Down the Mother Lode | Page 7

a few minutes before had served as an altar he shook
his head.
"He will be gone in half an hour," he said. The men standing about
began taking off their hats.
"I wish to write home," whispered Muldoon. The young mother handed
her baby to its father and seizing pencil and paper, ran forward. The
minister opened his prayer book at the service for the dying.
When that service had been read, and what had been Muldoon carried
away to be made ready for the last sleep, only the minister and the tall
Englishman were left in the bar-room.
"In the midst of life we are in death," muttered Duncan.
"True," rebuked the other "so live well the life which the Lord, thy God,
hath provided thee." Will Duncan laughed aloud.
"It is too late, Man-o'-God! There is no place in the world for a younger
son." The minister had not heard. He sprang toward the open window,
calling:
"Wait! It is written - '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