Forty-one Thieves Part 4

"Yes, I wish he hadn't said so much about defending yourself. I wish he hadn't carried a pistol that day. He wouldn't have been so ready to fight, perhaps."

"One thing certain," observed Palmer, "if he was going to carry a pistol at all, he ought to have had it handy, not under his duster."

"Well, it was natural to think the danger past when they had got safely away from the South Yuba. The robbers knew their man, and they played a shrewd game."

"It's easy enough to win when you play with loaded dice. I get boiling mad when I think of these low-down, worthless rascals who don't stop at any meanness, ready to commit murder for fifteen cents. They ought to be treated worse than rattlesnakes. But, as you said just now, all this don't help Will c.u.mmins. But Will is all right, John. You know that as well as I do."

"I came up here to hear you say so. I've pretty near lost faith in G.o.d and man, I reckon."

"I lost faith in man long ago," answered Palmer, smiling sardonically.

"If the fall of Adam and the curse of Cain are fables,--as they are, of course,--they are just as true as aesop's fables, for all that. They hit off human nature. But man isn't all. I've never belonged to any church, as I've often told you. But the longer I live the more I trust in Providence. Will c.u.mmins was a good man, and he's all right, I tell you."

"I feel that way myself. But I know my feeling in the matter don't alter the facts any. How do you figure it out?"

"Well, my creed's about this: in spite of all the wickedness, this is a beautiful old world. How gloriously the stars shine down every night upon these mountains! Or, take Bruce and Sammy here"--and the old man caressed his pets--"why, they love me to distraction. And I love both the scamps, I certainly do. But what is that to your affection for your partner, John Keeler? It is a good old world, I say. Then the Power that's in it and back of it, 'in whom we live and move and have our being,' is a good Power. Well, then, G.o.d is good. And that's all we need to know. If G.o.d is good, we can depend upon Him in life and death. We don't know what death means. But it's only a natural thing. It can't matter much. I will know more about it, I guess, when I am dead."

"I don't doubt you're right, Mr. Palmer. Once, back in Maryland, I heard a minister say that grief comes to open our hearts to G.o.d. It was at my mother's funeral. I reckon he was right, too. But my heart bleeds for Will c.u.mmins."

Palmer looked at him critically a moment, as if weighing him in the balance. Then, as if completely satisfied with his friend, he spoke:

"John Keeler, I want to talk business. I want you to hunt those rascals down. I'll back you for any amount. I'm past sixty, or I might attend to the business myself. You're still a young man. I'll see that Mrs. Keeler and the boy lack for nothing while you are gone. And I don't expect you to take any risks. I simply want you to get the facts, then turn them over to the authorities. Will you do it?"

Keeler hesitated. "There's very little to go on. The robbers have cleared out, and n.o.body knows who they were or where they went."

"Don't you believe it," said Palmer. "If decent people don't know, there are the other kind."

"I reckon you and I would be about as helpless as babes with 'the other kind.' We've always despised them and kept away from them."

"But they're human, like the rest of us. You and I understand human nature pretty well. We won't breathe a word to any one. You tell Mrs.

Keeler you're attending to important business for me, that I'm grub-staking you, and that there's something in it for you and the family. If the neighbors get wind of it, they'll think, perhaps, you are attending to money matters for me. They seem to be mighty curious about my money."

"Well, I might do it, if I only knew how to go about it."

"Well, Keeler, I think I can give you a start. And while we eat some dinner I'll tell you a story that will surprise you."

These Californians were certainly two of a kind; but then, two of a kind, though both be kings, is not a strong hand.

CHAPTER VII

An Old Sweetheart

When his guest had been abundantly supplied with the best the larder afforded, not forgetting condensed milk for the coffee, Palmer began his story.

"Since you were here last, Keeler," he began, "I've been to San Francisco. Nothing remarkable about that, of course. Any man might have business at the Hibernia Bank. Then again, it's worth the trip from Moore's Flat just to stand on the seash.o.r.e an hour."

"Yes," said Keeler with enthusiasm, "there's a n.o.ble sight."

"But," continued Palmer, "I'm too old a man for pleasure trips. And for that matter, I'm about through with business, too. I went to San Francisco for a special reason."

Keeler looked up from his coffee inquiringly.

"I went to see an old sweetheart."

Here Keeler smiled. It seemed odd to think of old man Palmer going upon such a mission.

"I suppose I ought to say that the woman snubbed me when I was young, and later cared more for my money than she did for me. But I loved that woman thirty years ago, and was fool enough to think I might win her if I could strike it rich here in California. I'm older now, and wiser, I hope. If a woman won't marry a man 'for richer or poorer'--especially poorer--she oughtn't to marry him at all. There's my nephew who was out here ten years ago. Married without a dollar and got the best wife in the world. No, Keeler; I may be a fool; but I'm not the kind of fool to marry an old woman because she hankers after my money.

"I went to San Francis...o...b..cause I pity the woman, and because I thought I might help her to become more decent and self-respecting."

Here the old man paused. Keeler noticed that he was much embarra.s.sed.

"I would have kept this affair to myself, Keeler; but we must get the rascals who shot c.u.mmins, so you ought to know the whole story.

"Harriet Chesney was a pretty girl thirty years ago. Rather too proud of her good looks, and a selfish minx. But a young man who has had a good mother thinks all women are good, I guess. I was terribly cut up when she refused me; but I hate to think now what might have happened if she had accepted me!"

"Why, here ten years back, a brother of mine in Michigan wrote to warn me that Harriet Chesney was coming to California to murder me. He said she had burned two houses for the insurance; had got mixed up with several men and had robbed them."

"A regular she-devil," remarked Keeler.

"Well, sure enough, she turned up here in California, nearly ten years ago. And very likely she would have killed me if she could have got hold of my property. And if all the gold I ever mined could have saved her from the sin and misery of these past ten years, she would have been welcome to it. But I couldn't buy her a clear conscience, could I?

"She got as far as Moore's Flat. Hung around there several days till she saw me at Haggerty's store. My old clothes must have disappointed her.

It would certainly humiliate any woman, good or bad, to a.s.sociate with such a scarecrow. So she cleared out, and went to San Francisco. I guess she found out she was only a novice compared with the women down there.

And I guess in a year or two she was like all the rest. I tell you, it was an awful thing to think of. It's bad enough to see a man go wrong--but a woman!--and a woman you once loved--and still love, as G.o.d still loves her!"

The old man had to pause here; and he arose abruptly, as if to put aside his dishes; and Keeler, respecting his emotion, looked out of the window.

"Well, last March, Harriet wrote me a letter. Gave me her address. Said she was dying, and would like to see me. It was a week or more before the letter reached me, for the trails were badly drifted and I had been shut up here some time. John Woolsey brought the letter, and stayed until I read it, to see if anything was wanted. Said he would look out for Bruce and Sammy, so I got on my snow-shoes and started.

"I reached San Francisco next day. I almost wished the woman was dead, as she had a right to be by that time. If she was dead, I wouldn't have to say anything to hurt her. Well, I called at the address she gave, which was in the edge of Chinatown. I tell you it was disgusting to run the gauntlet there, among those creatures.--I found the woman had been taken to the city hospital several days before and whether she was dead or alive the head she-devil of the place didn't seem to know or care.

"I found her at the hospital, sure enough. The doctor said she was getting better, and would probably live. I didn't know whether to be glad or sorry; and I was tempted to go home and write her a letter. She might not care to see me now, anyway.

"But I stayed and had a talk with her; and I am glad I did, though I couldn't help remembering the old rhyme,

"When the Devil was sick, the Devil a saint would be: When the Devil got well, the devil a saint was he."

"Harriet Chesney needed a friend, and she was glad to see me. She was more than glad to know that I had come as soon as I could. Said she had told herself I would not fail her--that it was the snow and the canon and not some other reason that kept me away. Said she thought she was going to die; and that she wanted me to know she was sorry she had done wrong. The doctor had told her she would get well, so she was going to be an honest woman if I would help her. And what do you suppose she wanted me to do?"

"Lend her some money, most likely," said Keeler.

"No, sir. She didn't want any money. Said she wanted to write to me every Sunday, and to see me whenever I came to San Francisco. Of course, I agreed, though I told her I don't go down to the city once a year, as a usual thing. I told her if she thought she needed me to write and I would try to get down. That seemed to satisfy her.

"Well, she has written to me every week since then. By the first of June she was able to work. And since then she has earned an honest living, scrubbing floors. Here is her last letter."