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 seashore an hour."
"Yes," said Keeler with enthusiasm, "there's a noble 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 Francisco because 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 embarrassed.
"I would have kept this affair to myself, Keeler; but we must get the rascals who shot Cummins, 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 associate 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 God 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 cañon 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."
Keeler took the proffered sheet and read:
"San Francisco, Sept. 5, 1879.
Mr. Robert Palmer.
Dear Sir:
I have just read about the murder of Mr. Cummins. The papers say he lived at Moore's Flat, and worked a claim once on Fillmore Hill. So he must have been a friend of yours. It is too bad. I might help you find the murderers, as all the bad men of Nevada County are known down here. If you will come down here or send somebody, I will help you all I can.
I am getting along all right.
Very respectfully,
Harriet Somers."
"I thought you said her name was Chesney," remarked Keeler, as he returned the letter.
"Oh well, she claims to have been married to two or three different men. Calling herself Mrs. Somers seems to help her keep her self-respect. She says Somers is dead. For my part, I never enquired whether there ever was a sure-enough Mr. Somers or not. But I am sure she can help us in this business. I wish you would have a talk with the woman."
"There is no harm in that. I'll do it. And if I can find anything to go on, I'll undertake to follow up those fellows. Perhaps I can find out something at Nevada City. I reckon I'll have to let you look out for Mrs. Keeler and the boy, as you say."
"I'm mighty glad to hear you say that. And I'll make out a check right now. Smith, the livery man at Eureka South, will cash it; and you can take the stage out to-morrow morning."
"All right. I reckon we'd better not lose any time."
Palmer had already got out pen and ink. It was something of a "chore" for the old man to draw a check. Miners' paralysis was creeping on, and two years later the best he could do was to make his mark. But to-day he prolonged his labors, making out a second check, to be cashed when Keeler reached San Francisco.
The business was hardly transacted when Henry Francis walked in.
"Glad to see you, Francis!" exclaimed the old man. "What news from Moore's Flat?" He exchanged glances with Keeler which seemed to mean that their business should be regarded as strictly private, although Henry Francis was the friend of both, and had won the confidence and affection of old man Palmer. Francis and Palmer held the same political faith. The former came of a distinguished Democratic family, so that the old man's protection and loyalty had been bestowed upon him upon his arrival in the gold fields twenty years before. Furthermore, the old man had proved the unfailing honesty of the younger man. Jew bankers, in blowing dirt and impurities from gold dust offered for sale, were not over-careful about blowing away gold dust, too, which would be caught on buckskin placed out of sight behind the counter. Palmer's dust was very fine, and more than once he had suffered through such sharp practice, only to vow he never would suffer so again. In Francis he had found a strictly honest banker, whose virtue he was inclined to attribute to correct political principles, overlooking the moral delinquencies of other Democratic neighbors. But the old man, through long years of experience with human nature in California, had grown extremely cautious and secretive. Probably no one would ever have been the wiser in regard to his old sweetheart and her sad history except for the escape of Cummins' murderers. And now it was not necessary that any man other than Keeler should know.
"Glad to see you, Francis. What news from Moore's Flat?"
Francis looked grave. "I suppose Keeler has told you all I know. Seven days gone and nothing heard of the robbers. I shall expect a telegram to-morrow or next day, telling of Will Cummins' burial in the village cemetery at home. And his old father and mother are going to be denied the small comfort of knowing that the murderers have been caught.
"Keeler, you were Cummins' partner once. Do you have any idea who the robbers were?"
"I am sorry to say, I don't. This country is full of bad men. I have thought of the blacklegs along Kanaka Creek. A robbery in Jackass Ravine was traced to that gang. But the rascals stand together, and are ready to defend a partner with alibis or pistols."
If Keeler felt constrained to withhold information about his intended visit to San Francisco in the capacity of detective, Francis on his part saw no reason to state that he had just employed Bed-bug Brown in a similar capacity. For in descending the cañon of the Middle Yuba, he had gone a mile out of his way up the river to the cabin of this worthy gentleman, and finding him at home had promptly engaged his services. Brown, like Keeler, was to take the stage to Nevada City on the morrow, provided with a fee for current expenses.
"Well," said Palmer, "I am glad for my part that the California gold craze is coming to an end. When the farmers down in the Sacramento Valley get the upper hand, they will stop hydraulic mining, for it keeps covering their good soil with sand and clay. The Government authorities say we are filling up San Francisco Bay, too; so Uncle Sam is going to step in and do something. Then those rowdies along Kanaka Creek and all the other bad men in this country will have to move on."
"And so will the rest of us," smiled Francis. "A man who has made his pile can afford to retire. But what about Keeler here, and me?"
"Well," persisted Palmer, "I think Will Cummins was right in wanting to leave the gold fields. Gold makes people crazy. Half our gamblers and thieves would be decent men in a decent community."
"Mr. Palmer means," said Keeler, "that Pat Flynn, who is a good Democrat, but who doesn't pay back the fifty dollars he borrowed from Mr. Palmer last winter, would be a better Democrat back in Connecticut, making wooden hams and nutmegs." With this he shook hands with his friends and departed, for it was evident Francis had some private business with the old man.
When they were alone, Francis said:
"You know, Mr. Palmer, that we Pennsylvanians stand together. I have undertaken to settle up Cummins' affairs. I find you hold his note for a thousand dollars."
"I do. Lent him the money when he made a fresh start a few years back. But I supposed I stood to lose it when the robbers took Cummins' gold the other day. I certainly could afford to lose it."
"Well, you don't have to lose it, Mr. Palmer. Cummins left mining stock at the bank in my care that will more than cover the debt. The fact is, I borrowed the value of the stock from him. Strictly speaking, I got him to put a couple of thousand into a paying proposition; and he left everything in my hands. So I am going to get you to cancel Cummins' note and to take mine instead."
"Francis, you are an honest man. The money is no great object with me. But because I have found out that honesty is a thing that ought to be encouraged, especially among friends, I will take your note and cancel the other."
So this business was settled. Robert Palmer, governed by kindly feeling rather than hard sense, overlooked his friend's weakness for speculation, rather counting it as honesty.
