The End of J. C. P. Collins
At Nevada City, with its pleasant homes scattered on the hills either
side of the deep gorge of Deer Creek, the traveler lingers awhile to
drink in the romance of the gold fields. Roses and poppies that bloom
profusely in the front yards are "emblems of deeds that are done in
their clime." The very soil, like the flowers that spring therefrom,
suggests gold and the red blood so freely shed for it. Here and there
are eloquent, though silent, reminders of the exciting days of placer
mining and highway robbery, when Wells Fargo and Company brought
treasure out of the mountains guarded by armed men.
At the court-house Nevada County is advertised as the banner gold county
of California, with a total output of $300,000,000; a yellow block on
exhibition represents the bullion taken from the Malakoff Mine in one
month, and valued at $114,289. In a showcase at the Citizens' Bank are
exhibited four of the buckshot which killed T. H. Girard on October 31,
1887. Also, a bit of hemp rope with a tag, on which is written:
"The end of J. C. P. Collins
Feb. 1, 1884
Compliments of Sheriff Carter."
In vain one may search for a similar reminder of the highwayman Darcy,
the actual murderer of Will Cummins. But at the scene of the murder, the
stage-driver of the present generation tells his passengers that Darcy
was paroled several years ago, after spending thirty years in prison. He
may add that Darcy, the ex-convict, is an inert and lifeless creature,
married to a paroled woman as lifeless as himself.
Darcy's friends in Union City would not have it appear that their model
citizen was a murderer. They protested stoutly, and in the end the
tax-payers for thirty years were burdened with the care and keep of the
criminal.
As it has already been remarked, murders in Nevada County were common
enough; but a murder trial was almost unheard of.
The State tried Collins first. He had no friends, except of the baser
sort; and his conviction might make it easier to convict Darcy. Mat
Bailey and Mamie Slocum were important witnesses for the State; and
Collins himself, poor debauchee though he was, was man enough to clear
Mamie of all suspicion. She freely told of her conversation with him
when he had recommended the gallantry of gentlemen of the road. And she
admitted that she had always been haunted by the suspicion that the
highwayman with whom Cummins had grappled might have been Collins, who
had so strangely disappeared after the robbery. No; she could not
identify him as the man who asked about Cummins' valise. She was not
sure about his voice. She was too much frightened to be sure of
anything.
As Collins seemed less interested in saving his own worthless life than
in establishing the innocence of Mamie Slocum, he was promptly
convicted. The judge sentenced him to be hanged on Friday, Feb. 1, 1884.
Sheriff Carter could not see why, if Collins was guilty, Darcy was not.
But good souls from Union City showed how exemplary had been the life of
their brother since he came among them, and the lawyer whom these good
people employed pointed out the shame and disgrace that would be
suffered by a worthy family if one bearing the name of Darcy should die
upon the scaffold. It is strange that in such cases the lawyers on the
other side do not show that the shame and disgrace come with the
commission of the crime, and that honest punishment endured for the same
is the one means left the criminal to atone for the injury he has done
the good name of his family.
There was no doubt as to Darcy's guilt; and he was man enough to have
paid the extreme penalty willingly. For thirty years he lived the
monotonous round of prison life, becoming more and more like a dumb
animal, and paroled at last in his old age little better than an
automaton--the qualities of daring, thrift, and religious enthusiasm
long since dead and gone.
Throughout the trial of both men, Henry Francis was an interested
spectator. The court-room seemed to have a fascination for him, although
he was now a rich man with important demands upon his time. It was
whispered about that the Pennsylvanians had spent a hundred thousand
dollars hunting the criminals down; and some people were fanciful enough
to see in Henry Francis the highwaymen's Nemesis. He made a very
dignified Nemesis indeed. He looked grave and thoughtful, and his newly
acquired wealth lent dignity to his refined countenance.
But it occurred to John Keeler that somehow it appeared as if Francis
imagined himself sitting at his own trial. He seemed to show an almost
eager interest in the subterfuges and the raising of legal dust by means
of which counsel for the defense endeavored to blind the eyes of the
jurors. Keeler hardly dared to let his fancy run on to logical
conclusions. It seemed too much like condemning a man without giving him
a trial. Yet he could not help being haunted by the thought that some
thieves are too shrewd to assume the risks of highway robbery. In his
own mind this thought constituted the one valid argument against capital
punishment. For if common scoundrels are to be executed what severer
punishment is left for the more crafty villain? But he could see that a
sensitive nature like that of Francis was capable of infinite suffering;
and he thought of the words of Scripture, "Verily they have their
reward."