Forty-one Thieves | Page 4

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 ca?on of the Middle Yuba."
"I remember you think that ca?on 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 ca?on 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 ca?on! 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 ca?on, 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 old boy, George Williams. The robber ordered these to stand upon the log, whereupon little George, in great trepidation, exclaimed,
"Good Mr. Robber, don't shoot, and I will do anything you tell me!"
About this time one barrel of the robber's gun was accidentally discharged into the log, and he remarked:
"That was damned careless," and immediately reloaded with buckshot.
At length the stage came along; and promptly holding it up, he tossed the driver a sack, directing him to put his gold dust