal to that of the luckiest miner among us. You're true grit, and we respect you for it. What do you say?"
"What shall I do, Jake?" he asked of Bradley.
"It's a fair offer, Ben. Perhaps you'd best stay. I'd stay too, only I want to see Dick Dewey safe in 'Frisco. When he and his gal are j'ined I'll come back and try my luck here."
"I will do the same, Jake. I want to go to San Francisco and see the lady who was so kind to me. I sha'n't feel that I've done all my duty till I have seen her and Mr. Dewey united. Then I shall be ready to come back."
"Tell 'em so, Ben."
Ben gave this answer to those who had asked him to stay, thanking them gratefully for their kind offer. His answer gave general satisfaction.
Ben could hardly realize that these very men had been impatient to hang him only an hour before. He was thankful for this change in their sentiments, though he did not pretend to understand it.
Bradley and Dewey, knowing the fickleness of a mining-community, were a little apprehensive thattheir original suspicions might again be aroused, and that some among them might be led to think they had make a mistake, after all, and hung the wrong men. That would be serious, and perhaps dangerous to them. They reflected that only Ben's speech had turned the tide of sentiment, and the two thieves had been hung on the unsupported word of a boy. Might not this occur to some of the company in some of their cooler moments? They decided in a secret conference that it would be best for them to get away early the next morning—that is, as early as practicable—before any change had come over the minds of their new friends.
Later, however, they were relieved from their momentary apprehension.
Two men who had been out hunting did not return to the camp till an hour after the execution had taken place.
"What's happened? they asked.
"We've only been hangin' a couple of hoss-thieves," was answered coolly by one of their comrades. "We came near hangin' the wrong men, but we found out our mistake."
The two hunters went to view the bodies of the malefactors, who were still suspended from the extemporized gallows.
"I know them men," said one with sudden recognition.
"What do you know about them? Did you ever meet them?"
"I reckon I did. They camped with me one night, and in the morning they were missing, and all my gold-dust too."
"Then it's true what the boy said? they're thieves, and no mistake?"
"You've made no mistake this time. You've hung the right men."
This fresh testimony was at once communicated to the miners, and received with satisfaction, as one or two had been a little in doubt as to whether the two men were really guilty. No one heard it with more pleasure than Dewey and Bradley, who felt now that they were completely exonerated.
Our party had no further complaint to make of ill-treatment. During the remainder of the evening they were treated with distinguished consideration, and every effort was made to make their sojourn pleasant.
As the miners gathered round a blazing log-fire built out of doors, which the cool air of evening made welcome, it was proposed that those who had any vocal gifts should exert them for the benefit of the company.
Three or four of those present had good voices, and sang such songs as they knew.
Finally, one of the miners turned to Bradley. "Can't you sing us something, friend?" he asked.
"You don't know what you're asking," said Bradley. "My voice sounds like a rusty saw. If youenjoy the howlin' of wolves, mayhap you might like my singin'."
"I reckon you're excused," said the questioner.
"My friend Dick Dewey will favor you, perhaps. I never heard him sing, but I reckon he might if he tried."
"Won't you sing?" was asked of Dewey.
Richard Dewey would have preferred to remain silent, but his life had been spared, and the men around him, though rough in manner, seemed to mean kindly. He conquered his reluctance, therefore, and sang a couple of ballads in a clear, musical voice with good effect.
"Now it's the boy's turn," said one.
Ben, was in fact, a good singer. He had attended a country singing-school for two terms, and he was gifted with a strong and melodious voice. Bradley had expected that he would decline bashfully, but Ben had a fair share of self-possession, and felt there was no good reason to decline.
"I don't know many songs," he said, "but I am ready to do my share."
The first song which occurred to him was"Annie Laurie," and he sang it through with taste and effect. As his sweet, boyish notes fell on the ears of the crowd they listened as if spellbound, and at the end gave him a round of applause.
I don't wish to represent that Ben was a remarkable singer. His knowledge of music was only moderate, but his voice was unusually strong and sweet, and his audience were not disposed to be critical.
He sang one song after another, until at last he declared that he was tired and would sing but one more. "What shall it be?" he asked.
"'Sweet Home,'" suggested one; and the rest took it up in chorus.
That is a song that appeals to the heart at all times and in all places, but it may well be understood that among the California mountains, before an audience every man of whom was far from home, it would have a peculiar and striking effect. The singer, too, as he sang, had his thoughts carried back to the home three thousand miles away where lived all who were near and dear to him,and the thought lent new tenderness and pathos to his song.
Tears came to the eyes of more than one rough miner as he listened to the sweet strains, and there were few in whom home-memories were not excited.
There was a moment's hush, and then a great roar of applause. Ben had made a popular success of which a prima donna might have been proud.
One enthusiastic listener wanted to take up a contribution for the singer, but Ben steadily declined it. "I am glad if I have given any one pleasure," he said, "but I can't take money for that."
"Ben," said Jake Bradley, when the crowd had dispersed, "you've made two ten-strikes to-day. You've carried off all the honors, both as an orator and a singer."
"You saved all our lives by that speech of yours, Ben," said Dewey. "We will not soon forget that."
"It was your plea for me that give me thechance, Mr. Dewey," said Ben. "I owe my life, first of all to you."
"That does not affect my obligation to you. If I am ever in a situation to befriend you, you may count with all confidence upon Richard Dewey."
"Thank you, Mr. Dewey. I would sooner apply to you than any man I know—except Bradley," he added, noticing that his faithful comrade seemed disturbed by what he said.
Jake Bradley brightened up and regarded Ben with a look of affection. He had come to feel deeply attached to the boy who had shared his dangers and privations, and in all proved himself a loyal friend.
The next morning the three friends set out for San Francisco, carrying with them the hearty good wishes of the whole mining-settlement.
"You have promised to come back?" said more than one.
"Yes," said Bradley; "we'll come back if we ain't prevented, and I reckon we won't be unless we get hanged for hoss-stealin' somewhere on the road."
This sally called forth a hearty laugh from the miners, who appreciated the joke.
"It's all very well for you to laugh," said Bradley, shaking his head, "but I don't want to come any nearer hangin' than I was last night."
"All's well that ends well," said one of the miners lightly.
Neither Ben nor Richard Dewey could speak or think so lightly of the narrow escape they had had from a shameful death, and though they smiled, as was expected by the crowd, it was a grave smile, with no mirth in it.
"You'll come back too, boy?" was said to Ben.
"Yes, I expect to."
"You won't be sorry for it.—Boys, let us stake out two claims for the boy and his friend, and when they come back we'll help them work them for a while."
"Agreed! agreed!" said all.
So with hearty manifestations of good-will the three friends rode on their way.
"It's strange," observed Dewey, thoughtfully, "how this wild and lonely life effects the character. Some of these men who were so near hanging us on the unsupported accusation of two men of whom they knew nothing were good, law-abiding citizens at home. There they would not have dreamed of such summary proceedings."
"That's where it comes in," said Bradley. "It ain't here as it is there. There's no time here to wait for courts and trials."
"So you too are in favor of Judge Lynch?"
"Judge Lynch didn't make any mistake when he swung off them two rascals, Hadley and Bill Mosely."
"We might have been in their places, Jake," said Ben.
"That would have been a pretty bad mistake," said Bradley, shrugging his shoulders.
It will be remembered that a merchant in Albany, Mr. John Campbell, was the guardian of Miss Florence Douglas, whom our hero, Ben, had escorted from New York to San Francisco.
The disappearance of his ward was exceedingly annoying, since it interfered with plans which he had very much at heart. He had an only son, Orton Campbell, now a young man of twenty-eight. He was young in years only, being a stiff, grave, wooden-faced man, who in his starched manners was a close copy of his father. Both father and son were excessively fond of money, and the large amount of the fortune of the young lady, who stood to the father in the relation of ward, had excited the covetousness of both. It was almost immediately arranged between father and sonthat she should marry the latter, either of her own free will or upon compulsion.
In pursuance of this agreement, Mr. Orton Campbell took advantage of the ward's residence in his father's family to press upon her attentions which clearly indicated his ultimate object.
Florence Douglas felt at first rather constrained to receive her guardian's son with politeness, and this, being misinterpreted, led to an avowal of love.
Orton Campbell made his proposal in a confident, matter-of-fact manner, as if it were merely a matter of form, and the answer must necessarily be favorable.
The young lady drew back in dignified surprise, hastily withdrawing the hand which he had seized. "I cannot understand, Mr. Campbell," she said, "what can have induced you to address me in this manner."
"I don't know why you should be surprised, Miss Douglas," returned Orton Campbell, offended.
"I have never given you any reason to suppose that I regarded you with favor."
"You have always seemed glad to see me, but perhaps that was only coquetry," said Orton, in a disagreeable manner.
"I certainly have never treated you with more than ordinary politeness, except, indeed, as my residence in your father's house has necessarily brought us nearer together."
"I don't think, Miss Douglas, you would find me a bad match," said the young man, condescending to drop his sneering tone and plead his cause. "I am already worth a good sum of money. I am my father's partner, and I shall become richer every year."
"It is not a matter of money with me, Mr. Campbell. When I marry, that will be a minor consideration."
"Of course, because you have a fortune of your own."
"Yes," said Florence, regarding him significantly, for she suspected that it was rather her fortune than herself that he desired, being no stranger to his love of money.
Perhaps he understood her, for he continued:"Of course I don't care for that, you know. I should offer myself to you if you had nothing."
This Florence Douglas thoroughly disbelieved. She answered coldly, "I thank you for the compliment you pay me, but I beg you to drop the subject."
"I will wait."
"You will wait in vain. I will look upon you as a friend if you desire it, but there can be nothing more than friendship between us."
Orton Campbell was very much chagrined, and reported the result of his suit to his father.
"I will speak to her myself," said the father. "As her guardian I ought to have some influence with her."
He soon ascertained, however, that Florence Douglas had a will of her own.
After a time he dropped persuasion and had recourse to threats. "Miss Douglas," he said, "I shall have to remind you that I am your guardian."
"I am quite aware of that fact, sir."
"And I shall remain in that position till you have completed your twenty-fifth year."
"That is quite true, sir."
"If you take any imprudent steps I shall think it necessary to interfere."
"What do you mean, sir?"
"I shall not allow you to fall a prey to any designing fortune-hunter."
"You need not fear, sir: I am in no danger."
"I am of a different opinion. I am quite aware that Richard Dewey has been seeking to ingratiate himself with you."
"Then," said his ward with dignity, "I have no hesitation in informing you that he has succeeded."
"Ha! I thought so. That is why you rejected my son."
"Excuse me, sir: you are quite mistaken. I should refuse your son if there were no other man in the world likely to marry me."
"And what is the matter with my son, Miss Douglas?" demanded her guardian, stiffly.
Florence might have answered that he was too much like his father, but she did not care to anger her guardian unnecessarily, and she simply answered, "It would be quite impossible for me to regard him as I wish to regard the man whom I hope to marry."
"But you could regard Richard Dewey in that way," sneered Campbell. "Well, Miss Douglas, I may as well tell you that he asked my permission yesterday to address you, and I ordered him out of my presence. Moreover, I have charged the servants not to admit him into the house."
"So you have insulted him, Mr. Campbell?" said his ward, her eyes flashing with resentment.
"It was the treatment which he deserved as an unscrupulous fortune-hunter."
"That word will better apply to your son," said the young lady, coldly. "I shall not remain here to have Mr. Dewey insulted."
"You will repent this, Miss Douglas," said her guardian, with an ugly frown. "Mark my words: I will keep you and Dewey apart. I have the power, and I will exert it."
Two weeks later Richard Dewey sailed for California in search of fortune, and five months later Miss Douglas, fearing that her guardian might imprison her in a mad-house, escaped from his residence, and, aided by Ben, also managed to reach California. For a time Mr. Campbell was entirely ignorant of her place of refuge. The next chapter will show how he discovered it.
"It is strange we can't find Florence," said Orton Campbell to his father one morning some months after the young lady's departure. "Is there no clue?"
"The detective I have employed has failed to trace her."
"Has he no theory?"
"He suggests that she may have gone to Europe," said Mr. Campbell, "but I am not of that opinion."
"What do you think, then?"
"I suspect she has buried herself in some obscure country place under some assumed name, there to remain till she has attained her twenty-fifth year, when my guardianship ceases."
"When will that be?"
"Six months hence."
"It is very important, then, that we should find her before that time," said Orton Campbell, thoughtfully.
"That is true. After the time referred to my power ceases, and I shall be unable to assist you in your plans."
"Her fortune amounts to one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, does it not?"
"More than that. The interest has been accumulating till it amounts to nearer one hundred and seventy thousand dollars."
Orton Campbell's eyes sparkled with covetous greed.
"That is a stake worth playing for," he said. "With what I have of my own, it would make me independently rich."
"Just so, Orton," said his father.
"And nothing stands in the way but the caprice of a foolish girl! I declare, father, it is too exasperating. Suppose we try another detective? Your man can't be very sharp."
"I have no objection, Orton," said the merchant, "but as he would be employed in your interest, itis only fair that you should pay the expense incurred."
"I don't see that," said the son. "She is your ward, you know. It ought to come out of her property."
"The item may not be allowed. In that case I should be responsible," said John Campbell, cautiously.
"I'll tell you what I will do, father: if she is found and I marry her, I'll freely pay the whole expense."
"Suppose we find her, and she won't marry you: what then?" asked his father, keenly.
The son looked nonplussed, but finally consented in that case to defray the expense out of his private means—that is, if it could not be taken out of the young lady's fortune.
The matter having been satisfactorily adjusted, they were discussing the choice of a detective when a clerk came to the door of the private counting-room in which father and son were seated and said, "There's a man outside wants to speak to you, Mr. Campbell."
"Who is he, Saunders?"
"I think it's Jones, who used to be in your employ as light porter."
"How does he look? Well-to-do?"
"He is decidedly shabby," answered Saunders.
"Come to ask help, probably," muttered the merchant. "I think I won't see him."
Saunders left the office, but presently returned.
"Well, has he gone?" asked the merchant.
"No; he says he wants to see you on business of importance."
"Of importance to himself, probably.—Shall I see him, Orton?"
"Yes, father. If he is humbugging us, we can send him off."
So permission was given, and almost immediately Saunders ushered into the room a short, broad-shouldered fellow, who looked very much like a professional tramp.
"Good-morning, Mr. Campbell," said he, deferentially.
"Humph, Jones, is it you? You don't look as if you had prospered."
"No more I have, sir."
"Don't come near me. Really, your appearance is very disreputable."
"I can't help that, sir. I've just come from California in the steerage, and you can't keep very neat there."
"I believe you went to California to make your fortune, didn't you, Jones?" said Orton Campbell, with a cynical smile.
"Yes, Mr. Orton, I did."
"And you didn't make it, I infer from your appearance."
"I haven't got much money about me now," said Jones, with a shrug and a smile.
"You would have done better not to have left my employment, Jones," said the merchant. "You wanted higher pay, I believe, and as I wouldn't give it, you decided that you could better yourself at the mines."
"That is about so, sir."
"Well, and what luck did you have?"
"Good luck at first, sir. I made a thousand dollars at the mines in a few months."
"Indeed!" said Orton, in surprise.
"I came with it to San Francisco, and gambled it away in one night. Then I was on my beam-ends, as the sailors say."
"Did you go back?"
"No. I went to work in the city, and managed to get enough money to buy a steerage passage, and here I am."
"I suppose you have come to ask me to take you back into my employ? That, I take it, is your business with me."
"No, sir—not exactly."
"Then, what is it?" asked the merchant, looking a little puzzled. It crossed his mind that Jones might so far have forgotten his rule never to give away money for any purpose as to suppose there was a chance to effect a loan.
"I thought you and Mr. Orton might be willing to pay my expenses back to San Francisco," said Jones, coolly.
"Are you out of your head, Jones?" demanded Orton Campbell, amazed at the man's effrontery.
"Not at all."
"If this is meant as a joke, Jones," said the merchant in a dignified tone, "it is a very poor—and, I may add, a very impudent—one. What possible claim have you on us, that you should expect such a favor?"
"Have you heard anything of your ward, Mr. Campbell?" asked Jones, not in the least abashed.
"No. What has my ward to do with your concerns?"
"I have seen her," answered Jones, briefly.
"Where?" asked John Campbell and his son simultaneously.
"That information belongs to me," said Jones, quietly. "A detective doesn't work without pay."
The two Campbells now began to see the point. This man had information to sell, and would not give it up without what he considered suitable compensation. They determined to drive the best possible bargain with him. He was poor, and probably could be bought over for a small sum.
"Your information is worth something, Jones," said the merchant, guardedly. "I will go so far as to give you twenty-five dollars cash for it."
"That won't do," said Jones, shaking his head.
"Your information may be worth nothing," said Orton. "You may have seen her, but that doesn't show where she is now."
"I know where she is now," said Jones.
"Is she in California?"
"I don't mind telling you as much as that, Mr. Orton."
"Then we can find her without your assistance."
"I don't think you can. At any rate, it will take time, especially as, if you don't make a bargain with me, I shall write her that you are on her track."
Father and son looked at each other.
It was evident that Jones was no fool, and they would be obliged to submit to his terms or give up the search, which was not to be thought of.
"What do you propose, Jones?" asked Mr. Campbell, a little less haughtily.
"That you pay my expenses back to California and one thousand dollars," said Jones, promptly. "If you or Mr. Orton will go with me, I will show you where she lives, and then you can take your own course."
This was finally agreed to, and Orton Campbell and the ex-porter sailed by the next steamer for San Francisco, where Florence Douglas, still boarding with Mrs. Armstrong, was waiting impatiently for news of Richard Dewey.
Florence Douglas had now been an inmate of Mrs. Armstrong's household for some months. She avoided making acquaintances, and therefore was often lonely. But she was buoyed up by the thought that Richard Dewey was somewhere in the State, and that the two messengers whom she had sent out would eventually find him. She felt great confidence in Ben, and also in Bradley, who had impressed her as an honest, straightforward man, though illiterate and not at all times superior to temptation.
Her hope had been sustained by a letter received from Ben at the time he and Bradley were on the point of starting for the Sierras, where they had information that Dewey was engaged in mining. Then weeks passed, and she heard nothing. She began to feel anxious for the safety of her twoagents, knowing that not alone wild beasts, but lawless men, were to be encountered among the mountains. Should Ben and his companion come to harm, she would be sincerely sorry for their fate, feeling in a measure responsible for it. Still more, Richard Dewey would then be left ignorant of her presence in California, and might return to the East in that ignorance, leaving her friendless and alone more than three thousand miles from her old home.
How would her heart have been cheered could she have known that at that moment Richard Dewey, with his two faithful friends, was but four days' journey from the city! So it happens that good fortune is often nearer to us than we imagine, even when our hearts are most anxious.
While she was trying to look on the bright side one morning, Mrs. Armstrong entered her room. "Miss Douglas," she said, "there is a gentleman in the parlor who wishes to see you."
Her heart gave a great bound. Who could it be but Richard Dewey who would call upon her?
"Did he give his name?" she asked, in agitation.
"No; he said you would know him."
"It must be Richard," she said to herself; and, controlling her agitation as well as she could, she descended to the parlor. She paused a moment before opening the door to regain her self-possession. Then, with an effort, she turned the knob, and entering the room, found herself face to face with Orton Campbell!
It was so unexpected and so bitter a disappointment that an expression of blank dismay overspread her face, and she sank into the nearest chair without venturing on a single word of greeting.
"You didn't expect to see me, Miss Douglas?" said Orton, enjoying the effect of his appearance, for he had never deceived himself with the thought that his father's ward would be glad to see him.
By this time Florence had regained her self-possession, and with it came back scorn for the man whose object in pursuing her she well understood to be love of her fortune, not of herself.
"You are entirely right, Mr. Campbell," she answered. "You are the last person I expected to see."
"You don't appear very glad to see me," he continued.
"Why should I appear so? You know very well that I am not glad to see you," said the heiress, frankly.
"That is complimentary," said Orton, rather provoked, though he knew very well in advance that such was her feeling.
"I suppose you didn't come here for compliments, Mr. Campbell?" said Florence, coldly.
"You are right: I didn't."
"May I ask if you are in San Francisco on business?"
"You take things very coolly, I must say, Miss Douglas. Certainly you cannot be ignorant of my motive in coming here at great personal inconvenience."
"I hope I have nothing to do with your reason."
"You are the sole reason."
"I am sorry to hear it."
"I came to remonstrate with you on the very unwise step you took in running away from your legal guardian."
"My legal guardian, as you call him, though I look upon him as such only as far as my property is concerned, rendered the step necessary."
"I don't see how."
"In plain terms, Mr. Orton Campbell, I believe that you and your father entered into a conspiracy to keep my fortune in the family by inducing me to become your wife."
"I certainly did ask you to become my wife, but it was not because of your fortune," answered the young man.
Florence's lip curled. She thoroughly disbelieved his statement. Though she said nothing, it was clear to him from her expression that she put no confidence in his words.
"You may believe me or not," he said, doggedly; "but why should you think so poorly of yourself as to suppose you have nothing to attract lovers except your money?"
"I may not be so modest as you suppose, Mr. Campbell. I do believe that I have won the love of a true and noble man. My doubt only related to yourself."
"You mean Richard Dewey, I suppose?" said Orton Campbell, with a sneer.
"I do mean Richard Dewey," answered Florence, with composure.
"By the way, he came to California, I believe."
"Yes."
"And you came here in pursuit of him?" he added, with a sneer.
"I came here to find him, knowing that in him I had a true friend, while your father's persecution and your own made me feel the need of one."
"Have you found him? Do you know where he is?" asked Orton Campbell, eagerly.
"I only know he is somewhere at the mines. I have taken steps to find him, and hope eventually to succeed."
"Why don't you advertise?" asked the young man, with an angry sneer.
"Would you advise it?" asked Miss Douglas, coolly.
"No," muttered Orton, for he feared such a step might prove successful. "What steps have you taken?" he asked.
"I prefer to keep them to myself."
"Miss Douglas," said Orton Campbell, after a pause, "all this is very foolish and humiliating. There is only one proper course for you to pursue."
"What is it?"
"Return to New York with me in the next steamer, and place yourself once more under the care of my father, whose protection you never ought to have left."
"'Protection'!" repeated Florence, with bitter emphasis. "What protection did he give me?"
"All that was required."
"'All that was required'? You know very well that you and he had conspired to put me in a mad-house if I would not agree to enrich you by giving you my hand."
"That is not true," said Orton Campbell, rather confused.
"'Not true'? He distinctly threatened to do it as a means of terrifying me into compliance with his and your wishes. It was not until then that I decided to leave your house and seek some place of refuge until time and the law should set mecompletely free from your family and their machinations."
"It is evident, Miss Douglas, that you are under a delusion. Your way of talking is sufficient to show that your mind is affected. Any good physician would need no other proof."
Florence Douglas looked at him with distrust. Was this a threat, or how should she interpret it?
"It is convenient, Mr. Orton Campbell," she retorted with spirit, "to charge with madness those who oppose us. At home I felt afraid of your threats: here I am secure."
He thought that perhaps he had gone too far, since the young lady was independent of him, and it was not certain that he could gain possession of her.
"Miss Douglas," he said, "I have already told you that you have taken an unwise step. There is one way to remedy it, and I hope I may be able to induce you to take it. Let me assure you that I have called upon you as a friend, as a warm friend, as one who seeks to be something more than a friend."
"Well, sir?"
"Let me urge you to consent to an immediate marriage with me, and to accompany me home on the next steamer. My father will receive you as a daughter, and never allude to your flight."
"I suppose I ought to thank you for your disinterested proposal, Mr. Campbell, but I can only tell you that you ask what is entirely out of the question. This is final. Allow me to wish you good-morning."
"But, Miss Douglas—"
She did not turn back nor heed these last words, and Orton Campbell found himself alone.
He rose slowly from his seat, and an evil look came into his eyes. "She has not done with me yet," he muttered as he left the house.