When Thieves Fall Out
When news of Robert Palmer's death reached his relatives, pity for his
lonesome life of self-denial was swallowed up by pleasant anticipations.
But weeks and months passed by with no word of encouragement from his
executors. Finally, Mrs. Sherwood, thinking the heirs were being
defrauded, wrote East urging that some member of the Palmer family visit
California. So the astronomer nephew, at considerable expense to
himself, was delegated to cross the continent. At the end of August he
found himself in the Sierras once more. On horseback he visited
Sherwood's ranch, and his uncle's house on Fillmore Hill, ran the
gauntlet of rogues at Alleghany, and passed on over the mountains to
Forest City and Downieville. It was a glorious outing, in spite of the
dust. How brightly the stars shone down on the Sierras! But the further
he investigated the deeper grew the mystery. Dr. Mason told the story of
the sixty thousand dollars loaned by Robert Palmer to the water company.
But the three California executors, reputed honest men, assured the
nephew there was no money to be found. Bankers in Sacramento and San
Francisco were polite but disappointing. All the astronomer brought home
was Mat Bailey's story of the murder of Cummins, a copy of Robert
Palmer's will procured at Downieville, and a problem which defied his
higher mathematics. "Set a thief to catch a thief;" the astronomer was
an honest man.
A few months after his return from California, the tangled web of my
yarn began to unravel. Mat Bailey had reported that nothing had been
heard of the highwaymen "from that day to this." But John Keeler's work
had not been done in vain. O'Leary of You Bet, the Nevada City
jail-bird, had been duly impressed with the handsome reward offered for
the apprehension of the murderers. So every time he met an old
acquaintance he talked about the murder of Will Cummins. It was a simple
method of procedure, and it did not prove immediately successful. As it
was about as easy to be a vagabond in one locality as in another, he
drifted from place to place--first to Sacramento, then to San Francisco,
then over the Sierras to the mining camps of Nevada, then through Utah
and Wyoming, till at last he found himself in jail in St. Louis.
There, three years after the murder, he found his old pal J. C. P.
Collins--but how changed! Could that coarse and bloated countenance
belong to the fastidious and pleasure-loving Collins?
"Well, Collins, I hardly knew you. How does the grub here compare with
what we used to get at Carter's boarding-house?" O'Leary referred to the
jail at Nevada City.
"This must be your first week in St. Louis," replied Collins, "if you
haven't put up at this hotel before. Been caught stealing again, I
suppose?"
"That's me. Only the matter of a lady's purse that was of no use to
her."
"Well, women are the cause of all my trouble. They drag a man down worse
than drink. They are a bad lot, are women."
"Why, you're a regular preacher, ain't you? You used to be a ladies'
man."
"That was in California."
"How's the wild and woolly?" asked Collins, presently, looking his old
pal over contemptuously.
"Oh, I know I ain't stylish like you Eastern dudes. I'm a honest miner,
I am. And I don't wear boiled shirts like you."
"You're honest, all right. We'll leave that to Sheriff Carter. Remember
how he caught you stealing that Chinaman's dust? I can see that
Chinaman's sign now: 'Heekee & Co., Gold Dust Bought.' By the way,
what's become of my old flame back there?"
"Oh, a lady? I don't remember no ladies that was acquainted with gents
like us."
"I don't reckon you know the girl I mean. She wasn't in your class,
that's a fact."
"Maybe I can tell you if you'll just say her name."
"Well, I'm inquiring after Miss Mamie Slocum, the sweetest little girl
in Nevada City."
"You're joking, sure. That girl never had any use for the likes of you.
Mat Bailey would knock your head off if he heard you breathe her name."
"Insult me as much as you like. 'No fighting' is the rules of this
hotel. I asked you, how is that little girl? Sweet on Mat Bailey, is
she? Well, I'm glad of it."
"Yes; she and Mat have been good friends ever since Will Cummins was
killed."
"So? How's that?"
"Why, you know she came down on the stage that day, and saw it all. Some
say she knew the robbers and helped them find Cummins' bullion. I guess
Mat was in the deal, too. Anyhow, she and Mat have been good friends
ever since, as I tell you."
"Now look here, O'Leary, you're dead wrong. That girl is as innocent as
you are."
"Sure! The judge just sent me up for snatching a purse, you know."
"I tell you that girl knew nothing about the hold-up."
"It must have happened after you left California, or you wouldn't be so
sure. I'll tell you about it. Stage comes down from Moore's Flat. Mamie
Slocum talks and laughs with Will Cummins. Sees where he stows his old
leather grip. Sings out to the robbers, 'That's Mr. Cummins' valise
under the seat there.'"
"That's a lie, and you are a fool to believe it!"
"I'm telling you the facts."
"The facts! Why, man, wasn't I there? And don't I know just what
happened?"
Astonished at this outburst, O'Leary looked hard at Collins. There was
no mistaking his earnestness; and he only leered at the other's
astonishment. O'Leary was discreet enough to say no more; and Collins
seemed to think his secret safe enough in the keeping of an old pal two
thousand miles from the scene of the murder. But that very night O'Leary
telegraphed to Sheriff Carter of Nevada City:
"Man who killed Cummins in jail here. Come at once.
Pat O'Leary."
John Keeler and Henry Francis happened to be at the railroad station the
next morning, when Carter started for St. Louis; and he showed them the
telegram.
"When thieves fall out," remarked Keeler; and Francis winced. Was it
because he foresaw that the ten thousand dollar reward would be claimed?
or was it for some other reason? Keeler wondered.