A FOILED ROBBER.
In the grand rush to the newly discovered gold-fields all classes were
represented. There were men of education, representatives of all the
learned professions, men versed in business, and along with them
adventurers and men of doubtful antecedents, graduates of prisons and
penitentiaries. Bill Crane, introduced in the last chapter, belonged to
the latter undesirable class. He had served a term at Sing-Sing as a
housebreaker, and later another term in a Western penitentiary. He had
come to California with a prejudice against honest labor, and a
determination to make a living by the use of the peculiar talents on
which he had hitherto relied. He had spent a week at River Bend, chiefly
at the saloon of Missouri Jack, whom he found a congenial spirit, and
had picked up a little money from flats like the young Bostonian; but,
on the whole, he had found it an unprofitable field for the exercise of
his special talents.
"I must make a raise somehow," he bethought himself, "and then I'll make
tracks for some other settlement."
Precisely how to raise the fund of which he stood in need was difficult
to decide. Moneyed men were not plenty at River Bend. Captain Fletcher
and his party had been at work but a short time, and were not likely to
have collected much.
As we know, Bill Crane overheard a part of the closing conversation
between Tom and John Miles. From this he learned that Miles, besides his
own money, would be in charge of seventy-five dollars belonging to our
young hero. It was not much, but it was something.
"If the whole doesn't come to over two hundred dollars, I can make it
do," thought Crane. "It will get me out of this beastly hole, and carry
me to San Francisco."
John Miles slept by himself under a small tent at the northern end of
the small encampment. He looked like a man who ate well and slept well,
and this would be favorable to Bill Crane, who proposed to effect the
robbery in the night. He had half a mind to secure the aid of Missouri
Jack, but then Jack would expect to go shares in the "plunder," and
there was likely to be little enough for one. So Bill decided to make
the attempt alone.
In a small camp like that at River Bend, the movements and plans of each
individual were generally known. So it was generally understood that
John Miles intended to start on Thursday for the city.
The previous evening he spent with Tom and Ferguson, with whom he was
more intimate than any others of the party. He would not have been drawn
to the Scotchman, but for his being Tom's room-mate. Through him he came
to appreciate and respect the Scot's sterling virtues, and to overlook
his dry, phlegmatic manner.
"I hope you'll have good luck, Mr. Miles," said Tom.
"Thank you, my boy."
"I would join with my young friend Tom," said Ferguson, "if I were quite
clear in my mind whether good luck is the right term to use."
"Don't you think some men are luckier than others, Mr. Ferguson?" asked
Tom.
"Some men are more successful, doubtless; but what we call good luck,
generally comes from greater industry, good judgment, and, above all,
the prompt use of opportunities."
"There is something in that," said Miles; "but when two men work side by
side with equal industry, and one finds a nugget worth thousands of
dollars, while the other plods along at a few dollars a day, isn't there
some luck there?"
"It may be so," said the Scotchman, cautiously, "but such cases are
exceptional."
"So one boy is born to an inheritance of wealth and another to an
inheritance of hard work. Isn't there any luck there?"
"The luck may be on the side of the poor boy," was the reply. "He is
further removed from temptation."
John Miles laughed.
"Well, at any rate, it seems you believe in luck after all. I am sure
you both wish me to be prosperous, whether you call it luck or by some
other name. Tom, if I meet with any good opening that I think will suit
you, I shall write you. You don't want to stay here, particularly?"
"No; the place is not so pleasant since these new people have come here.
Missouri Jack isn't a neighbor that I like."
"He is exerting a bad influence," said Ferguson. "I am afraid Peabody
visits him too often for his own good."
"He ought to have stayed in Boston," said Miles. "He is not the man for
such a life as ours. He is too delicate to work, or thinks he is, and I
see no other reliable road to success."
"I saw Peabody reeling out of the saloon this afternoon," said Tom. "I
asked him if he considered it was 'high-toned' to drink in a saloon, as
that is the word he is always using, but he said it didn't make much
difference out here, where he wasn't known."
"Peabody isn't overstocked with brains, though he does come from
Boston," said Miles.
Ten o'clock came, and Miles rose to go.
"I must have a good night's rest," he said, "for to-morrow night must
see me many miles on my road. Tom, I will attend to that commission of
yours just as soon as I have the opportunity."
"Thank you, Mr. Miles."
John Miles walked slowly toward his tent. Arrived there, he threw
himself down on his rude couch, and in less than fifteen minutes, he was
sound asleep. He had done his usual day's work, and made some
preparations for his journey besides, and these made slumber sweet and
refreshing.
Before settling himself for the night, however, Miles carefully
deposited a bag of gold-dust under his head, wrapped up in an extra pair
of pantaloons. Had he known that Bill Crane had formed a plan to rob him
that very night, he would have taken extra precautions, but he was not
inclined to be suspicious, or to anticipate danger.
Perhaps an hour later, Tom, who found himself unusually restless, got up
from his hard couch, leaving Ferguson fast asleep, and went out into
the air, thinking that a walk would do him good and dispose him to
sleep. The night was dark, but not wholly so. There was no moon, but a
few stars were shining; and as his eyes became accustomed to the faint
light, he could easily distinguish objects at the distance of a few
rods.
Tom's thoughts reverted to his humble home, more than three thousand
miles away. Probably the fact that he had committed to John Miles a sum
of money to send to his father, had turned his thoughts in that
direction.
"Father will be glad to get the seventy-five dollars," thought Tom, "and
I am sure he will need it. I wish it could get there more quickly, but
it is a long way off."
Tom was not homesick, and was far from wishing himself back, with his
object in coming yet unaccomplished, but it did occur to him, that he
would like to see his father and mother, and brothers and sisters, if
only for a few minutes.
When he came out he had no particular direction in mind in which he
wished to walk, but chance directed his steps toward the tent of his
friend, John Miles.
When he came near it, his attention was arrested by the sight of a
crouching figure which appeared to be entering the tent. His first
thought was, that Miles, like himself, had got up from his couch and was
just returning. He was on the point of calling out "John," when a sudden
doubt and suspicion silenced him.--"Might not it be a robber?"
Tom was determined to find out. He crept nearer, so that he could have a
clearer view of the figure.
"It's Bill Crane!" he said to himself, with sudden recognition. "What's
he up to?"
Tom could guess. He didn't know the man's antecedents, but he had read
his character aright. He was instantly on the alert. Crane evidently was
on a thief's errand, and was likely to steal not only Miles's money but
Tom's. Our hero was alive to the emergency, and resolved to foil him. He
had his revolver with him; for in the unsettled state of society, with
no one to enforce the laws, and indeed no laws to enforce, it was the
custom for all men to go armed.
Tom was not long left in doubt as to Crane's intentions. He saw him
cautiously pulling at something in the tent, and felt sure that it was
the bag of treasure. He decided that the time had come to act.
"Put that back," he exclaimed in boyish, but clear, commanding tone.
Bill Crane turned suddenly, panic-stricken.
He saw Tom standing a few feet from him, with a revolver in his hand.
All was not lost. He might, he thought, intimidate the boy.
"Mind your business, you young cub," he growled.
"What are you about?" demanded Tom.
"I am going to sleep with Miles. He invited me. Does that satisfy you?"
"No, it doesn't, for I know that it's a lie. You are here to rob him."
"You'd better not insult me, boy, or I'll have your life."
"Get up this instant and leave the tent, or I'll fire," said Tom,
resolutely.
"A young cub like you can't frighten me. That shooting-iron of yours
isn't loaded," said Bill Crane, rather uneasily.
"It'll be rather a bad thing for you to take the risk," said Tom, with a
coolness that surprised himself, for the situation was a strange one for
a boy brought up in a quiet New England farming town.
"What do you want of me?" growled the desperado, uncomfortably, for he
was satisfied that the weapon was loaded, and Tom looked as if he would
shoot.
"I want you to leave that tent at once," said Tom.
"Suppose I don't."
"Then I shall fire at you."
"And be hung for attempted murder."
"I think I could explain it," said our hero. "You know very well what
will happen to you if you are caught."
Bill Crane did know. Hanging was the penalty for theft in the early
days of California, and he had no desire to swing from the branch of a
tree.
"You're a young fool!" he said roughly, as he rose from his stooping
posture. "I wanted to ask Miles to do a little commission for me in
Frisco. I had no thought of robbing him."
"You can see him in the morning about it," said Tom, resolutely.
"I'll be even with you for this," said the foiled thief, as he sullenly
obeyed the boy, half-ashamed to do so.
Tom went back to his tent, aroused Ferguson, and the two took turns in
guarding the tent of Miles during the night. Tom did not wish to awaken
him, for he needed rest on the eve of a long and fatiguing journey.