this conceited braggart and the invisible power behind him--whoever or
whatever it might be. Mr. Dumphy was not inclined to superstition, but
he began to experience a strange awe of his unknown persecutor, and
resolved at any risk to discover who it was. Could it be really his
wife?--had not the supercilious Poinsett been himself tricked--or was he
not now trying to trick him, Dumphy? Couldn't Starbottle be bribed to
expose at least the name of his client? He would try it.

"I said just now you had been deceived in this woman who represents
herself to be my wife. I find I have been mistaken in the person, who I
believe imposed upon you, and it is possible that I may be otherwise
wrong. My wife may be alive. I am willing to admit it. Bring her here
to-morrow and I will accept it as a fact."

"You forget that she refuses to see you again," said Colonel Starbottle,
"until she has established her claim by process of law."

"That's so! that's all right, old fellow; _we_ understand each other.
Now, suppose that we business men--as a business maxim, you know--always
prefer to deal with principals. Now suppose we even go so far as to do
that and yet pay an agent's commission, perhaps--you understand me--even
a _bonus_. Good! That's business! You understand that as a gentleman and
a man of the world. Now, I say, bring me your principal--fetch along
that woman, and I'll make it all right with _you_. Stop! I know what
you're going to say; you're bound by honour and all that--I understand
your position as a gentleman, and respect it. Then let me know where I
can find her! Understand--you sha'n't be compromised as bringing about
the interview in any way. I'll see that you're protected in your
commissions from your client; and for my part--if a cheque for five
thousand dollars will satisfy you of my desire to do the right thing in
this matter, it's at your service."

The Colonel rose to his feet and applied himself apparently to the
single and silent inflation of his chest, for the space of a minute.
When the upper buttons of his coat seemed to be on the point of flying
off with a report, he suddenly extended his hand and grasped Dumphy's
with fervour. "Permit me," he said, in a voice husky with emotion, "to
congratulate myself on dealing with a gentleman and a man of honour.
Your sentiments, sir, I don't care if I do say it, do you credit! I am
proud, sir," continued the Colonel, warmly, "to have made your
acquaintance! But I regret to say, sir, that I cannot give you the
information you require. I do not myself know the name or address of my
client."

The look of half-contemptuous satisfaction which had irradiated Dumphy's
face at the beginning of this speech, changed to one of angry suspicion
at its close. "That's a d----d queer oversight of yours," he ejaculated,
with an expression as nearly insulting as he dared to make it. Colonel
Starbottle did not apparently notice the manner of his speech, but
drawing his chair close beside Dumphy, he laid his hand upon his arm.

"Your confidence as a man of honour and a gentleman," he began, "demands
equal confidence and frankness on my part, and Culp. Starbottle of
Virginia is not the man to withhold it! When I state that I do _not_
know the name and address of my client, I believe, sir, there is no one
now living, who will--er--er--require or--er--deem it necessary for me
to repeat the assertion! Certainly not, sir," added the Colonel, lightly
waving his hand, "the gentleman who has just honoured me with his
confidence and invited mine--I thank you, sir," he continued, as Mr.
Dumphy made a hasty motion of assent, "and will go on."

"It is not necessary for me to name the party who first put me in
possession of the facts. You will take my word as a gentleman--er--that
it is some one unknown to you, of unimportant position, though of strict
respectability, and one who acted only as the agent of my real client.
When the case was handed over to me there was also put into my
possession a sealed envelope containing the name of my client and
principal witness. My injunctions were not to open it until all
negotiations had failed and it was necessary to institute legal
proceedings. That envelope I have here. You perceive it is unopened!"

Mr. Dumphy unconsciously reached out his hand. With a gesture of polite
deprecation Colonel Starbottle evaded it, and placing the letter on the
table before him, continued, "It is unnecessary to say that--er--there
being in my judgment no immediate necessity for the beginning of a
suit--the injunctions still restrain me, and I shall not open the
letter. If, however, I accidentally mislay it on this table and it is
returned to me to-morrow, sealed as before, I believe, sir, as a
gentleman and a man of honour I violate no pledge."

"I see," said Mr. Dumphy, with a short laugh.

"Excuse me, if I venture to require another condition, merely as a form
among men of honour. Write as I dictate." Mr. Dumphy took up a pen.
Colonel Starbottle placed one hand on his honourable breast and began
slowly and meditatively to pace the length of the room with the air of a
second measuring the distance for his principal. "Are you ready?"

"Go on," said Dumphy, impatiently.

"I hereby pledge myself--er--er--that in the event of any disclosure by
me--er--of confidential communications from Colonel Starbottle to me, I
shall hold myself ready to afford him the usual honourable
satisfaction--er--common among gentlemen, at such times or places, and
with such weapons as he may choose, without further formality of
challenge, and that--er--er--failing in that I do thereby proclaim
myself, without posting, a liar, poltroon, and dastard."

In the full pre-occupation of his dignified composition, and possibly
from an inability to look down over the increased exaggeration of his
swelling breast, Colonel Starbottle did not observe the contemptuous
smile which curled the lip of his amanuensis. Howbeit Mr. Dumphy signed
the document and handed it to him. Colonel Starbottle put it in his
pocket. Nevertheless he lingered by Mr. Dumphy's side.

"The--er--er--cheque," said the Colonel, with a slight cough, "had
better be to your order, endorsed by you--to spare any criticism
hereafter."

Mr. Dumphy hesitated a moment. He would have preferred as a matter of
business to have first known the contents of the envelope, but with a
slight smile he dashed off the cheque and handed it to the Colonel.
"If--er--it would not be too much trouble," said the Colonel, jauntily,
"for the same reason just mentioned, would you give that--er--piece of
paper to one of your clerks to draw the money for me?"

Mr. Dumphy impatiently, with his eyes on the envelope, rang his bell and
handed the cheque to the clerk, while Colonel Starbottle, with an air of
abstraction, walked discreetly to the window.

For the rest of Colonel Starbottle's life he never ceased to deplore
this last act of caution, and regret that he had not put the cheque in
his pocket. For as he walked to the window the floor suddenly appeared
to rise beneath his feet and as suddenly sank again, and he was thrown
violently against the mantelpiece. He felt sick and giddy. With a
terrible apprehension of apoplexy in his whirling brain, he turned
toward his companion, who had risen from his seat and was supporting
himself by his swinging desk with a panic-stricken face and a pallor
equal to his own. In another moment a bookcase toppled with a crash to
the floor, a loud outcry arose from the outer offices, and amidst the
sounds of rushing feet, the breaking of glass, and the creaking of
timber, the two men dashed with a common instinct to the door. It opened
two inches and remained fixed. With the howl of a caged wild beast
Dumphy threw himself against the rattling glass of the window that
opened on the level of the street. In another instant Colonel Starbottle
was beside him on the side-walk, and the next they were separated,
unconsciously, uncaringly, as if they had been the merest strangers in
contact in a crowd. The business that had brought them together, the
unfinished, incomplete, absorbing interests of a moment ago were
forgotten--were buried in the oblivion of another existence, which had
no sympathy with this, whose only instinct was to fly--where, they knew
not!

The middle of the broad street was filled with a crowd of breathless,
pallid, death-stricken men who had lost all sense but the common
instinct of animals. There were hysterical men, who laughed loudly
without a cause, and talked incessantly of what they knew not. There
were dumb, paralysed men, who stood helplessly and hopelessly beneath
cornices and chimneys that toppled over and crushed them. There were
automatic men, who flying, carried with them the work on which they were
engaged--one whose hands were full of bills and papers, another who held
his ledger under his arm. There were men who had forgotten the ordinary
instincts of decency--some half-dressed. There were men who rushed from
the fear of death into its presence; two were picked up, one who had
jumped through a skylight, another who had blindly leaped from a
fourth-story window. There were brave men who trembled like children;
there was one whose life had been spent in scenes of daring and danger,
who cowered paralysed in the corner of the room from which a few inches
of plastering had fallen. There were hopeful men who believed that the
danger was over, and having passed, would, by some mysterious law, never
recur; there were others who shook their heads and said that the next
shock would be fatal. There were crowds around the dust that arose from
fallen chimneys and cornices, around runaway horses that had dashed as
madly as their drivers against lamp-posts, around telegraph and
newspaper offices eager to know the extent of the disaster. Along the
remoter avenues and cross-streets dwellings were deserted, people sat
upon their doorsteps or in chairs upon the sidewalks, fearful of the
houses they had built with their own hands, and doubtful even of this
blue arch above them that smiled so deceitfully; of those far-reaching
fields beyond, which they had cut into lots and bartered and sold, and
which now seemed to suddenly rise against them, or slip and wither away
from their very feet. It seemed so outrageous that this dull, patient
earth, whose homeliness they had adorned and improved, and which,
whatever their other fortune or vicissitudes, at least had been their
sure inheritance, should have become so faithless. Small wonder that the
owner of a little house, which had sunk on the reclaimed water front,
stooped in the speechless and solemn absurdity of his wrath to shake his
clenched fist in the face of the Great Mother.

The real damage to life and property had been so slight and in such
pronounced contrast to the prevailing terror, that half an hour later
only a sense of the ludicrous remained with the greater masses of the
people. Mr. Dumphy, like all practical, unimaginative men, was among the
first to recover his presence of mind with the passing of the immediate
danger. People took confidence when this great man, who had so much to
lose, after sharply remanding his clerks and everybody else back to
business, re-entered his office. He strode at once to his desk. But the
envelope was gone! He looked hurriedly among his papers--on the
floor--by the broken window--but in vain.

Mr. Dumphy instantly rang his bell. The clerk appeared.

"Was that draft paid?"

"No, sir; we were counting the money when"----

"Stop it!--return the draft to me."

The young man was confiding to his confrères his suspicions of a
probable "run" on the bank as indicated by Mr. Dumphy's caution, when he
was again summoned by Mr. Dumphy.

"Go to Mr. Poinsett's office and ask him to come here at once."

In a few moments the clerk returned out of breath.

"Mr. Poinsett left a quarter of an hour ago, sir, for San Antonio."

"San Antonio?"

"Yes, sir--they say there's bad news from the Mission."

CHAPTER VII.

IN WHICH BOTH JUSTICE AND THE HEAVENS FALL.

The day following the discovery of the murder of Victor Ramirez was one
of the intensest excitement in One Horse Gulch. It was not that killing
was rare in that pastoral community--foul murder had been done there
upon the bodies of various citizens of more or less respectability, and
the victim in the present instance was a stranger and a man who awakened
no personal sympathy; but the suspicion that swiftly and instantly
attached to two such important people as Mr. and Mrs. Conroy, already
objects of severe criticism, was sufficient to exalt this particular
crime above all others in thrilling interest. For two days business was
practically suspended.

The discovery of the murder was made by Sal, who stumbled upon the body
of the unfortunate Victor early the next morning during a walk on
Conroy's Hill, manifestly in search of the missing man, who had not
returned to the hotel that night. A few flippant souls, misunderstanding
Miss Clark's interest in the stranger, asserted that he had committed
suicide to escape her attentions, but all jocular hypothesis ceased when
it became known that Gabriel and his wife had fled. Then came the report
that Gabriel had been seen by a passing miner early in the day "shoving"
the stranger along the trail, with his hand on his collar, and
exchanging severe words. Then the willing testimony of Miss Clark that
she had seen Mrs. Conroy in secret converse with Victor before the
murder; then the unwilling evidence of the Chinaman who had overtaken
Gabriel with the letter, but who heard the sounds of quarrelling and
cries for help in the bushes after his departure; but this evidence was
excluded from the inquest, by virtue of the famous Californian law that
a Pagan was of necessity a liar, and that truth only resided in the
breast of the Christian Caucasian, and was excluded from the general
public for its incompatibility with Gabriel's subsequent flight, and the
fact that the Chinaman, being a fool, was probably mistaken in the hour.
Then there was the testimony of the tunnel-men to Gabriel's appearance
on the hill that night. There was only one important proof not submitted
to the public or the authorities--Mrs. Conroy's note--picked up by Sal,
handed to Mrs. Markle, and given by her to Lawyer Maxwell. The knowledge
of this document was restricted to the few already known to the reader.

A dozen or more theories of the motive of the deed at different hours of
the day occupied and disturbed the public mind. That Gabriel had come
upon a lover of his wife in the act of eloping with her, and had slain
him out of hand, was the first. That Gabriel had decoyed the man to an
interview by simulating his wife's handwriting, and then worked his
revenge on his body, was accepted later as showing the necessary
deliberation to constitute murder. That Gabriel and his wife had
conjointly taken this method to rid themselves of a former lover who
threatened exposure, was a still later theory. Towards evening, when One
Horse Gulch had really leisure to put its heads together, it was
generally understood that Gabriel and Mrs. Conroy had put out of their
way a dangerous and necessarily rightful claimant to that mine which
Gabriel had pretended to discover. This opinion was for some time--say
two hours--the favourite one, agreeing as it did with the popular
opinion of Gabriel's inability to discover a mine himself, and was only
modified by another theory that Victor was not the real claimant, but a
dangerous witness that the Conroys had found it necessary to dispose of.
And when, possibly from some unguarded expression of Lawyer Maxwell, it
was reported that Gabriel Conroy was an impostor under an assumed name,
all further speculation was deemed unnecessary. The coroner's jury
brought in a verdict against "John Doe, alias Gabriel Conroy," and One
Horse Gulch added this injury of false pretence to other grievances
complained of. One or two cases of horse-stealing and sluice-robbing in
the neighbourhood were indefinitely but strongly connected with this
discovery. If I am thus particular in citing these evidences of the
various gradations of belief in the guilt of the accused, it is because
they were peculiar to One Horse Gulch, and of course never obtained in
more civilised communities.

It is scarcely necessary to say that one person in One Horse Gulch never
wavered in her opinion of Gabriel's innocence, nor that that person was
Mrs. Markle. That he was the victim of a vile conspiracy--that Mrs.
Conroy was the real culprit, and had diabolically contrived to fasten
the guilt upon her husband, Mrs. Markle not only believed herself, but
absolutely contrived to make Lawyer Maxwell and Sal believe also. More
than that, it had undoubtedly great power in restraining Sal's evidence
before the inquest, which that impulsive and sympathetic young woman
persisted in delivering behind a black veil and in a suit of the deepest
mourning that could be hastily improvised in One Horse Gulch.

"Miss Clark's evidence," said the _Silveropolis Messenger_, "although
broken by sobs and occasional expressions of indignation against the
murderer, strongly impressed the jury as the natural eloquence of one
connected with the tenderest ties to the unfortunate victim. It is said
that she was an old acquaintance of Ramirez, who was visiting her in the
hope of inducing her to consent to a happy termination of a life-long
courtship, when the dastard hand of the murderer changed the bridal
wreath to the veil of mourning. From expressions that dropped from the
witness's lips, although restrained by natural modesty, it would not be
strange if jealousy were shown to be one of the impelling causes. It is
said that previous to his marriage the alleged Gabriel Conroy was a
frequent visitor at the house of Miss Clark."

I venture to quote this extract not so much for its suggestion of a
still later theory in the last sentence, as for its poetical elegance,
and as an offset to the ruder record of the _One Horse Gulch Banner_,
which, I grieve to say, was as follows:--

     "Sal was no slouch of a witness. Rigged out in ten yards of
     Briggs' best black glazed muslin, and with a lot of black
     mosquito netting round her head, she pranced round the stand
     like a skittish hearse horse in fly-time. If Sal calculates to
     go into mourning for every man she has to sling hash to, we'd
     recommend her to buy up Briggs' stock and take one of Pat
     Hoolan's carriages for the season. There is a strong feeling
     among men whose heads are level, that this Minstrel Variety
     Performance is a bluff of the _Messenger_ to keep from the
     public the real motives of the murderer, which it is pretty
     generally believed concerns some folks a little higher-toned
     than Sal. We mention no names but we would like to know what
     the Editor of the _Messenger_ was doing in the counting-room
     of one of Pete Dumphy's emissaries at ten o'clock last evening.
     Looking up his bank account, eh? What's the size of the figures
     to-day? You hear us!"

At one o'clock that morning the Editor of the _Messenger_ fired at the
Editor of the _Banner_ and missed him. At half-past one two men were
wounded by pistol shots in a difficulty at Briggs' warehouse--cause not
stated. At nine o'clock half a dozen men lounged down the main street
and ascended the upper loft of Briggs' warehouse. In ten or fifteen
minutes a dozen more from different saloons in the town lounged as
indifferently in the direction of Briggs', until at half-past nine the
assemblage in the loft numbered fifty men. During this interval a
smaller party had gathered, apparently as accidentally and indefinitely
as to purpose, on the steps of the little two-story brick Court House in
which the prisoner was confined. At ten o'clock a horse was furiously
ridden into town, and dropped exhausted at the outskirts. A few moments
later a man hurriedly crossed the plaza toward the Court House. It was
Mr. Jack Hamlin. But the Three Voices had preceded him, and from the
steps of the Court House were already uttering the popular mandate.

It was addressed to a single man. A man who, deserted by his _posse_,
and abandoned by his friends, had for the last twelve hours sat beside
his charge, tireless, watchful, defiant, and resolute--Joe Hall, the
Sheriff of Calaveras! He had been waiting for this summons, behind
barricaded doors, with pistols in his belt, and no hope in his heart; a
man of limited ideas and restricted resources, constant only to one
intent--that of dying behind those bars, in defence of that legal trust,
which his office and an extra fifty votes at the election only two
months before had put into his hands. It had perplexed him for a moment
that he heard the voices of some of these voters below him clamouring
against him, but above their feebler pipe always rose another mandatory
sentence, "We command you to take and safely keep the body of Gabriel
Conroy," and being a simple man the recollection of the quaint
phraseology strengthened him and cleared his mind. Ah me, I fear he had
none of the external marks of a hero; as I remember him he was small,
indistinctive, and fidgety, without the repose of strength; a man who at
that extreme moment chewed tobacco and spat vigorously on the floor; who
tweaked the ends of his scanty beard, paced the floor, and tried the
locks of his pistols. Presently he stopped before Gabriel and said
almost fiercely--

"You hear that--they are coming!"

Gabriel nodded. Two hours before, when the contemplated attack of the
Vigilance Committee had been revealed to him, he had written a few lines
to Lawyer Maxwell, which he entrusted to the sheriff. He had then
relapsed into his usual tranquillity--serious, simple, and when he had
occasion to speak, diffident and apologetic.

"Are you going to help me?" continued Hall.

"In course," said Gabriel, in quiet surprise, "ef _you_ say so. But
don't ye do nowt ez would be gettin' yourself into troubil along o' me.
I ain't worth it. Maybe it 'ud be jest as square ef ye handed me over to
them chaps out yer--allowin' I was a heep o' troubil to you--and
reckonin' you'd about hed _your sheer_ o' the keer o' me, and kinder
passin' me round. But ef you _do_ feel obligated to take keer o' me, ez
hevin' promised the jedges and jury" (it is almost impossible to convey
the gentle deprecatoriness of Gabriel's voice and accent at this
juncture), "why," he added, "I'm with ye. I'm thar! You understand me!"

He rose slowly, and with quiet but powerfully significant deliberation
placed the chair he had been sitting on back against the wall. The tone
and act satisfied the sheriff. The seventy-four gunship, Gabriel Conroy,
was clearing the decks for action.

There was an ominous lull in the outcries below, and then the solitary
lifting up of a single voice, the Potential Voice of the night before!
The sheriff walked to a window in the hall and opened it. The besieger
and besieged measured each other with a look. Then came the Homeric
chaff:--

"Git out o' that, Joe Hall, and run home to your mother. She's getting
oneasy about ye!"

"The h--ll you say!" responded Hall, promptly, "and the old woman in
such a hurry she had to borry Al Barker's hat and breeches to come here!
Run home, old gal, and don't parse yourself off for a man agin!"

"This ain't no bluff, Joe Hall! Why don't ye call? Yer's fifty men; the
returns are agin ye, and two precincts yet to hear from." (This was a
double thrust, at Hall's former career as a gambler, and the closeness
of his late election vote.)

"All right! send 'em up by express--mark 'em C. O. D." (The previous
speaker was the expressman.)

"Blank you! Git!"

"Blank you! Come on!"

Here there was a rush at the door, the accidental discharge of a pistol,
and the window was slammed down. Words ceased, deeds began.

A few hours before, Hall had removed his prisoner from the uncertain
tenure and accessible position of the cells below to the open court-room
of the second floor, inaccessible by windows, and lit by a skylight in
the roof, above the reach of the crowd, whose massive doors were
barricaded by benches and desks. A smaller door at the side, easily
secured, was left open for reconnoitring. The approach to the court-room
was by a narrow stairway, halfway down whose length Gabriel had thrust
the long court-room table as a barricade to the besiegers. The lower
outer door, secured by the sheriff after the desertion of his
underlings, soon began to show signs of weakening under the vigorous
battery from without. From the landing the two men watched it eagerly.
As it slowly yielded, the sheriff drew back toward the side door and
beckoned Gabriel to follow; but with a hasty sign Gabriel suddenly
sprang forward and dropped beneath the table as the door with a crash
fell inward, beaten from its hinges. There was a rush of trampling feet
to the stairway, a cry of baffled rage over the impeding table, a sudden
scramble up and upon it, and then, as if on its own volition, the long
table suddenly reared itself on end, and staggering a moment toppled
backward with its clinging human burden on the heads of the thronging
mass below. There was a cry, a sudden stampede of the Philistines to the
street, and Samson, rising to his feet, slowly walked to the side door,
and re-entered the court-room. But at the same instant an agile besieger
who, unnoticed, had crossed the Rubicon, darted from his concealment,
and dashed by Gabriel into the room. There was a shout from the sheriff,
the door was closed hastily, a shot, and the intruder fell. But the next
moment he staggered to his knees, with outstretched hands, "Hold up! I'm
yer to help ye!"

It was Jack Hamlin! haggard, dusty, grimy; his gay feathers bedraggled,
his tall hat battered, his spotless shirt torn open at the throat, his
eyes and cheeks burning with fever, the blood dripping from the bullet
wound in his leg, but still Jack Hamlin, strong and audacious. By a
common instinct both men dropped their weapons, ran and lifted him in
their arms.

"There--shove that chair under me! that'll do," said Hamlin, coolly,
"We're even now, Joe Hall; that shot wiped out old scores, even if it
has crippled me, and lost ye my valuable aid. Dry up! and listen to me,
and then leave me here! there's but one way of escape. It's up there!"
(he pointed to the skylight) "the rear wall hangs over the Wingdam ditch
and gully. Once on the roof you can drop over with this rope, which you
must unwind from my body, for I'm d--d if I can do it myself. Can you
reach the skylight?"

"There's a step-ladder from the gallery," said the sheriff, joyously,
"but won't they see us, and be prepared?"

"Before they can reach the gully by going round, you'll be half a mile
away in the woods. But what in blank are you waiting for? Go! You can
hold on here for ten minutes more if they attack the same point; but if
they think of the skylight, and fetch ladders, you're gone in! Go!"

There was another rush on the staircase without; the surging of an
immense wave against the heavy folding doors, the blows of pick and
crowbar, the gradual yielding of the barricade a few inches, and the
splintering of benches by a few pistol shots fired through the springing
crevices of the doors. And yet the sheriff hesitated. Suddenly Gabriel
stooped down, lifted the wounded man to his shoulder as if he had been
an infant, and beckoning to the sheriff started for the gallery. But he
had not taken two steps before he staggered and lapsed heavily against
Hall, who, in his turn, stopped and clutched the railing. At the same
moment the thunder of the besiegers seemed to increase; not only the
door, but the windows rattled, the heavy chandelier fell with a crash,
carrying a part of the plaster and the elaborate cornice with it, a
shower of bricks fell through the skylight, and a cry, quite distinct
from anything heard before, rose from without. There was a pause in the
hall, and then the sudden rush of feet down the staircase, and all was
still again. The three men gazed in each other's whitened faces.

"An earthquake," said the sheriff.

"So much the better," said Jack. "It gives us time--forward!"

They reached the gallery and the little step-ladder that led to a door
that opened upon the roof, Gabriel preceding with his burden. There was
another rush up the staircase without the court room, but this time
there was no yielding in the door; the earthquake that had shaken the
foundations and settled the walls had sealed it firmly.

Gabriel was first to step out on the roof, carrying Jack Hamlin. But as
he did so another thrill ran through the building and he dropped on his
knees to save himself from falling, while the door closed smartly behind
him. In another moment the shock had passed, and Gabriel, putting down
his burden, turned to open the door for the sheriff. But to his alarm it
did not yield to his pressure; the earthquake had sealed it as it had
the door below, and Joe Hall was left a prisoner.

It was Gabriel's turn to hesitate and look at his companion. But Jack
was gazing into the street below. Then he looked up and said, "We must
go on now, Gabriel,--for--for _they've got a ladder_!"

Gabriel rose again to his feet and lifted the wounded man. The curve of
the domed roof was slight; in the centre, on a rough cupola or base, the
figure of Justice, fifteen feet high, rudely carved in wood, towered
above them with drawn sword and dangling scales. Gabriel reached the
cupola and crouched behind it, as a shout rose from the street below
that told he was discovered. A few shots were fired, one bullet imbedded
itself in the naked blade of the Goddess, and another with cruel irony,
shattered the equanimity of her balance. "Unwind the cord from me," said
Hamlin. Gabriel did so. "Fasten one end to the chimney or the statue."
But the chimney was levelled by the earthquake, and even the statue was
trembling on its pedestal. Gabriel secured the rope to an iron girder of
the skylight, and crawling on the roof dropped it cautiously over the
gable. But it was several feet too short--too far for a cripple to drop!
Gabriel crawled back to Hamlin. "You must go first," he said, quietly,
"I will hold the rope over the gable. You can trust me."

Without waiting for Hamlin's reply he fastened the rope under his arms
and half-lifted, half-dragged him to the gable. Then pressing his hand
silently, he laid himself down and lowered the wounded man safely to the
ground. He had recovered the rope again, and crawling to the cupola, was
about to fasten the line to the iron girder when something slowly rose
above the level of the roof beyond him. The uprights of a ladder!

The Three Voices had got tired of waiting a reply to their
oft-reiterated question, and had mounted the ladder by way of forcing an
answer at the muzzles of their revolvers. They reached the level of the
roof, one after another, and again propounded their inquiry. And then as
it seemed to their awe-stricken fancy, the only figure there--the statue
of Justice--awoke to their appeal. Awoke! leaned towards them; advanced
its awful sword and shook its broken balance, and then toppling forward
with one mighty impulse, came down upon them, swept them from the
ladder, and silenced the Voices for ever! And from behind its pedestal
Gabriel arose, panting, pale, but triumphant.

CHAPTER VIII.

IN TENEBRIS SERVARE FIDEM.

Although a large man, Gabriel was lithe and active, and dropped the
intervening distance where the rope was scant, lightly, and without
injury. Happily the falling of the statue was looked upon as the result
of another earthquake shock, and its disastrous effect upon the storming
party for awhile checked the attack. Gabriel lifted his half-fainting
ally in his arms, and gaining the friendly shelter of the ditch, in ten
minutes was beyond the confines of One Horse Gulch, and in the shadow of
the pines of Conroy's Hill. There were several tunnel openings only
known to him. Luckily the first was partly screened by a fall of rock
loosened by the earthquake from the hill above, and satisfied that it
would be unrecognised by any eye less keen than his own, Gabriel turned
into it with his fainting burden. And it was high time. For the
hæmorrhage from Jack Hamlin's wound was so great that that gentleman,
after a faint attempt to wave his battered hat above his dishevelled
curls, suddenly succumbed, and lay as cold and senseless and beautiful
as a carven Apollo.

Then Gabriel stripped him, and found an ugly hole in his thigh that had
narrowly escaped traversing the femoral artery, and set himself about
that rude surgery which he had acquired by experience, and that more
delicate nursing which was instinctive with him. He was shocked at the
revelation of a degree of emaciation in the figure of this young fellow
that he had not before suspected. Gabriel had nursed many sick men, and
here was one who clearly ought to be under the doctor's hands,
economising his vitality as a sedentary invalid, who had shown himself
to him hitherto only as a man of superabundant activity and animal
spirits. Whence came the power that had animated this fragile shell?
Gabriel was perplexed; he looked down upon his own huge frame with a new
and sudden sense of apology and depreciation, as if it were an offence
to this spare and bloodless Adonis.

And then with an infinite gentleness, as of a young mother over her
newborn babe, he stanched the blood and bound up the wounds of his new
friend, so skilfully that he never winced, and with a peculiar purring
accompaniment that lulled him to repose. Once only, as he held him in
his arms, did he change his expression, and that was when a shadow and a
tread--perhaps of a passing hare or squirrel--crossed the mouth of his
cave, when he suddenly caught the body to his breast with the fierceness
of a lioness interrupted with her cubs. In his own rough experience he
was much awed by the purple and fine linen of this fine gentleman's
underclothing--not knowing the prevailing habits of his class--and when
he had occasion to open his bosom to listen to the faint beatings of his
heart, he put aside with great delicacy and instinctive honour a fine
gold chain from which depended some few relics and keepsakes which this
scamp wore. But one was a photograph, set in an open locket, that he
could not fail to see, and that at once held him breathless above it. It
was the exact outline and features of his sister Grace, but with a
strange shadow over that complexion which he remembered well as
beautiful, that struck him with superstitious awe. He scanned it again
eagerly. "Maybe it was a dark day when she sot!" he murmured softly to
himself; "maybe it's the light in this yer tunnel; maybe the heat o'
this poor chap's buzzum hez kinder turned it. It ain't measles, fur she
hed 'em along o' Olly." He paused and looked at the unconscious man
before him, as if trying to connect him with the past. "No," he said
simply, with a resigned sigh, "it's agin reason! She never knowed him!
It's only my foolishness, and my thinkin' and thinkin' o' her so much!
It's another gal, and none o' your business, Gabe, and you a' prying
inter another man's secrets, and takin' advantage of him when he's
down." He hurriedly replaced it in his companion's bosom, and closed the
collar of his shirt, as Jack's lips moved. "Pete!" he called, feebly.

"It's his pardner, maybe, he's callin' on," said Gabriel to himself;
then aloud, with the usual, comforting professional assent, "In course,
Pete, surely! He's coming, right off--he'll be yer afore you know it."

"Pete," continued Jack, forcibly, "take the mare off my leg, she's
breaking it! Don't you see? She's stumbled! D--n it, quick! I'll be
late. They'll string him up before I get there!"

In a moment Gabriel's stout heart sank. If fever should set in--if he
should become delirious, they would be lost. Providentially, however,
Jack's aberration was only for a moment; he presently opened his black
eyes and stared at Gabriel. Gabriel smiled assuringly. "Am I dead and
buried," said Jack, gravely, looking around the dark vault, "or have I
got 'em again?"

"Ye wuz took bad fur a minit--that's all," said Gabriel, reassuringly,
much relieved himself, "yer all right now!"

Hamlin tried to rise but could not. "That's a lie," he said, cheerfully.
"What's to be done?"

"Ef you'd let me hev my say, without gettin' riled," said Gabriel,
apologetically, "I'd tell ye. Look yer," he continued, persuasively, "ye
ought to hev a doctor afore thet wound gets inflamed; and ye ain't goin'
to get one, bein' packed round by me. Now don't ye flare up, but harkin!
Allowin' I goes out to them chaps ez is huntin' us, and sez, 'look yer,
you kin take me, provided ye don't bear no malice agin my friend, and
you sends a doctor to fetch him outer the tunnel.' Don't yer see, they
can't prove anythin' agin ye, anyway," continued Gabriel, with a look of
the intensest cunning, "I'll swear I took you pris'ner, and Joe won't go
back on his shot."

In spite of his pain and danger this proposition afforded Jack Hamlin
apparently the largest enjoyment. "Thank ye," he said, with a smile,
"but as there's a warrant, by this time, out against me for
horse-stealing, I reckon I won't put myself in the way of their nursing.
They might forgive you for killing a Mexican of no great market value,
but they ain't goin' to extend the right hand of fellowship to me after
running off with their ringleader's mustang! Particularly when that
animal's foundered and knee-sprung. No, sir!"

Gabriel stared at his companion without speaking.

"I was late coming back with Olly to Wingdam. I had to swap the horse
and buggy for the mare without having time to arrange particulars with
the owner. I don't wonder you're shocked," continued Jack,
mischievously, affecting to misunderstand Gabriel's silence, "but thet's
me. Thet's the kind of company you've got into. Procrastination and want
of punctuality has brought me to this. Never procrastinate, Gabriel.
Always make it a point to make it a rule, never to be late at the
Sabbath school!"

"Ef I hed owt to give ye," said Gabriel, ruefully, "a drop o' whisky, or
suthin' to keep up your stren'th!"

"I never touch intoxicating liquors without the consent of my
physician," said Jack, gravely, "they're too exciting! I must be kept
free from all excitement. Something soothing, or sedentary like this,"
he added, striking his leg. But even through his mischievous smile his
face paled, and a spasm of pain crossed it.

"I reckon we'll hev to stick yer ontil dark," said Gabriel, "and then
strike acrost the gully to the woods on Conroy's Hill. Ye'll be easier
thar, and we're safe ontil sun-up, when we kin hunt another tunnel. Thar
ain't no choice," added Gabriel, apologetically.

Jack made a grimace, and cast a glance around the walls of the tunnel.
The luxurious scamp missed his usual comfortable surroundings. "Well,"
he assented, with a sigh, "I suppose the game's made anyway! and we've
got to stick here like snails on a rock for an hour yet. Well," he
continued, impatiently, as Gabriel, after improvising a rude couch for
him with some withered pine tassels gathered at the mouth of the tunnel,
sat down beside him, "are you goin' to bore me to death, now that you've
got me here--sittin' there like an owl? Why don't you say something?"

"Say what?" asked Gabriel, simply.

"Anything! Lie if you want to; only talk!"

"I'd like to put a question to ye, Mr. Hamlin," said Gabriel, with great
gentleness,--"allowin' in course, ye'll answer or no jest ez as is
agree'ble to ye--reckonin' it's no business o' mine nor pryin' into
secrets, ony jess to pass away the time ontil sundown. When you was tuk
bad a spell ago, unloosin' yer shirt thar, I got to see a pictur that ye
hev around yer neck. I ain't askin' who nor which it is--but ony
this--ez thet--thet--thet young woman dark complected ez that picter
allows her to be?"

Jack's face had recovered its colour by the time that Gabriel had
finished, and he answered promptly, "A d--d sight more so! Why, that
picture's fair alongside of her!"

Gabriel looked a little disappointed, Hamlin was instantly up in arms.
"Yes, sir--and when I say that," he returned, "I mean, by thunder, that
the whitest faced woman in the world don't begin to be as handsome. Thar
ain't an angel that she couldn't give points to and beat! That's _her_
style! It don't," continued Mr. Hamlin, taking the picture from his
breast, and wiping its face with his handkerchief--"it don't begin to
do her justice. What," he asked suddenly and aggressively, "have _you_
got to say about it, anyway?"

"I reckoned it kinder favoured my sister Grace," said Gabriel,
submissively. "Ye didn't know her, Mr. Hamlin? She was lost sence
'49--thet's all!"

Mr. Hamlin measured Gabriel with a contempt that was delicious in its
sublime audacity and unconsciousness. "Your sister?" he repeated,
"that's a healthy lookin' _sister_ of such a man as you--ain't it? Why,
look at it," roared Jack, thrusting the picture under Gabriel's nose.
"Why, it's--it's a _lady_!"

"Ye musn't jedge Gracey by me, nor even Olly," interposed Gabriel,
gently, evading Mr. Hamlin's contempt.

But Jack was not to be appeased, "Does your sister sing like an angel,
and talk Spanish like Governor Alvarado: is she connected with one of
the oldest Spanish families in the state; does she run a rancho and
thirty square leagues of land, and is Dolores Salvatierra her nickname?
Is her complexion like the young bark of the madroño--the most beautiful
thing ever seen--did every other woman look chalky beside her, eh?"

"No!" said Gabriel, with a sigh--"it was just my foolishness, Mr.
Hamlin. But seein' that picter, kinder"----

"I stole it," interrupted Jack, with the same frankness. "I saw it in
her parlour, on the table, and I froze to it when no one was looking.
Lord, _she_ wouldn't have given it to _me_. I reckon those relatives of
hers would have made it very lively for me if they'd suspected it. Hoss
stealing ain't a circumstance to this, Gabriel," said Jack, with a
reckless laugh. Then with equal frankness, and a picturesque freedom of
description, he related his first and only interview with Donna Dolores.
I am glad to say that this scamp exaggerated, if anything, the
hopelessness of his case, dwelt but slightly on his own services, and
concealed the fact that Donna Dolores had even thanked him. "You can
reckon from this the extent of my affection for that Johnny Ramirez, and
why I just froze to you when I heard you'd dropped him. But come now,
it's your deal; tell us all about it. The boys put it up that he was
hangin' round your wife,--and you went for him for all he was worth. Go
on--I'm waiting--and," added Jack, as a spasm of pain passed across his
face, "and aching to that degree that I'll yell if you don't take my
mind off it."

But Gabriel's face was grave and his lips silent as he bent over Mr.
Hamlin to adjust the bandages. "Go on," said Jack, darkly, "or I'll tear
off these rags and bleed to death before your eyes. What are you afraid
of? I know all about your wife--you can't tell me anything about her.
Didn't I spot her in Sacramento--before she married you--when she had
this same Chilino, Ramirez, on a string. Why, she's fooled him as she
has you. You ain't such a blasted fool as to be stuck after her still,
are you?" and Jack raised himself on his elbow the more intently to
regard this possible transcendent idiot.

"You was speakin' o' this Mexican, Ramirez," said Gabriel, after a
pause, fixing his now clear and untroubled eyes on his interlocutor.

"Of course," roared out Jack, impatiently, "did you think I was talking
of----?" Here Mr. Hamlin offered a name that suggested the most complete
and perfect antithesis known to modern reason.

"I didn't kill him!" said Gabriel, quietly.

"Of course not," said Jack, promptly. "He sorter stumbled and fell over
on your bowie-knife as you were pickin' your teeth with it. But go
on--how did you do it? Where did you spot him? Did he make any fight?
Has he got any sand in him?"

"I tell ye I didn't kill him!"

"Who did, then?" screamed Jack, furious with pain and impatience.

"I don't know--I reckon--that is----" and Gabriel stopped short with a
wistful perplexed look at his companion.

"Perhaps, Mr. Gabriel Conroy," said Jack, with sudden coolness and
deliberation of speech, and a baleful light in his dark eyes, "perhaps
you'll be good enough to tell me what this means--what _is_ your little
game? Perhaps you'll kindly inform me what I'm lying here crippled for?
What you were doing up in the Court House, when you were driving those
people crazy with excitement? What you're hiding here in this blank
family vault for? And maybe, if you've got time, you'll tell me what was
the reason I made that pleasant little trip to Sacramento? I know I
required the exercise, and then there was the honour of being introduced
to your little sister--but perhaps you'll tell me WHAT IT WAS FOR!"

"Jack," said Gabriel, leaning forward, with a sudden return of his old
trouble and perplexity, "I thought _she_ did it! and thinkin' that--when
they asked me--I took it upon _myself_! I didn't know to ring _you_ into
this, Jack! I thought--I thought--thet--it 'ud all be one--thet they'd
hang me up afore this--I did, Jack, honest!"

"And you didn't kill Ramirez?"

"No."

"And you reckoned your wife did?"

"Yes."

"And you took the thing on yourself?"

"I did."

"_You_ did!"

"I did!"

"You DID?"

"I did!"

Mr. Hamlin rolled over on his back, and began to whistle "When the
spring time comes, gentle Annie!" as the only way of expressing his
inordinate contempt for the whole proceeding.

Gabriel slowly slid his hand under Mr. Hamlin's helpless back, and under
pretext of arranging his bandages, lifted him in his arms like a
truculent babe. "Jack," he said, softly, "ef thet picter of yours--that
coloured woman"----

"Which?" said Jack, fiercely.

"I mean--thet purty creature--ef she and you hed been married, and you'd
found out accidental like that she'd fooled ye--more belike, Jack," he
added, hastily, "o' your own foolishness--than her little game--and"----

"_That_ woman was a lady," interrupted Jack, savagely, "and your wife's
a"----But he paused, looking into Gabriel's face, and then added, "Oh
git! will you! Leave me alone! 'I want to be an angel and with the
angels stand.'"

"And thet woman hez a secret," continued Gabriel, unmindful of the
interruption, "and bein' hounded by the man az knows it, up and kills
him, ye wouldn't let thet woman--that poor pooty creeture--suffer for
it! No, Jack! Ye would rather pint your own toes up to the sky than do
it. It ain't in ye, Jack, and it ain't in me, so help me, God!"

"This is all very touching, Mr. Conroy, and does credit, sir, to your
head and heart, and I kin feel it drawing Hall's ball out of my leg
while you're talkin'," said Jack, with his black eyes evading Gabriel's
and wandering to the entrance of the tunnel. "What time is it, you d--d
old fool, ain't it dark enough yet to git outer this hole?" He groaned,
and after a pause added fiercely, "How do you know your wife did it?"

Gabriel swiftly, and for him even concisely, related the events of the
day from his meeting with Ramirez in the morning, to the time that he
had stumbled upon the body of Victor Ramirez on his return to keep the
appointment at his wife's written request.

Jack only interrupted him once to inquire why, after discovering the
murder, he had not gone on to keep his appointment.

"I thought it wa'n't of no use," said Gabriel, simply; "I didn't want to
let her see I knowed it."

Hamlin groaned, "If you had you would have found her in the company of
the man who _did_ do it, you daddering old idiot!"

"What man?" asked Gabriel.

"The first man you saw your wife with that morning; the man I ought to
be helping now, instead of lyin' here."

"You don't mean to allow, Jack, ez you reckon she _didn't_ do it?" asked
Gabriel, in alarm.

"I do," said Hamlin, coolly.

"Then what did she reckon to let on by that note?" said Gabriel, with a
sudden look of cunning.

"Don't know," returned Jack, "like as not, being a d--d fool, you didn't
read it right! hand it over and let me see it."

Gabriel (hesitatingly): "I can't."

Hamlin: "You can't?"

Gabriel (apologetically): "I tore it up!"

Hamlin (with frightful deliberation): "you DID?"'

"I did."

Jack (after a long crushing silence): "Were you ever under medical
treatment for these spells?"

Gabriel (with great simplicity and submission): "They allers used to
allow I waz queer."

Hamlin (after another pause): "Has Pete Dumphy got anything agin you?"

Gabriel (surprisedly): "No."

Hamlin (languidly): "It was his right hand man, his agent at Wingdam
that started up the Vigilantes! I heard him, and saw him in the crowd
hounding 'em on."

Gabriel (simply): "I reckon you're out thar, Jack, Dumphy's my friend.
It was him that first gin me the money to open this yer mine. And I'm
his superintendent!"

Jack: "Oh!" (after another pause). "Is there any first-class Lunatic
Asylum in this county where they would take in two men, one an
incurable, and the other sufferin' from a gunshot wound brought on by
playin' with firearms?"

Gabriel (with a deep sigh): "Ye mus'n't talk, Jack, ye must be quiet
till dark."

Jack, dragged down by pain, and exhausted in the intervals of each
paroxysm was quiescent.

Gradually, the faint light that had filtered through the brush and
débris before the tunnel faded quite away, and a damp charnel-house
chill struck through the limbs of the two refugees, and made them
shiver; the flow of water from the dripping walls seemed to have
increased; Gabriel's experienced eye had already noted that the
earthquake had apparently opened seams in the gully and closed up one of
the leads. He carefully laid his burden down again, and crept to the
opening. The distant hum of voices and occupation had ceased, the sun
was setting; in a few moments, calculating on the brief twilight of the
Mountain region, it would be dark, and they might with safety leave
their hiding-place. As he was returning, he noticed a slant beam of
light, hitherto unobserved, crossing the tunnel from an old drift.
Examining it more closely, Gabriel was amazed to find that during the
earthquake a "cave" had taken place in the drift, possibly precipitated
by the shock, disclosing the more surprising fact that there had been a
previous slight but positive excavation on the hill side, above the
tunnel, that antedated any record of One Horse Gulch known to Gabriel.
He was perfectly familiar with every foot of the hill side, and the
existence of this ancient prospecting "hole" had never been even
suspected by him. While he was still gazing at the opening, his foot
struck against some glittering metallic substance. He stooped and picked
up a small tin can, not larger than a sardine box, hermetically sealed
and soldered, in which some inscription had been traced, but which the
darkness of the tunnel prevented his deciphering. In the faint hope that
it might contain something of benefit to his companion, Gabriel returned
to the opening, and even ventured to step beyond its shadow. But all
attempts to read the inscription were in vain. He opened the box with a
sharp stone; it contained, to his great disappointment, only a
memorandum book and some papers. He swept them into the pocket of his
blouse, and re-entered the tunnel. He had not been absent altogether
more than five minutes, but when he reached the place where he had left
Jack, he was gone!

CHAPTER IX.

IN WHICH HECTOR ARISES FROM THE DITCH.

He stood for a moment breathless and paralysed with surprise; then he
began slowly and deliberately to examine the tunnel step by step. When
he had proceeded a hundred feet from the spot, to his great relief he
came upon Jack Hamlin, sitting upright in a side drift. His manner was
feverish and excited, and his declaration that he had not moved from the
place where Gabriel had left him at once was accepted by the latter as
the aberration of incipient inflammation and fever. When Gabriel stated
that it was time to go, he replied, "Yes," and added with such
significance that his business with the murderer of Victor Ramirez was
now over, and that he was ready to enter the Lunatic Asylum at once,
that Gabriel with great precipitation lifted him in his arms and carried
him without delay from the tunnel. Once more in the open air the
energies of both men seemed to rally; Jack became as a mere feather in
Gabriel's powerful arms, and even forgot his querulous opposition to
being treated as a helpless child, while Gabriel trod the familiar banks
of the ditch, climbed the long ascent and threaded the aisles of the
pillared pines of Reservoir Hill with the free experienced feet of the
mountaineer. Here Gabriel knew he was safe until daybreak, and gathered
together some withered pine boughs and its fragrant tassels for a couch
for his helpless companion. And here, as he feared, fever set in; the
respiration of the wounded man grew quick and hurried; he began to talk
rapidly and incoherently, of Olly, of Ramirez, of the beautiful girl
whose picture hung upon his breast, of Gabriel himself, and finally of a
stranger who was, as it seemed to him, his sole auditor, the gratuitous
coinage of his excited fancy. Once or twice he raised his voice to a
shout, and then to Gabriel's great alarm suddenly he began to sing, and
before Gabriel could place his hand upon his mouth he had trolled out
the verse of a popular ballad. The rushing river below them gurgled,
beat its bars, and sang an accompaniment, the swaying pine sighed and
creaked in unison, the patient stars above them stared and bent
breathlessly, and then to Gabriel's exalted consciousness an echo of the
wounded man's song arose from the gulch below! For a moment he held his
breath with an awful mingling of joy and fear. Was he going mad too? or
was it really the voice of little Olly? The delirious man beside him
answered his query with another verse; the antiphonal response rose
again from the valley. Gabriel hesitated no longer, but with feverish
hands gathered a few dried twigs and pine cones into a pile, and touched
a match to them. At the next moment they flashed a beacon to the sky, in
another there was a crackling of the underbrush and the hurried onset of
two figures, and before the slow Gabriel could recover from his
astonishment, Olly flew, panting, to his arms, while her companion, the
faithful Pete, sank breathlessly beside his wounded and insensible
master.

Olly was first to find her speech. That speech, after the unfailing
instincts of her sex in moments of excitement, was the instant
arraignment of somebody else as the cause of that excitement, and at
once put the whole universe on the defensive.

"Why didn't you send word where you was?" she said, impatiently, "and
wot did you have it so dark for, and up a steep hill, and leavin' me
alone at Wingdam, and why didn't you call without singin'?"

And then Gabriel, after the fashion of _his_ sex, ignored all but the
present, and holding Olly in his arms, said--

"It's my little girl, ain't it? Come to her own brother Gabe! bless
her!"

Whereat Mr. Hamlin, after the fashion of lunatics of any sex, must needs
be consistent, and break out again into song.

"He's looney, Olly, what with fever along o' bein' shot in the leg a'
savin' me, ez izn't worth savin'," explained Gabriel, apologetically.
"It was him ez did the singin'."

Then Olly, still following the feminine instinct, at once deserted
conscious rectitude for indefensible error, and flew to Mr. Hamlin's
side.

"Oh, where is he hurt, Pete? is he going to die?"

And Pete, suspicious of any medication but his own, replied doubtfully,
"He looks bad, Miss Olly, dat's a fac--but now bein' in my han's, bress
de Lord A'mighty, and we able to minister to him, we hopes fur de bess.
Your brudder meant well, is a fair meanin' man, miss--a toll'able nuss,
but he ain't got the peerfeshn'l knowledge dat Mars Jack in de habit o'
gettin'." Here Pete unslung from his shoulders a wallet, and proceeded
to extract therefrom a small medicine case, with the resigned air of the
family physician, who has been called full late to remedy the practice
of rustic empiricism.

"How did ye come yer?" asked Gabriel of Olly, when he had submissively
transferred his wounded charge to Pete. "What made ye allow I was hidin'
yer? How did ye reckon to find me? but ye was allus peart and onhanded,
Olly," he suggested, gazing admiringly at his sister.

"When I woke up at Wingdam, after Jack went away, who should I find,
Gabe, but Lawyer Maxwell standin' thar, and askin' me a heap o'
questions. I supposed you'd been makin' a fool o' yourself agin, Gabe,
and afore I let on thet I knowed a word, I jist made him tell me
everythin' about you, Gabe, and it was orful! and you bein' arrested fur
murder, ez wouldn't harm a fly, let alone that Mexican ez I never liked,
Gabe, and all this comes of tendin' his legs instead o' lookin' arter
me. And all them questions waz about July, and whether she wasn't your
enemy, and if they ever waz a woman, Gabe, ez waz sweet on you, you know
it was July! And all thet kind o' foolishness! And then when he couldn't
get ennythin' out o' me agin July, he allowed to Pete that he must take
me right to you, fur he said ther was talk o' the Vigilantes gettin'
hold o' ye afore the trial, and he was goin' to get an order to take
you outer the county, and he reckoned they wouldn't dare to tech ye if I
waz with ye, Gabe--and I'd like to see 'em try it! and he allowed to
Pete that he must take me right to you! And Pete--and thar ain't a
whiter nigger livin' than that ole man--said he would--reckonin' you
know to find Jack, as he allowed to me they'd hev to kill afore they got
you--and he came down yer with me. And when we got yer--you was off--and
the sheriff gone--and the Vigilantes--what with bein' killed, the
biggest o' them, by the earthquake--what was orful, Gabe, but we bein'
on the road didn't get to feel!--jest scared outer their butes! And then
a Chinyman gins us your note"----

"My note?" interrupted Gabriel, "I didn't send ye any note."

"Then _his_ note," said Olly, impatiently, pointing to Hamlin, "sayin'
'You'll find your friends on Conroy's Hill!'--don't you see, Gabe?"
continued Olly, stamping her foot in fury at her brother's slowness of
comprehension, "and so we came and heard Jack singin', and a mighty
foolish thing it was to do, and yer we are!"

"But he didn't send any note, Olly," persisted Gabriel.

"Well, you awful old Gabe, what difference does it make _who_ sent it?"
continued the practical Olly; "here we are, along o' thet note, and,"
she added, feeling in her pocket, "there's the note!"

She handed Gabriel a small slip of paper with the pencilled words,
"You'll find your friends waiting for you to-night on Conroy's Hill."

The handwriting was unfamiliar, but even if it were Jack's, how did _he_
manage to send it without his knowledge? He had not lost sight of Jack
except during the few moments he had reconnoitred the mouth of the
tunnel, since they had escaped from the Court House. Gabriel was
perplexed; in the presence of this anonymous note he was confused and
speechless, and could only pass his hand helplessly across his forehead.
"But it's all right now, Gabe," continued Olly, reassuringly, "the
Vigilantes hev run away--what was left of them; the sheriff ain't to be
found nowhar! This yer earthquake hez frightened everybody outer the
idea of huntin' ye--nobody talks of ennything but the earthquake; they
even say, Gabe--I forgot to tell ye--that our claim on Conroy Hill has
busted, too, and the mine ain't worth shucks now! But there's no one to
interfere with us now, Gabe! And we're goin' to get into a waggin that
Pete hez bespoke for us at the head of Reservoir Gulch to-morrow mornin'
at sun-up! And then Pete sez we kin git down to Stockton and 'Frisco and
out to a place called San Antonio, that the devil himself wouldn't think
o' goin' to, and thar we kin stay, me and you and Jack, until this whole
thing has blown over and Jack gits well agin and July comes back."

Gabriel, still holding the hand of his sister, dared not tell her of the
suspicions of Lawyer Maxwell, regarding her sister-in-law's complicity
in this murder, nor Jack's conviction of her infidelity, and he
hesitated. But after a pause, he suggested with a consciousness of great
discretion and artfulness, "Suppose thet July doesn't come back?"

"Look yer, Gabe," said Olly, suddenly, "ef yer goin' to be thet foolish
and ridiklus agin, I'll jess quit. Ez if thet woman would ever leave
ye." (Gabriel groaned inwardly.) "Why, when she hears o' this, wild
hosses couldn't keep her from ye. Don't be a mule, Gabe, don't!" And
Gabriel was dumb.

Meantime, under the influence of some anodyne which Pete had found in
his medicine chest, Mr. Hamlin became quiet and pretermitted his vocal
obligato. Gabriel, whose superb physical adjustment no mental excitement
could possibly overthrow, and whose regular habits were never broken by
anxiety, nodded, even while holding Olly's hand, and in due time slept,
and I regret to say--writing of a hero--snored. After a while Olly
herself succumbed to the drowsy coolness of the night, and wrapped in
Mr. Hamlin's shawl, pillowed her head upon her brother's broad breast
and slept too. Only Pete remained to keep the watch, he being
comparatively fresh and strong, and declaring that the condition of Mr.
Hamlin required his constant attention.

It was after midnight that Olly dreamed a troubled dream. She thought
that she was riding with Mr. Hamlin to seek her brother, when she
suddenly came upon a crowd of excited men who were bearing Gabriel to
the gallows. She thought that she turned to Mr. Hamlin frantically for
assistance, when she saw to her horror that his face had changed--that
it was no longer he who sat beside her, but a strange, wild-looking,
haggard man--a man whose face was old and pinched, but whose grey hair
was discoloured by a faded dye that had worn away, leaving the original
colour in patches, and the antique foppery of whose dress was deranged
by violent exertion, and grimy with the dust of travel--a dandy whose
strapped trousers of a bygone fashion were ridiculously loosened in one
leg, whose high stock was unbuckled and awry! She awoke with a start.
Even then her dream was so vivid that it seemed to her this face was
actually bending over her with such a pathetic earnestness and inquiry
that she called aloud. It was some minutes before Pete came to her, but
as he averred, albeit somewhat incoherently and rubbing his eyes to show
that he had not closed them, that he had never slept a wink, and that it
was impossible for any stranger to have come upon them without his
knowledge, Olly was obliged to accept it all as a dream! But she did not
sleep again. She watched the moon slowly sink behind the serrated pines
of Conroy's Hill; she listened to the crackling tread of strange animals
in the underbrush, to the far-off rattle of wheels on the Wingdam
turnpike, until the dark outline of the tree trunks returned, and with
the cold fires of the mountain sunrise the chilly tree-tops awoke to
winged life, and the twitter of birds, while the faint mists of the
river lingered with the paling moon like tired sentinels for the relief
of the coming day. And then Olly awoke her companions. They struggled
back into consciousness with characteristic expression. Gabriel slowly
and apologetically, as of one who had overslept himself; Jack Hamlin
violently and aggressively, as if some unfair advantage had been taken
of his human weakness that it was necessary to combat at once. I am
sorry to say that his recognition of Pete was accompanied by a degree of
profanity and irreverence that was dangerous to his own physical
weakness. "And you had to trapse down yer, sniffin' about my tracks, you
black and tan idiot," continued Mr. Hamlin, raising himself on his arm,
"and after I'd left everything all straight at Wingdam--and jest as I
was beginning to reform and lead a new life! How do, Olly? You'll excuse
my not rising. Come and kiss me! If that nigger of mine has let you want
for anything, jest tell me and I'll discharge him. Well! hang it all!
what are you waitin' for? Here it's daybreak and we've got to get down
to the head of Reservoir Gulch. Come, little children, the picnic is
over!"

Thus adjured, Gabriel rose, and lifting Mr. Hamlin in his arms with
infinite care and tenderness, headed the quaint procession. Mr. Hamlin,
perhaps recognising some absurdity in the situation, forbore exercising
his querulous profanity on the man who held him helpless as an infant,
and Olly and Pete followed slowly behind.

Their way led down Reservoir Cañon, beautiful, hopeful, and bracing in
the early morning air. A few birds, awakened by the passing tread,
started into song a moment, and then were still. With a cautious
gentleness, habitual to the man, Gabriel forbore, as he strode along, to
step upon the few woodland blossoms yet left to the dry summer woods.
There was a strange fragrance in the air, the light odours liberated
from a thousand nameless herbs, the faint melancholy spicing of dead
leaves. There was, moreover, that sense of novelty which Nature always
brings with the dawn in deep forests; a fancy that during the night the
earth had been created anew, and was fresh from the Maker's hand, as yet
untried by burden or tribulation, and guiltless of a Past. And so it
seemed to the little caravan--albeit fleeing from danger and death--that
yesterday and its fears were far away, or had, in some unaccountable
way, shrunk behind them in the west with the swiftly dwindling night.
Olly once or twice strayed from the trail to pick an opening flower or
lingering berry; Pete hummed to himself the fragment of an old
camp-meeting song.

And so they walked on, keeping the rosy dawn and its promise before
them. From time to time the sound of far-off voices came to them
faintly. Slowly the light quickened; morning stole down the hills upon
them stealthily, and at last the entrance of the cañon became dimly
outlined. Olly uttered a shout and pointed to a black object moving
backward and forward before the opening. It was the waggon and team
awaiting them. Olly's shout was answered by a whistle from the driver,
and they quickened their pace joyfully; in another moment they would be
beyond the reach of danger.

Suddenly a voice that seemed to start from the ground before them called
on Gabriel to stop! He did so unconsciously, drawing Hamlin closer to
him with one hand, and with the other making a broad protecting sweep
toward Olly. And then a figure rose slowly from the ditch at the
roadside and barred their passage.

It was only a single man! A small man bespattered with the slime of the
ditch and torn with brambles; a man exhausted with fatigue and tremulous
with nervous excitement, but still erect and threatening. A man whom
Gabriel and Hamlin instantly recognised, even through his rags and
exhaustion! It was Joe Hall--the sheriff of Calaveras! He held a pistol
in his right hand, even while his left exhaustedly sought the support of
a tree! By a common instinct both men saw that while the hand was feeble
the muzzle of the weapon covered them.

"Gabriel Conroy, I want you," said the apparition.

"He's got us lined! Drop me," whispered Hamlin, hastily, "drop me! I'll
spoil his aim."

But Gabriel, by a swift, dexterous movement that seemed incompatible
with his usual deliberation, instantly transferred Hamlin to his other
arm, and with his burden completely shielded, presented his own right
shoulder squarely to the muzzle of Hall's revolver.

"Gabriel Conroy, you are my prisoner," repeated the voice.

Gabriel did not move. But over his shoulder as a rest, dropped the long
shining barrel of Jack's own favourite duelling pistol, and over it
glanced the bright eye of its crippled owner. The issue was joined!

There was a deathlike silence.

"Go on!" said Jack, quietly. "Keep cool, Joe. For if _you_ miss him,
you're gone in; and hit or miss _I've_ got _you_ sure!"

The barrel of Hall's pistol wavered a moment, from physical weakness but
not from fear. The great heart behind it, though broken, was undaunted.

"It's all right," said the voice fatefully. "It's all right, Jack!
Ye'll kill me, I know! But ye can't help sayin' arter all that I did my
duty to Calaveras as the sheriff, and 'specially to them twenty-five men
ez elected me over Boggs! I ain't goin' to let ye pass. I've been on
this yer hunt, up and down this cañon all night. Hevin' no possy I
reckon I've got to die yer in my tracks. All right! But ye'll git into
thet waggon over my dead body, Jack--over my dead body, sure."

Even as he spoke these words he straightened himself to his full
height--which was not much, I fear--and steadied himself by the tree,
his weapon still advanced and pointing at Gabriel, but with such an
evident and hopeless contrast between his determination and his evident
inability to execute it, that his attitude impressed his audience less
with its heroism than its half-pathetic absurdity.

Mr. Hamlin laughed. But even then he suddenly felt the grasp of Gabriel
relax, found himself slipping to his companion's feet, and the next
moment was deposited carefully but ignominiously on the ground by
Gabriel, who strode quietly and composedly up to the muzzle of the
sheriff's pistol.

"I am ready to go with ye, Mr. Hall," he said, gently, putting the
pistol aside with a certain large indifferent wave of the hand, "ready
to go with ye--now--at onct! But I've one little favour to ax ye. This
yer pore young man, ez yur wounded, unbeknownst," he said, pointing to
Hamlin, who was writhing and gritting his teeth in helpless rage and
fury, "ez not to be tuk with me, nor for me! Thar ain't nothin' to be
done to him. He hez been dragged inter this fight. But I'm ready to go
with ye now, Mr. Hall, and am sorry you got into the troubil along o'
me."

BOOK VII.

_THE BED ROCK._

CHAPTER I.

IN THE TRACK OF A STORM.

A quarter of an hour before the messenger of Peter Dumphy had reached
Poinsett's office, Mr. Poinsett had received a more urgent message. A
telegraph despatched from San Antonio had been put into his hands. Its
few curt words, more significant to an imaginative man than rhetorical
expression, ran as follows:--

     "Mission Church destroyed. Father Felipe safe. Blessed Trinity
     in ruins and Dolores missing. My house spared. Come at
     once.--MARIA SEPULVIDA."

The following afternoon at four o'clock Arthur Poinsett reached San
Geronimo, within fifteen miles of his destination. Here the despatch was
confirmed with some slight local exaggeration.

"Saints and devils! There is no longer a St. Anthony! The _temblor_ has
swallowed him!" said the innkeeper, sententiously. "It is the end of
all! Such is the world. Thou wilt find stones on stones instead of
houses, Don Arturo. Wherefore another glass of the brandy of France, or
the whisky of the American, as thou dost prefer. But of San
Antonio--nothing!--Absolutely--perfectly--truly nothing!"

In spite of this cheering prophecy, Mr. Poinsett did not wait for the
slow diligence, but mounting a fleet mustang dashed off in quest of the
missing Mission. He was somewhat relieved at the end of an hour by the
far-off flash of the sea, the rising of the dark green fringe of the
Mission orchard and _Encinal_, and above it the white dome of one of the
Mission towers. But at the next moment Arthur checked his horse and
rubbed his eyes in wonder. Where was the other tower? He put spurs to
his horse again and dashed off at another angle, and again stopped and
gazed. _There was but one tower remaining._ The Mission Church must have
been destroyed!

Perhaps it was this discovery, perhaps it was some instinct stronger
than this; but when Arthur had satisfied himself of this fact he left
the direct road, which would have brought him to the Mission, and
diverged upon the open plain towards the Rancho of the Blessed Trinity.
A fierce wind from the sea swept the broad _llano_ and seemed to oppose
him, step by step--a wind so persistent and gratuitous that it appeared
to Arthur to possess a moral quality, and as such was to be resisted and
overcome by his superior will. Here, at least, all was unchanged; here
was the dead, flat monotony of land and sky. Here was the brittle, harsh
stubble of the summer fields, sun-baked and wind-dried; here were the
long stretches of silence, from which even the harrying wind made no
opposition nor complaint; here were the formless specks of slowly-moving
cattle, even as he remembered them before. A momentary chill came over
him as he recalled his own perilous experience on these plains, a
momentary glow suffused his cheek as he thought of his rescue by the
lovely but cold recluse. Again he heard the name of "Philip" softly
whispered in his ears, again he felt the flood of old memories sweep
over him as he rode, even as he had felt them when he lay that day
panting upon the earth. And yet Arthur had long since convinced his mind
that he was mistaken in supposing that Donna Dolores had addressed him
at that extreme moment as "Philip;" he had long since believed it was a
trick of his disordered and exhausted brain; the conduct of Dolores
towards himself, habitually restrained by grave courtesy, never
justified him in directly asking the question, nor suggested any
familiarity that might have made it probable. She had never alluded to
it again--but had apparently forgotten it. Not so Arthur! He had often
gone over that memorable scene, with a strange, tormenting pleasure that
was almost a pain. It was the one incident of his life, for whose poetry
he was not immediately responsible--the one genuine heart-thrill whose
sincerity he had not afterwards stopped to question in his critical
fashion, the one enjoyment that had not afterwards appeared mean and
delusive. And now the heroine of this episode was missing, and he might
never perhaps see her again! And yet when he first heard the news he was
conscious of a strange sense of relief--rather let me say of an
awakening from a dream, that though delicious, had become dangerous and
might unfit him for the practical duties of his life. Donna Dolores had
never affected him as a real personage--at least the interest he felt in
her was, he had always considered, due to her relations to some romantic
condition of his mind, and her final disappearance from the plane of his
mental vision was only the exit of an actress from the mimic stage. It
seemed only natural that she should disappear as mysteriously as she
came. There was no shock even to the instincts of his ordinary
humanity--it was no catastrophe involving loss of life or even suffering
to the subject or spectator.

Such at least was Mr. Poinsett's analysis of his own mental condition
on the receipt of Donna Maria's telegram. It was the cool
self-examination of a man who believed himself cold-blooded and selfish,
superior to the weakness of ordinary humanity, and yet was conscious of
neither pride nor disgrace in the belief. Yet when he diverged from his
direct road to the Mission, and turned his horse's head toward the home
of Donna Dolores, he was conscious of a new impulse and anxiety that was
stronger than his reason. Unable as he was to resist it, he still took
some satisfaction in believing that it was nearly akin to that feeling
which years before had driven him back to Starvation Camp in quest of
the survivors. Suddenly his horse recoiled with a bound that would have
unseated a less skilful rider. Directly across his path stretched a
chasm in the level plain--thirty feet broad and as many feet in depth,
and at its bottom in undistinguishable confusion lay the wreck of the
corral of the Blessed Trinity!

Except for the enormous size and depth of this fissure Arthur might have
mistaken it for the characteristic cracks in the sunburnt plain, which
the long dry summer had wrought upon its surface, some of which were so
broad as to task the agility of his horse. But a second glance convinced
him of the different character of the phenomenon. The earth had not
cracked asunder nor separated, but had sunk. The width of the chasm
below was nearly equal to the width above; the floor of this valley in
miniature was carpeted by the same dry, brittle herbs and grasses which
grew upon the plain around him.

In the pre-occupation of the last hour he had forgotten the distance he
had traversed. He had evidently ridden faster than he had imagined. But
if this was really the corral, the walls of the Rancho should now be in
sight at the base of the mountain! He turned in that direction. Nothing
was to be seen! Only the monotonous plain stretched before him, vast
and unbroken. Between the chasm where he stood and the _falda_ of the
first low foot-hills neither roof nor wall nor ruin rose above the dull,
dead level!

An ominous chill ran through his veins, and for an instant the reins
slipped through his relaxed fingers. Good God! Could this have been what
Donna Maria meant, or had there been a later convulsion of Nature? He
looked around him. The vast, far-stretching plain, desolate and
trackless as the shining ocean beyond, took upon itself an awful
likeness to that element! Standing on the brink of the revealed
treachery of that yawning chasm, Arthur Poinsett read the fate of the
Rancho. In the storm that had stirred the depths of this motionless
level, the Rancho and its miserable inmates had _foundered_ and gone
down!

Arthur's first impulse was to push on towards the scene of the disaster,
in the vague hope of rendering some service. But the chasm before him
was impassable, and seemed to continue to the sea beyond. Then he
reflected that the catastrophe briefly told in Donna Maria's despatch
had happened twenty-four hours before, and help was perhaps useless now.
He cursed the insane impulse that had brought him here, aimlessly and
without guidance, and left him powerless even to reach the object of his
quest. If he had only gone first to the Mission, asked the advice and
assistance of Father Felipe, or learned at least the full details of the
disaster! He uttered an oath, rare to his usual calm expression, and
wheeling his horse, galloped fiercely back towards the Mission.

Night had deepened over the plain. With the going down of the sun a fog
that had been stealthily encompassing the coast-line stole with soft
step across the shining beach, dulled its lustre, and then moved slowly
and solemnly upon the plain, blotting out the Point of Pines, at first
salient with its sparkling Lighthouse, but now undistinguishable from
the grey sea above and below, until it reached the galloping horse and
its rider, and then, as it seemed to Arthur, isolated them from the rest
of the world--from even the pencilled outlines of the distant
foot-hills, that it at last sponged from the blue-grey slate before him.
At times the far-off tolling of a fog-bell came faintly to his ear, but
all sound seemed to be blotted out by the fog; even the rapid fall of
his horse's hoofs was muffled and indistinct. By degrees the impression
that he was riding in a dream overcame him, and was accepted by him
without questioning or deliberation.

It seemed to be a consistent part of the dream or vision when he
rode--or rather as it seemed to him, was borne by the fog--into the
outlying fields and lanes of the Mission. A few lights, with a nimbus of
fog around them, made the narrow street of the town appear still more
ghostly and unreal as he plunged through its obscurity towards the plaza
and church. Even by the dim grey light he could see that one of the
towers had fallen, and that the eastern wing and Refectory were a mass
of shapeless ruin. And what would at another time have excited his
surprise now only struck him as a natural part of his dream,--the church
a blaze of light and filled with thronging worshippers! Still possessed
by his strange fancy, Arthur Poinsett dismounted, led his horse beneath
the shed beside the remaining tower, and entered the building. The body
and nave of the church were intact; the outlandish paintings still hung
from the walls; the waxen effigies of the Blessed Virgin and the saints
still leaned from their niches, yellow and lank, and at the high altar
Father Felipe was officiating. As he entered a dirge broke from the
choir; he saw that the altar and its offerings were draped in black, and
in the first words uttered by the priest Arthur recognised the mass for
the dead! The feverish impatience that had filled his breast and
heightened the colour of his cheeks for the last hour was gone. He sunk
upon a bench beside one of the worshippers and buried his face in his
hands. The voice of the organ rose again faintly; the quaint-voiced
choir awoke, the fumes of incense filled the church, and the monotonous
accents of the priest fell soothingly upon his ear, and Arthur seemed to
sleep. I say seemed to sleep, for ten minutes later he came to himself
with a start as if awakening from a troubled dream, with the voice of
Padre Felipe in his ear, and the soft, caressing touch of Padre Felipe
on his shoulder. The worshippers had dispersed, the church was dark save
a few candles still burning on the high altar, and for an instant he
could not recall himself.

"I knew you would come, son," said Padre Felipe; "but where is she? Did
you bring her with you?"

"Who?" asked Arthur, striving to recall his scattered senses.

"Who? Saints preserve us, Don Arturo! She who sent for you--Donna Maria!
Did you not get her message?"

Arthur replied that he had only just arrived, and had at once hastened
to the Mission. For some reason that he was ashamed to confess he did
not say that he had tried to reach the Rancho of the Blessed Trinity,
nor did he admit that he had forgotten for the last two hours even the
existence of Donna Maria. "You were having a mass for the dead, Father
Felipe?--you have then suffered here?"

He paused anxiously, for in his then confused state of mind he doubted
how much of his late consciousness had been real or visionary.

"Mother of God," said Father Felipe, eyeing Arthur curiously. "You know
not then for whom was this mass? You know not that a saint has
gone--that Donna Dolores has at last met her reward?"

"I have heard--that is, Donna Maria's despatch said--that she was
missing," stammered Arthur, feeling, with a new and unsupportable
disbelief in himself, that his face was very pale and his voice
uncertain.

"Missing!" echoed Father Felipe, with the least trace of impatience in
his voice. "Missing! She will be found when the Rancho of the Blessed
Trinity is restored--when the ruins of the _casa_, sunk fifty feet below
the surface, are brought again to the level of the plain. Missing, Don
Arturo!--ah!--missing indeed!--for ever! always, entirely!"

Moved perhaps by something in Arthur's face, Padre Felipe sketched in a
few graphic pictures the details of the catastrophe already forecast by
Arthur. It was a repetition of the story of the sunken corral. The
earthquake had not only levelled the walls of the Rancho of the Blessed
Trinity, but had opened a grave-like chasm fifty feet below it, and none
had escaped to tell the tale. The faithful _vaqueros_ had rushed from
the trembling and undulating plain to the Rancho, only to see it topple
into a yawning abyss that opened to receive it. Don Juan, Donna Dolores,
the faithful Manuela, and Alejandro, the _major domo_, with a dozen
peons and retainers, went down with the crumbling walls. No one had
escaped. Was it not possible to dig in the ruins for the bodies? Mother
of God! had not Don Arturo been told that the earth at the second shock
had closed over the sunken ruins, burying beyond mortal resurrection all
that the Rancho contained? They were digging, but hopelessly--a dozen
men. They might--weeks hence--discover the bodies--but who knows?

The meek, fatalistic way that Father Felipe accepted the final doom of
Donna Dolores exasperated Arthur beyond bounds. In San Francisco a
hundred men would have been digging night and day in the mere chance of
recovering the buried family. Here--but Arthur remembered the sluggish,
helpless retainers of Salvatierra, the dreadful fatalism which affected
them on the occurrence of this mysterious catastrophe, even as shown in
the man before him, their accepted guide and leader--and shuddered.
Could anything be done? Could he not, with Dumphy's assistance, procure
a gang of men from San Francisco? And then came the instinct of caution,
always powerful with a nature like Arthur's. If these people, most
concerned in the loss of their friends, their relations, accepted it so
hopelessly, what right had he--a mere stranger--to interfere?

"But come, my son," said Padre Felipe, laying his large soft hand,
parentally, on Arthur's shoulder. "Come, come with me to my rooms.
Thanks to the Blessed Virgin I have still shelter and a roof to offer
you. Ah!" he added, stroking Arthur's riding-coat, and examining
critically as if he had been a large child, "what have we--what is this,
eh? You are wet with this heretic fog--eh? Your hands are cold, and your
cheeks hot. You have fatigue! Possibly--most possibly, hunger! No! No!
It is so. Come with me, come!" and drawing Arthur's passive arm through
his own, he opened the vestry door, and led him across the little
garden, choked with débris and plaster of the fallen tower, to a small
adobe building that had been the Mission schoolroom. It was now hastily
fitted up as Padre Felipe's own private apartment and meditative cell. A
bright fire burned in the low, oven-like hearth. Around the walls hung
various texts illustrating the achievement of youthful penmanship with
profound religious instruction. At the extremity of the room there was a
small organ. Midway and opposite the hearth was a deep embrasured
window--the window at which two weeks before, Mr. Jack Hamlin had
beheld the Donna Dolores. "She spent much of her time here, dear child,
in the instruction of the young," said Father Felipe, taking a huge
pinch of snuff, and applying a large red bandana handkerchief to his
eyes and nose. "It is her best monument! Thanks to her largess--and she
was ever free-handed, Don Arturo, to the Church--the foundation of the
Convent of our Lady of Sorrows, her own patron saint, thou seest here.
Thou knowest, possibly--most possibly as her legal adviser--that long
ago, by her will, the whole of the Salvatierra Estate is a benefaction
to the Holy Church, eh?"

"No, I don't!" said Arthur, suddenly, awakening with a glow of
Protestant and heretical objection that was new to him, and eyeing Padre
Felipe with the first glance of suspicion he had ever cast upon that
venerable ecclesiastic. "No, sir, I never heard any intimation or
suggestion of the kind from the late Donna Dolores. On the contrary, I
was engaged"----

"Pardon--pardon me, my son," interrupted Father Felipe, taking another
large pinch of snuff. "It is not now, scarce twenty-four hours since the
dear child was translated--not in her masses and while her virgin
strewments are not yet faded--that we will talk of this" (he blew his
nose violently). "No! All in good time--thou shalt see! But I have
something here," he continued, turning over some letters and papers in
his desk. "Something for you--possibly, most possibly, more urgent. It
is a telegraphic despatch for you, to my care."

He handed a yellow envelope to Arthur. But Poinsett's eyes were suddenly
fixed upon a card which lay upon Padre Felipe's table, and which the
Padre's search for the despatch had disclosed. Written across its face
was the name of Colonel Culpepper Starbottle of Siskiyou! "Do you know
that man?" asked Poinsett, holding the despatch unopened in his hand,
and pointing to the card.

Father Felipe took another pinch of snuff. "Possibly--most possibly! A
lawyer, I think--I think! Some business of the Church property! I have
forgotten. But your despatch, Don Arturo. What says it? It does not take
you from us? And you--only an hour here?"

Father Felipe paused, and looking up innocently, found the eyes of
Arthur regarding him gravely. The two men examined each other intently.
Arthur's eyes, at last, withdrew from the clear, unshrinking glance of
Padre Felipe, unabashed but unsatisfied. A sudden recollection of the
thousand and one scandals against the Church, and wild stories of its
far-reaching influence--a swift remembrance of the specious craft and
cunning charged upon the religious order of which Padre Felipe was a
member--scandals that he had hitherto laughed at as idle--flashed
through his mind. Conscious that he was now putting himself in a guarded
attitude before the man with whom he had always been free and outspoken,
Arthur, after a moment's embarrassment that was new to him, turned for
relief to the despatch and opened it. In an instant it drove all other
thoughts from his mind. Its few words were from Dumphy and ran,
characteristically, as follows: "Gabriel Conroy arrested for murder of
Victor Ramirez. What do you propose? Answer."

Arthur rose to his feet. "When does the up-stage pass through San
Geronimo?" he asked, hurriedly.

"At midnight!" returned Padre Felipe. "Surely, my son, you do not
intend"----

"And it is now nine o'clock," continued Arthur, consulting his watch.
"Can you procure me a fresh horse? It is of the greatest importance,
Father," he added, recovering his usual frankness.

"Ah! it is urgent!--it is a matter"----suggested the Padre, gently.

"Of life and death!" responded Arthur gravely.

Father Felipe rang a bell and gave some directions to a servant, while
Arthur, seating himself at the table, wrote an answer to the despatch.
"I can trust you to send it as soon as possible to the telegraph
office," he said, handing it to Father Felipe.

The Padre took it in his hand, but glanced anxiously at Arthur. "And
Donna Maria?" he said, hesitatingly; "you have not seen her yet! Surely
you will stop at the Blessed Fisherman, if only for a moment, eh?"

Arthur drew his riding-coat and cape over his shoulders with a
mischievous smile. "I am afraid not, Father; I shall trust to you to
explain that I was recalled suddenly, and that I had not time to call;
knowing the fascinations of your society, Father, she will not begrudge
the few moments I have spent with you."

Before Father Felipe could reply the servant entered with the
announcement that the horse was ready.

"Good-night, Father Felipe," said Arthur, pressing the priest's hands
warmly, with every trace of his former suspiciousness gone. "Good night.
A thousand thanks for the horse. In speeding the parting guest," he
added, gravely, "you have perhaps done more for the health of my soul
than you imagine--good-night. _Adios!_"

With a light laugh in his ears, the vision of a graceful, erect figure,
waving a salute from a phantom steed, an inward rush of the cold grey
fog, and muffled clatter of hoofs over the mouldy and mossy marbles in
the churchyard, Father Felipe parted from his guest. He uttered a
characteristic adjuration, took a pinch of snuff, and closing the door,
picked up the card of the gallant Colonel Starbottle and tossed it into
the fire.

But the perplexities of the holy Father ceased not with the night. At an
early hour in the morning, Donna Maria Sepulvida appeared before him at
breakfast, suspicious, indignant, and irate.

"Tell me, Father Felipe," she said, hastily, "did the Don Arturo pass
the night here?"

"Truly no, my daughter," answered the Padre, cautiously. "He was here
but for a little"----

"And he went away when?" interrupted Donna Maria.

"At nine."

"And where?" continued Donna Maria, with a rising colour.

"To San Francisco, my child; it was business of great importance--but
sit down, sit, little one! This impatience is of the devil, daughter,
you must calm yourself."

"And do you know, Father Felipe, that he went away without coming _near
me_?" continued Donna Maria, in a higher key, scarcely heeding her
ghostly confessor.

"Possibly, most possibly! But he received a despatch--it was of the
greatest importance."

"A despatch!" repeated Donna Maria, scornfully. "Truly--from whom?"

"I know not, my child," said Father Felipe, gazing at the pink cheeks,
indignant eyes, and slightly swollen eyelids of his visitor; "this
impatience--this anger is most unseemly."

"Was it from Mr. Dumphy?" reiterated Donna Maria, stamping her little
foot.

Father Felipe drew back his chair. Through what unhallowed spell had
this woman--once the meekest and humblest of wives--become the shrillest
and most shrewest of widows? Was she about to revenge herself on Arthur
for her long suffering with the late Don José? Father Felipe pitied
Arthur now and prospectively.

"Are you going to tell me?" said Donna Maria, tremulously, with alarming
symptoms of hysteria.

"I believe it was from Mr. Dumphy," stammered Padre Felipe. "At least
the answer Don Arturo gave me to send in reply--only these words, 'I
will return at once'--was addressed to Mr. Dumphy. But I know not what
was the message _he_ received."

"You don't!" said Donna Maria, rising to her feet, with white in her
cheek, fire in her eyes, and a stridulous pitch in her voice. "You
don't! Well! I will tell you! It was the same news that _this_ brought."
She took a telegraphic despatch from her pocket and shook it in the
face of Father Felipe. "There! read it! That was the news sent to
him! That was the reason why he turned and ran away like a coward as
he is! That was the reason why he never came near me, like a
perjured traitor as he is! That is the reason why he came to you
with his fastidious airs and, his supercilious smile--and
his--his--Oh, how I HATE HIM! That is why!--read it! read it!
Why don't you read it?" (She had been gesticulating with it,
waving it in the air wildly, and evading every attempt of Father
Felipe to take it from her.) "Read it! Read it and see why!
Read and see that I am ruined!--a beggar--a cajoled and tricked
and deceived woman--between these two villains, Dumphy and
Mis--ter--Arthur--Poin--sett! Ah! Read it--or are you a traitor
too? You and Dolores and all"----

She crumpled the paper in her hands, threw it on the floor, whitened
suddenly round the lips, and then followed the paper as suddenly, at
full length, in a nervous spasm at Father Felipe's feet. Father Felipe
gazed, first at the paper and then at the rigid form of his friend. He
was a man, an old one--with some experience of the sex, and I regret to
say he picked up the _paper_ first, and straightened _it_ out. It was a
telegraphic despatch in the following words:--

     "Sorry to say telegram just received that earthquake has
     dropped out lead of Conroy Mine! Everything gone up! Can't make
     further advances or sell stock.--DUMPHY."

Father Felipe bent over Donna Maria and raised her in his arms. "Poor
little one!" he said. "But I don't think Arthur knew it."

CHAPTER II.

THE YELLOW ENVELOPE.

For once, by a cruel irony, the adverse reports regarding the stability
of the Conroy mine were true. A few stockholders still clung to the
belief that it was a fabrication to depress the stock, but the fact as
stated in Mr. Dumphy's despatch to Donna Maria was in possession of the
public. The stock, fell to $35, to $30, to $10--to nothing! An hour
after the earthquake it was known in One Horse Gulch that the "lead" had
"dropped" suddenly, and that a veil of granite of incalculable thickness
had been upheaved between the seekers and the treasure, now lost in the
mysterious depths below. The vein was gone! Where?--no one could tell.
There were various theories, more or less learned: there was one party
who believed in the "subsidence" of the vein, another who believed in
the "interposition" of the granite, but all tending to the same
conclusion--the inaccessibility of the treasure. Science pointed with
stony finger to the evidence of previous phenomena of the same character
visible throughout the Gulch. But the grim "I told you so" of Nature
was, I fear, no more satisfactory to the dwellers of One Horse Gulch
than the ordinary prophetic distrust of common humanity.

The news spread quickly and far. It overtook several wandering
Californians in Europe, and sent them to their bankers with anxious
faces; it paled the cheeks of one or two guardians of orphan children,
frightened several widows, drove a confidential clerk into shameful
exile, and struck Mr. Raynor in Boston with such consternation, that
people for the first time suspected that he had backed his opinion of
the resources of California with capital. Throughout the length and
breadth of the Pacific slope it produced a movement of aggression which
the earthquake had hitherto failed to cover. The probabilities of danger
to life and limb by a recurrence of the shock had been dismissed from
the public consideration, but this actual loss of characteristic
property awakened the gravest anxiety. If Nature claimed the privilege
of at any time withdrawing from that implied contract under which so
many of California's best citizens had occupied and improved the
country, it was high time that something should be done. Thus spake an
intelligent and unfettered press. A few old residents talked of
returning to the East.

During this excitement Mr. Dumphy bore himself toward the world
generally with perfect self-confidence, and, if anything, an increased
aggressiveness. His customers dared not talk of their losses before him,
or exhibit a stoicism unequal to his own.

"It's a bad business," he would say; "what do you propose?" And as the
one latent proposition in each human breast was the return of the money
invested, and as no one dared to make that proposition, Mr. Dumphy was,
as usual, triumphant. In this frame of mind Mr. Poinsett found him on
his return from the Mission of San Antonio, the next morning.

"Bad news, I suppose, down there," said Mr. Dumphy, briskly; "and I
reckon the widow, though she has been luckier than her neighbours, don't
feel particularly lively, eh? I'm devilish sorry for you, Poinsett,
though, as a man, you can see that the investment was a good one. But
you can't make a woman understand business. Eh? Well, the Rancho's worth
double the mortgage, I reckon. Eh? Ugly, ain't she--of course! Said
she'd been swindled? That's like a woman! You and me know 'em! eh,
Poinsett?" Mr. Dumphy emitted his characteristic bark, and winked at his
visitor.

Arthur looked up in unaffected surprise. "If you mean Mrs. Sepulvida,"
he said, coldly, "I haven't seen her. I was on my way there when your
telegram recalled me. I had some business with Padre Felipe."

"You don't know then that the Conroy mine has gone up with the
earthquake, eh? Lead dropped out--eh? and the widow's fifty-six
thousand?"--here Mr. Dumphy snapped his finger and thumb, to illustrate
the lame and impotent conclusion of Donna Maria's investment--"don't you
know that?"

"No," said Arthur, with perfect indifference and a languid abstraction
that awed Mr. Dumphy more than anxiety; "no, I don't. But I imagine that
isn't the reason you telegraphed me."

"No," returned Dumphy, still eyeing Poinsett keenly for a possible clue
to this singular and unheard-of apathy to the condition of the fortune
of the woman his visitor was about to marry. "No--of course!"

"Well!" said Arthur, with that dangerous quiet which was the only
outward sign of interest and determination in his nature. "I'm going up
to One Horse Gulch to offer my services as counsel to Gabriel Conroy.
Now for the details of this murder, which, by the way, I don't believe
Gabriel committed, unless he's another man than the one I knew! After
that you can tell me _your_ business with me, for I don't suppose you
telegraphed to me on his account solely. Of course, at first you felt it
was to your interest to get him and his wife out of the way, now that
Ramirez is gone. But now, if you please, let me know what _you_ know
about this murder."

Mr. Dumphy thus commanded, and completely under the influence of
Arthur's quiet will, briefly recounted the particulars already known to
the reader, of which he had been kept informed by telegraph.

"He's been recaptured," added Dumphy, "I learn by a later despatch; and
I don't reckon there'll be another attempt to lynch him. I've managed
_that_," he continued, with a return of his old self-assertion. "I've
got some influence there!"

For the first time during the interview Arthur awoke from his
pre-occupation, and glanced keenly at Dumphy. "Of course," he returned,
coolly, "I don't suppose you such a fool as to allow the only witness
you have of your wife's death to be sacrificed--even if you believed
that the impostor who was personating your wife had been charged with
complicity in a capital crime and had fled from justice. You're not such
a fool as to believe that this Mrs. Conroy won't try to help her
husband, that she evidently loves, by every means in her power--that she
won't make use of any secret she may have that concerns you to save him
and herself. No, Mr. Peter Dumphy," said Arthur significantly; "no,
you're too much of a business man not to see that." As he spoke he noted
the alternate flushing and paling of Mr. Dumphy's face, and read--I fear
with the triumphant and instinctive consciousness of a superior
intellect--that Mr. Dumphy _had_ been precisely such a fool, and had
failed!

"I reckon nobody will put much reliance on the evidence of a woman
charged with a capital crime," said Mr. Dumphy, with a show of
confidence he was far from feeling.

"Suppose that she and Gabriel both swear that _she_ knows your abandoned
wife, for instance; suppose that they both swear that she and you
connived to personate Grace Conroy for the sake of getting the title to
this mine; suppose that she alleges that she repented and married
Gabriel, as she did, and suppose that they both admit the killing of
this Ramirez--and assert that you were persecuting them through him, and
still are; suppose that they show that he forged a second grant to the
mine--through _your_ instigation?"

"It's a lie," interrupted Dumphy, starting to his feet; "he did it from
jealousy."

"Can you _prove_ his motives?" said Arthur.

"But the grant was not in my favour--it was to some old Californian down
in the Mission of San Antonio. I can prove that," said Dumphy,
excitedly.

"Suppose you can? Nobody imagines you so indiscreet as to have had
another grant conveyed to _you directly_, while you were negotiating
with Gabriel for _his_. Don't be foolish! _I_ know you had nothing to do
with the forged grant. I am only suggesting how you have laid yourself
open to the charges of a woman of whom you are likely to make an enemy,
and might have made an ally. If you calculate to revenge Ramirez,
consider first if you care to have it proved that he was a confidential
agent of yours--as they will, if you don't help _them_. Never mind
whether they committed the murder. You are not their judge or accuser.
You must help them for your own sake. No!" continued Arthur, after a
pause, "congratulate yourself that the Vigilance Committee did not hang
Gabriel Conroy, and that you have not to add revenge to the other
motives of a desperate and scheming woman."

"But are you satisfied that Mrs. Conroy _is_ really the person who
stands behind Colonel Starbottle and personates my wife?"

"I am," replied Arthur, positively.

Dumphy hesitated a moment. Should he tell Arthur of Colonel Starbottle's
interview with him, and the delivery and subsequent loss of the
mysterious envelope? Arthur read his embarrassment plainly, and
precipitated his decision with a single question.

"Have you had any further interview with Colonel Starbottle?"

Thus directly adjured. Dumphy hesitated no longer, but at once repeated
the details of his late conversation with Starbottle, his successful
bribery of the Colonel, the delivery of the sealed envelope under
certain conditions, and its mysterious disappearance. Arthur heard him
through with quiet interest, but when Mr. Dumphy spoke of the loss of
the envelope, he fixed his eyes on Mr. Dumphy's with a significance that
was unmistakable.

"You say you lost this envelope trusted to your honour!" said Arthur,
with slow and insulting deliberation. "Lost it, without having opened it
or learned its contents? That was very unfortunate, Mr. Dumphy, ve-ry
un-for-tu-nate!"

The indignation of an honourable man at the imputation of some meanness
foreign to his nature is weak compared with the anger of a rascal
accused of an offence which he might have committed, but didn't. Mr.
Dumphy turned almost purple! It was so evident that he had not been
guilty of concealing the envelope, and did not know its contents, that
Arthur was satisfied.

"He denied any personal knowledge of Mrs. Conroy in this affair?"
queried Arthur.

"Entirely! He gave me to understand that his instructions were received
from another party unknown to me," said Dumphy. "Look yer,
Poinsett--you're wrong! I don't believe it is that woman."

Arthur shook his head. "No one else possesses the information necessary
to blackmail you. No one else has a motive in doing it."

The door opened to a clerk bearing a card. Mr. Dumphy took it
impatiently and read aloud, "Colonel Starbottle of Siskiyou!" He then
turned an anxious face to Poinsett.

"Good," said that gentleman, quietly; "admit him." As the clerk
disappeared, Arthur turned to Dumphy, "I suppose it was to meet this man
you sent for me?"

"Yes," returned Dumphy, with a return of his old brusqueness.

"Then hold your tongue, and leave everything to me."

The door opened as he spoke to Colonel Starbottle's frilled shirt and
expanding bosom, followed at a respectful interval by the gallant
Colonel himself. He was evidently surprised by the appearance of Mr.
Dumphy's guest, but by no means dashed in his usual chivalrous port and
bearing. "My legal adviser, Mr. Poinsett," said Dumphy, introducing
Arthur briefly.

The gallant Colonel bowed stiffly, while Arthur, with a smile of
fascinating courtesy and deference that astonished Dumphy in proportion
as it evidently flattered and gratified Colonel Starbottle, stepped
forward and extended his hand. "As a younger member of the profession I
can hardly claim the attention of one so experienced as Colonel
Starbottle, but as the friend of poor Henry Beeswinger, I can venture to
take the hand of the man who so gallantly stood by him as his second,
two years ago."

"Ged, sir," said Colonel Starbottle, absolutely empurpling with
pleasure, and exploding his handkerchief from his sweltering breast.
"Ged! you--er--er--do me proud! I am--er--gratified, sir, to meet any
friend of--er--er--gentleman like Hank Beeswinger! I remember the whole
affair, sir, as if it was yesterday. I do!" with an oath. "Gratifying,
Mr. Poinsett, to every gentleman concerned. Your friend, sir,--I'm proud
to meet you--I am,----me!--killed, sir, second fire! Dropped like a
gentleman,----me! No fuss; no reporters; no arrests. Friends
considerate. Blank me, sir, one of the finest, d---- me, I may say, sir,
one of the very finest--er--meetings in which I have--er--participated.
Glad to know you, sir. You call to mind, sir, one of the--er--highest
illustrations of a code of honour--that--er--er--under the
present--er--degrading state of public sentiment is er--er--passing
away. We are drifting sir, drifting--drifting to er--er--political and
social condition, where the Voice of Honour, sir, is drowned by the
Yankee watchword of Produce and Trade. Trade, sir, blank me!" Colonel
Starbottle paused with a rhetorical full stop, blew his nose, and gazed
at the ceiling with a plaintive suggestion that the days of chivalry had
indeed passed, and that American institutions were indeed retrograding;
Mr. Dumphy leaned back in his chair in helpless irritability; Mr. Arthur
Poinsett alone retained an expression of courteous and sympathising
attention.

"I am the more gratified at meeting Colonel Starbottle," said Arthur,
gravely, "from the fact that my friend and client here, Mr. Dumphy is at
present in a condition where he most needs the consideration and
understanding of a gentleman and a man of honour. A paper, which has
been entrusted to his safe keeping and custody as a gentleman, has
disappeared since the earthquake, and it is believed that during the
excitement of that moment it was lost! The paper is supposed to be
intact, as it was in an envelope that _had never been opened, and whose
seals were unbroken_. It is a delicate matter, but I am rejoiced that
the gentleman who left the paper in trust is the honourable Colonel
Starbottle, whom I know by reputation, and the gentleman who suffered
the misfortune of losing it is my personal friend Mr. Dumphy. It enables
me at once to proffer my services as mediator, or as Mr. Dumphy's legal
adviser and friend, to undertake _all_ responsibility in the matter."

The tone and manner were so like Colonel Starbottle's own, that Dumphy
looked from Arthur to Colonel Starbottle in hopeless amazement. The
latter gentleman dropped his chin and fixed a pair of astonished and
staring eyes upon Arthur. "Do I understand--that--er--this gentleman,
Mr. Dumphy, has placed you in possession of any confidential
statement--that--er"----

"Pardon me, Colonel Starbottle," interrupted Arthur, rising with
dignity, "the facts I have just stated are sufficient for the
responsibility I assume in this case. I learn from my client that a
sealed paper placed in his hands is missing. I have from him the
statement that I am bound to believe, that it passed from his hands
unopened; where, he knows not. This is a matter, between gentlemen,
serious enough without further complication!"

"And the paper and envelope are lost?" continued Colonel Starbottle,
still gazing at Arthur.

"Are lost," returned Arthur, quietly. "I have advised my friend, Mr.
Dumphy, that as a man of honour, and a business man, he is by no means
freed through this unfortunate accident from any promise or contract
that he may have entered into with you concerning it. Any deposit as a
collateral for its safe delivery which he might have made, _or has
promised to make_, is clearly forfeited. This he has been waiting only
for your appearance to hand to you." Arthur crossed to Mr. Dumphy's side
and laid his hand lightly upon his shoulder, but with a certain
significance of grip palpable to Mr. Dumphy, who, after looking into his
eyes, took out his cheque book. When he had filled in a duplicate of
the cheque he had given Colonel Starbottle two days before, Arthur took
it from his hand and touched the bell. "As we will not burden Colonel
Starbottle unnecessarily, your cashier's acceptance of this paper will
enable him to use it henceforth at his pleasure, and as I expect to have
the pleasure of the Colonel's company to my office, will you kindly have
this done at once?"

The clerk appeared, and at Mr. Poinsett's direction, took the cheque
from the almost passive fingers of Mr. Dumphy.

"Allow me to express my perfect satisfaction with--er--er your
explanation!" said Colonel Starbottle, extending one hand to Arthur,
while at the same moment he gracefully readjusted his shirt-bosom with
the other. "Trouble yourself no further--regarding the--er--er--paper. I
trust it will--er--yet be found; if not, sir, I shall--er--er--" added
the Colonel, with honourable resignation, "hold myself _personally
responsible_ to my client, blank me!"

"Was there no mark upon the envelope by which it might be known without
explaining its contents?" suggested Arthur.

"None, sir, a plain yellow envelope. Stop!" said the Colonel, striking
his forehead with his hand. "Ged, sir! I do remember now that during our
conversation I made a memorandum, ---- me, a memorandum upon the face of
it, across it, a name, Ged, sir, the very name of the party you were
speaking of--Gabriel Conroy!"

"You wrote the name of Gabriel Conroy upon it! Good! That may lead to
its identification without exposing its contents," returned Arthur.
"Well, sir?"

The last two words were addressed to Mr. Dumphy's clerk, who had entered
during the Colonel's speech and stood staring alternately at him and his
employer, holding the accepted cheque in his hand.

"Give it to the gentleman," said Dumphy, curtly.

The man obeyed. Colonel Starbottle took the cheque, folded it, and
placed it somewhere in the moral recesses of his breast-pocket. That
done, he turned to Mr. Dumphy. "I need not say--er--that--er--as far as
my personal counsel and advice to my client can prevail, it will be
my effort to prevent litigation in this--er--delicate affair.
Should the envelope--er--er--turn up! you will of course--er--send
it to me, who am--er--personally responsible for it. Ged, sir,"
continued the Colonel, "I should be proud to conclude this affair,
conducted as it has been on your side with the strictest honour,
over the--er--festive-board--but--er--business prevents me! I
leave here in one hour for One Horse Gulch!"

Both Mr. Dumphy and Poinsett involuntarily started.

"One Horse Gulch?" repeated Arthur.

"---- me! yes! Ged, sir, I'm retained in a murder case there; the case
of this man Gabriel Conroy."

Arthur cast a swift precautionary look at Dumphy. "Then perhaps we may
be travelling companions?" he said to Starbottle, smiling pleasantly. "I
am going there too. Perhaps my good fortune may bring us in friendly
counsel. You are engaged"----

"For the prosecution," interrupted Starbottle, slightly expanding his
chest. "At the request of relatives of the murdered man--a Spanish
gentleman of--er--er--large and influential family connections, I shall
assist the District Attorney, my old friend, Nelse Buckthorne!"

The excitement kindled in Arthur's eyes luckily did not appear in his
voice. It was still pleasant to Colonel Starbottle's ear, as, after a
single threatening glance of warning at the utterly mystified and half
exploding Dumphy, he turned gracefully toward him. "And if, by the
fortunes of war, we should be again on opposite sides, my dear Colonel,
I trust that our relations may be as gratifying as they have been
to-day. One moment! I am going your way. Let me beg you to take my arm a
few blocks and a glass of wine afterwards as a stirrup-cup on our
journey." And with a significant glance at Dumphy, Arthur Poinsett
slipped Colonel Starbottle's arm deftly under his own, and actually
marched off with that doughty warrior, a blushing, expanding, but not
unwilling captive.

When the door closed Mr. Dumphy resumed his speech and action in a
single expletive. What more he might have said is not known, for at the
same moment he caught sight of his clerk, who had entered hastily at the
exit of the others, but who now stood awed and abashed by Mr. Dumphy's
passion. "Dash it all! what in dash are you dashingly doing here, dash
you?"

"Sorry, sir," said the unlucky clerk; "but overhearing that gentleman
say there was writing on the letter that you lost by which it might be
identified, sir--we think we've found it--that is, we know where it is!"

"How?" said Dumphy, starting up eagerly.

"When the shock came that afternoon," continued the clerk, "the express
bag for Sacramento and Marysville had just been taken out by the
expressman, and was lying on top of the waggon. The horses started to
run at the second shock, and the bag fell and was jammed against a
lamp-post in front of our window, bursting open as it did so and
spilling some letters and papers on the side-walk. One of our night
watchmen helped the expressman pick up the scattered letters, and picked
up among them a plain yellow envelope with no address but the name of
Gabriel Conroy written in pencil across the end. Supposing it had
dropped from some package in the express bag, he put it back again in
the bag. When you asked about a blank envelope missing from your desk,
he did not connect it with the one he had picked up, for _that_ had
writing on it. We sent to the express office just now, and found that
they had stamped it, and forwarded it to Conroy at One Horse Gulch, just
as they had always done with his letters sent to our care. That's the
way of it. Daresay it's there by this time, in his hands, sir, all
right!"

CHAPTER III.

GABRIEL MEETS HIS LAWYER.

Gabriel's petition on behalf of Mr. Hamlin was promptly granted by the
sheriff. The waggon was at once put into requisition to convey the
wounded man--albeit screaming and protesting--to the Grand Conroy Hotel,
where, in company with his faithful henchman, he was left, to all
intents a free man, and a half an hour later a demented one, tossing in
a burning fever.

Owing to the insecure condition of the county jail at One Horse Gulch,
and possibly some belief in the equal untrustworthiness of the people,
the sheriff conducted his prisoner, accompanied by Olly, to Wingdam.
Nevertheless, Olly's statement of the changed condition of public
sentiment, or rather its pre-occupation with a calamity of more
absorbing interest, was in the main correct. The news of the recapture
of Gabriel by his legal guardian awoke no excitement nor comment. More
than this, there was a favourable feeling toward the prisoner. The
action of the Vigilance Committee had been unsuccessful, and had
terminated disastrously to the principal movers therein. It is possible
that the morality of their action was involved in their success. Somehow
the whole affair had not resulted to the business interests of the
Gulch. The three most prominent lynchers were dead--and clearly in
error! The prisoner, who was still living, was possibly in the right.
The _Silverpolis Messenger_, which ten days before had alluded to the
"noble spectacle of a free people outraged in their holiest instincts,
appealing to the first principles of Justice and Order, and rallying as
a single man to their support," now quietly buried the victims and their
motives from the public eye beneath the calm statement that they met
their fate "while examining the roof of the Court House with a view to
estimate the damage caused by the first shock of the earthquake." The
_Banner_ favoured the same idea a little less elegantly, and suggested
ironically that hereafter "none but experts should be allowed to go
foolin' round the statue of Justice." I trust that the intelligent
reader will not accuse me of endeavouring to cast ridicule upon the
general accuracy of spontaneous public emotion, nor the infallibility of
the true democratic impulse, which (I beg to quote from the
_Messenger_), "in the earliest ages of our history enabled us to resist
legalised aggression, and take the reins of government into our own
hands," or (I now refer to the glowing language of the _Banner_), "gave
us the right to run the machine ourselves and boss the job." And I trust
that the reader will observe in this passing recognition of certain
inconsistencies in the expression and action of these people, only the
fidelity of a faithful chronicler, and no intent of churlish criticism
nor moral or political admonition, which I here discreetly deprecate and
disclaim.

Nor was there any opposition when Gabriel, upon the motion of Lawyer
Maxwell, was admitted to bail pending the action of the Grand Jury, nor
any surprise when Mr. Dumphy's agent and banker came forward as his
bondsman for the sum of fifty thousand dollars. By one of those strange
vicissitudes in the fortunes of mining speculation, this act by Mr.
Dumphy was looked upon as an evidence of his trust in the future of the
unfortunate mine of which Gabriel had been original locator and
superintendent, and under that belief the stock rallied slightly. "It
was a mighty sharp move of Pete Dumphy's bailin' thet Gabe, right in
face of that there 'dropped lead' in his busted-up mine! Oh, you've got
to set up all night to get any points to show _him_!" And, to their
mutual surprise, Mr. Dumphy found himself more awe-inspiring than ever
at One Horse Gulch, and Gabriel found himself a free man, with a slight
popular flavour of martyrdom about him.

As he still persistently refused to enter again upon the premises which
he had deeded to his wife on the day of the murder, temporary lodgings
were found for him and Olly at the Grand Conroy Hotel. And here Mrs.
Markle, although exhibiting to Lawyer Maxwell the greatest concern in
Gabriel's trouble, by one of those inconsistencies of the sex which I
shall not attempt to explain, treated the unfortunate accused with a
degree of cold reserve that was as grateful, I fear, to Gabriel, as it
was unexpected. Indeed, I imagine that if the kind-hearted widow had
known the real comfort and assurance that the exasperating Gabriel
extracted from her first cold and constrained greeting, she would have
spent less of her time in consultation with Maxwell regarding his
defence. But perhaps I am doing a large-hearted and unselfish sex a deep
injustice. So I shall content myself with transcribing part of a
dialogue which took pace between them at the Grand Conroy.

Mrs. Markle (loftily, and regarding the ceiling with cold abstraction):
"We can't gin ye here, Mister Conroy, the French style and attention
ye're kinder habitooal to in your own house on the Hill, bein' plain
folks and mounting ways. But we know our place, and don't reckon to
promise the comforts of a home! Wot with lookin' arter forty reg'lar and
twenty-five transient--ef I don't happen to see ye much myself, Mr.
Conroy, ye'll understand. Ef ye ring thet there bell one o' the help
will be always on hand. Yer lookin' well, Mr. Conroy. And bizness, I
reckon" (the reader will here observe a ladylike ignoring of Gabriel's
special trouble), "ez about what it allers waz, though judging from
remarks of transients, it's dull!"

Gabriel (endeavouring to conceal a large satisfaction under the thin
glowing of conventional sentiment): "Don't let me nor Olly put ye out a
cent, Mrs. Markle--a change bein' ordered by Olly's physicians--and
variety bein', so to speak, the spice o' life! And ye're lookin' well,
Mrs. Markle; that ez" (with a sudden alarm at the danger of compliment),
"so to speak, ez peart and strong-handed ez ever! And how's thet little
Manty o' yours gettin' on? Jist how it was thet me and Olly didn't get
to see ye before ez mighty queer! Times and times ag'in" (with shameless
mendacity) "hez me and thet child bin on the p'int o' coming, and
suthin' hez jest chipped in and interfered!"

Mrs. Markle (with freezing politeness): "You do me proud! I jest dropped
in ez a matter o' not bein' able allers to trust to help. Good night,
Mister Conroy. I hope I see you well! Ye kin jest" (retiring with
matronly dignity), "ye kin jest touch onto that bell thar, if ye're
wantin' anything, and help'll come to ye! Good-night!"

Olly (appearing a moment later at the door of Gabriel's room, truculent
and suspicious): "Afore I'd stand thar--chirpin' with thet
crockidill--and you in troubil, and not knowin' wot's gone o' July--I'd
pizen myself!"

Gabriel (blushing to the roots of his hair, and conscience-stricken to
his inmost soul): "It's jest passin' the time o' day, Olly, with old
friends--kinder influencin' the public sentyment and the jury. Thet's
all. It's the advice o' Lawyer Maxwell, ez ye didn't get to hear, I
reckon,--thet's all!"

But Gabriel's experience in the Grand Conroy Hotel was not, I fear,
always as pleasant. A dark-faced, large-featured woman, manifestly in
mourning, and as manifestly an avenging friend of the luckless deceased,
in whose taking off Gabriel was supposed to be so largely instrumental,
presently appeared at the Grand Conroy Hotel, waiting the action of the
Grand Jury. She was accompanied by a dark-faced elderly gentleman, our
old friend Don Pedro--she being none other than the unstable-waisted
Manuela of Pacific Street--and was, I believe, in the opinion of One
Horse Gulch, supposed to be charged with convincing and mysterious
evidence against Gabriel Conroy. The sallow-faced pair had a way of
meeting in the corridors of the hotel and conversing in mysterious
whispers in a tongue foreign to One Horse Gulch and to Olly, strongly
suggestive of revenge and concealed _stilettos_, that was darkly
significant! Happily, however, for Gabriel, he was presently relieved
from their gloomy espionage by the interposition of a third party--Sal
Clark. That individual, herself in the deepest mourning, and
representing the deceased in his holiest affections, it is scarcely
necessary to say at once resented the presence of the strangers. The two
women glared at each other at the public table, and in a chance meeting
in the corridor of the hotel.

"In the name of God, what have we here in this imbecile and forward
creature, and why is this so and after this fashion?" asked Manuela of
Don Pedro.

"Of a verity, I know not," replied Don Pedro, "it is most possibly a
person visited of God!--a helpless being of brains. Peradventure, a
person filled with _aguardiente_ or the whisky of the Americans. Have a
care, little one, thou smallest Manuela" (she weighed at least three
hundred pounds), "that she does thee no harm!"

Meanwhile Miss Sarah Clark relieved herself to Mrs. Markle in quite as
positive language. "Ef that black mulattar and that dried-up old
furriner reckons they're going to monopolise public sentyment in this
yer way they're mighty mistaken. Ef thar ever was a shameless piece et's
thet old woman--and, goodness knows, the man's a poor critter enyway! Ef
anybody's goin' to take the word of that woman under oath, et's mor'n
Sal Clark would do--that's all! Who ez she--enyway? I never heard her
name mentioned afore!"

And ridiculous as it may seem to the unprejudiced reader, this positive
expression and conviction of Miss Clark, like all positive convictions,
was not without its influence on the larger unimpanelled Grand Jury of
One Horse Gulch, and, by reflection, at last on the impanelled jury
itself.

"When you come to consider, gentlemen," said one of those dangerous
characters--a sagacious, far-seeing juror--"when you come to consider
that the principal witness o' the prosecution and the people at the
inquest don't know this yer Greaser woman, and kinder throws off her
testimony, and the prosecution don't seem to agree, it looks mighty
queer. And I put it to you as far-minded men, if it ain't mighty queer?
And this yer Sal Clark one of our own people."

An impression at once inimical to the new mistress and stranger, and
favourable to the accused Gabriel, instantly took possession of One
Horse Gulch.

Meanwhile the man who was largely responsible for this excitement and
these conflicting opinions maintained a gravity and silence as
indomitable and impassive as his alleged victim, then slumbering
peacefully in the little cemetery on Round Hill. He conversed but little
even with his counsel and friend, Lawyer Maxwell, and received with his
usual submissiveness and gentle deprecatoriness the statement of that
gentleman that Mr. Dumphy had already bespoken the services of one of
the most prominent lawyers of San Francisco--Mr. Arthur Poinsett--to
assist in the defence. When Maxwell added that Mr. Poinsett had
expressed a wish to hold his first consultation with Gabriel privately,
the latter replied with his usual simplicity, "I reckon I've nowt to say
to him ez I hain't said to ye, but it's all right!"

"Then I'll expect you over to my office at eleven to-morrow?" asked
Maxwell.

"Thet's so," responded Gabriel, "though I reckon thet anything you and
him might fix up to be dumped onto thet jury would be pleasin' and
satisfactory to me."

At a few minutes of eleven the next morning Mr. Maxwell, in accordance