Forty-one Thieves | Page 4

long since gone dry, was merely an artificial
reservoir to supply a neighboring mine, and the city was a collection of
half a dozen buildings including a store and a hotel. Through the open
door of the store a huge safe was visible, for here was one of those
depositories for gold dust locally known as a bank. As the stage pulled
up, the banker and a lady stepped out to greet Will Cummins, who
alighted and cordially shook hands. Miss Slocum, apparently, was
somewhat piqued because she was not introduced.
"I was hoping you would accompany us to Nevada City," Cummins

said, addressing the lady, who regarded him with affection, as Mamie
thought.
"You must remember, Will," said the banker, "that Mary hasn't been up
to Moore's Flat yet to see her old flames."
"Too late!" said Cummins. "The Keystone Club gave a dinner last night,
to wish me a pleasant journey. Eighteen of the twenty-one were present.
But by this time they have scattered to the four winds."
"Never fear," cried the lady; "I shall find some of our boys at Moore's
Flat. You are the only one travelling in this direction; and the four
winds combined could not blow them over the cañon of the Middle
Yuba."
"I remember you think that cañon deep and terrible, Mary," Will
replied; "but it is not wide, you know. Remember our walk to Chipp's
Flat, the last time you were here? Nothing left there but the old cannon.
As the boys say, everything else has been fired."
"All aboard!" shouted Mat, who felt that he was wasting time in Lake
City. And so Mary Francis, sister of Henry Francis, bade adieu to Will
Cummins, little knowing that they would never meet again, either in
California or "back home" in Pennsylvania. The stage rolled on, past a
grove of live oaks hung with mistletoe. Cummins had passed this way
many times before. He had even gathered mistletoe here to send to
friends in the East. But to-day for the first time it made his heart yearn
for the love he had missed. Mary Francis was thirty-five now.
Twenty-five years ago he was twenty and she was a little bashful girl.
Her father's house had been the rendezvous of Californians on their
occasional visits in the East. His mind traveled back over old scenes;
but soon the cañon of the South Yuba burst upon his vision, thrilling
him with its grandeur and challenging his fighting instincts. For after
winding down three miles to the river, the road climbed three miles up
the opposite side--three toiling miles through the ambushes of
highwaymen. There was the scene of many a hold-up. And to-day, at
his age, he simply must not be robbed. It would break his heart. In
sheer desperation he drew his six-shooter, examined it carefully,

glanced at his fellow-passengers and sat silent, alert and grim.
Except for the Chinaman, the passengers were feeble folk. At sight of
the revolver the men began to fidget; and, except for Mamie Slocum,
the romantic, the women turned pale.
Down the coach plunged into the deep cañon! Little likelihood of a
hold-up when travelling at such a pace. Down, down, safely down to
the river, running clear and cold among the rocks. And then the slow
ascent. Mat Bailey, perched on his high seat as lordly as Ph[oe]bus
Apollo, felt cold shivers run down his spine. From every bush, stump
and rock he expected a masked man to step forth. Could he depend
upon Cummins and the Chinaman? How slowly the horses labored up
that fatal hill, haunted by the ghosts of murdered travelers! Why should
he, Mat Bailey, get mixed up in other men's affairs? What was there in
it for him? Of course, he would try to play a man's part; but he
sincerely wished he were at the top of the hill.
At last they were safely out of the cañon, and the horses were allowed
to rest a few minutes. Cummins replaced his pistol and buttoned up his
duster; and the passengers fell to talking. The store-keeper from North
Bloomfield began to tell a humorous story of a lone highwayman who,
with a double-barrelled shot gun waylaid the Wells Fargo Express near
Downieville. As he waited, with gun pointed down the road, he heard a
wagon approach behind him. Coolly facing about, he levelled his gun
at the approaching travellers, three workmen, and remarked,
"Gentlemen, you have surprised me. Please deliver your guns, and
stand upon that log," indicating a prostrate pine four feet in diameter.
Needless to say, the men mounted the log and held up their hands.
Then a load of hay approached, and the driver mounted the log with the
others. Then came another wagon, with two men and a ten-year