'Thou shalt not kill!' Bring him in, like just and honest men, for a hearing. He may be a horse thief and a murderer but you shall take the rope from his neck and he shall speak in his own defense before he goes to his Maker."
So a hearing was given (although grudgingly, and with audible grumbling) by the friends of Muldoon across the table which had so lately been his bier, but in the end they took the Mexican out for the short-cut to retribution.
Two hours later, around the same table was solemnized the funeral service of Jim Muldoon. The minister would not return for six weeks. It must be held at once. Gentleman Jack gave a suit of finest black broadcloth for a shroud. and the little bride, keeping one flower from her wedding bouquet, placed the rest in the dead man's hands. She kissed him softly on his forehead, whispering through her tears. "For the ones at home who loved you," and stood watching as six men carried him away to the tiny cemetery under the trees. on a hill.
Vesper services were over and the weary minister and his congregation had gone before Duncan found courage to open and read his letter. His elder brother, heir to the title and great houses and landed estates of his family, had been killed in the hunting field and he, being next in line, was to come home to succeed to the position.
He, William - Duncan - Claibourne - Earl of - but no, his family name had never been told in California.
Portions of the services he had heard that day drifted through his mind: "Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child, he shall not enter therein. * * * We do sign him with the sign of the cross in token hereafter that he shall manfully fight against the sin, the world, and the devil; and to continue Christ's faithful soldier unto his life's end." So, the child starting on his earthly journey with the minister's blessing and the backing of twenty god-fathers!
The holy old church service which he had heard at home in stately English cathedrals - the nuggets in the contribution plate - the radiant bride who had come across the plains to hear "Dearly Beloved, We are gathered together," standing beside the man she loved. The service for the dying: "When we shall have served thee in our generation we may be gathered unto our Fathers, having the testimony of a good conscience, the confidence of a certain faith, in favor with Thee our God, and in perfect charity with the world." So, Jim Muldoon, cut down before his time, and his slayer out there in the darkness on the end of a rope.
The dying candle picked out in flame a withered cabbage rose under the table; a baby's mitten, the letter written for the man who had died, the Mexican's sombrero on a chair, the gilt sun and moon and stars on the glass face of the grandfather clock by the window.
Duncan's head fell forward in his clasped arms on the table, and in his dreams he heard the huntsman's silver horn from across the seas calling him home to carry on the destiny of the ancient and honorable name which was his. His "strike of pay ore" in his "land of gold."
The candle wick in a shallow pool of tallow flared high, and went out.
The old clock chimed twelve.
The Tom Bell Stronghold
II
"You smile, O poet, and what do you? You lean from your window and watch life's column Trampling and struggling through dust and dew, Filled with its purposes grave and solemn; An act, a gesture, a face - who knows? And you pluck from your bosom the verse that grows, And down it flies like my red, red rose, And you sit and dream as away it goes, And think that your duty is done - now, don't you?"
- Bret Harte.
In the early days it was called the Mountaineer House. Now it is colloquially known as the "stone house," and has for sixty years been the home of the Owen King family. It is surrounded today by one of the most beautiful orchards in the foothills. Wide verandahs of the native gray granite to match the old house itself have been added. It is electrically lighted and furnace heated, modern in every way, yet still the romance of former times seems to cling to its sturdy old walls.
All that remain unchanged are three huge trees flanking the highway in front. What tales they could tell, if they would, of what passed by the junction of two roads beneath them. Of the long and weary caravans from across the plains crawling up from the bridge at Whiskey Bar, below
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