^V 
 
 A 
 
 .V 
 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 i= ■'-o,„./ /,a^'-, ^..^* 
 

 
 
 
 4 O 
 
 
 % -^^0^ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 <vt«0' 
 
 c^' v; 
 
 
 *0 
 
 .^^ . 
 
 ^. 
 
 n^ , o " o 
 
 .•^^ . 
 
 <^^ 
 
3 ^ 
 
 BLOOD-MOI^^ET. 
 
 BY 
 
 J 
 
 IVILLI^M C. ]S10RR0W 
 
 "dec 14 1882 
 
 San Francisco : 
 F. J. WALKER & CO. 
 

 Copyright, 1882, 
 Br F. J. Walker & Co. 
 
 BACON A COMPANY, PKINTEBS. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Mysterious Letter 7 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 The Lone Tree Treasure 13 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 The Terror of Despair 22 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 The Search Commenced 29 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 A Midnight Revelation 42 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 A Strange Visitor 57 
 
 CHAPTER VI L 
 Nellie's New Friends 70 
 
iv CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 Blackmail 79 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 Covill's Announcement 89 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 New Developments 96 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 A Tradegy on the Plains 105 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 The "Sand-Lappers." 115 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 A Duel with Death 131 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 A Rupture 145 
 
 CHAPTER XV. • 
 An Apparition . . . 154 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 Returned to Life 160 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 The Warning 166 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 The Eleventh of May 179 
 
CONTENTS. V 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 The Baptism of Blood i88 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 A Discovery 196 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 A Very Long Journey 205 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 The End of the Search 214 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A Treasure Lost and a Treasure Found . . . 229 
 
BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A MYSTERIOUS LETTER. 
 
 ■ OUR or five years ago there lived in the heart of 
 the San Joaquin Valley, California, a j'oung man 
 about twenty-five years of age. His only com- 
 panion was his grandmother— an aged and feeble 
 woman, in whose palsied hands and trembling voice there 
 were traces of other wearing agencies than the accumulation 
 of years and natural infirmities. Grief, which is more wast- 
 ing than time, had set its mark upon her face. Nevertheless, 
 in the last years of her life a great comfort had come to her, 
 in the shape of her grandson, whom she loved and clung to 
 and idolized with all a mother's love. Her feeble life was 
 bound up in him. She took a great interest in everything 
 that concerned him; and although the time had long ago 
 passed when his strong young nature asserted undisputed 
 supremacy over hers, and although she no longer directed 
 and controlled the affairs that were common to them, yet she 
 assisted and encouraged him all in her power, and rendered 
 him material aid. 
 
8 BLOOD-MONE Y. 
 
 Consequently she was as deeply concerned as he, when 
 he returned one day from the village with a letter directed to 
 him. He had never received a letter before, and the sensa- 
 tion was novel. So little did he know of the great world 
 that lay beyond the horizon of the level plains, and so 
 bewildered was he at holding in his hand a letter addressed 
 to his own name, that he hurried with it unopened to his 
 grandmother. The old lady, curious as he, and wondering 
 at the arrival of a letter, opened it, and they read it together. 
 It was written in red ink. The writing was in a scrawling, 
 irregular hand. There was no signature of any kind, no date, 
 and no introduction. The orthography was as bad as the 
 handwriting. Shorn of these defects, the letter read as fol- 
 lows: 
 
 "There is a tree in Tulare County called Lone Tree. Everybody 
 knows where it is. It is a large, old oak, and stands six or seven miles 
 north of Tulare Lake. You will have no trouble in finding it, as all the 
 people in that part of the country know where it is. Hence it is un- 
 necessary for me to describe it. Eighteen years ago a cross was cut 
 into the side of the tree facing the east, and exactly five feet from the 
 ground. When you have found the tree, measure five feet from the 
 base eastward by the compass, then four feet northward. Then dig. 
 You will find an iron pot, and inside the pot twenty-two thousand dol- 
 lars in gold coin. Take the money, and use it as you please, for it is 
 yours. Above all things, as you value your life, say nothing to anybody 
 about it. If you obey this injunction, you will never be disturbed." 
 
 The astonishment of the two who read this letter, de- 
 ciphering it with much trouble, cannot be described. They 
 stared at each other in amazement, unable for some time to 
 say anything. Twenty-two thousand dollars ! What did it 
 mean? 
 
A MYSTERIOUS LETTER. ^ 
 
 "Grandmother," said the young man at last, tearing the 
 dream painfully from his heart, "this is certainly a foohsh 
 joke." 
 
 She did not seem to hear him, nor even to see him; for 
 although she looked at him, it could be plainly seen that 
 her mind was far away with the dim memories of the past. 
 An old look of pain, which the young man had often seen, 
 came into her face, and settled itself there firmly. 
 
 "John," she finally said, "I don't beheve it's a joke. It 
 says twenty-two thousand dollars, doesn't it?" 
 
 "Yes, grandmother." 
 
 "That money is yours, John. You ought to have had it 
 long ago." 
 
 The young man gazed at her, dumb with astonishment. 
 
 "It has been yours by right, John, for eighteen years — 
 ever since that day, eighteen years ago, when they brought 
 my son to me — your father, John — dead — murdered for his 
 money." 
 
 "I remember it," the young man softly replied, while his 
 mind was busy with the problem that the old woman had 
 already solved. 
 
 "Your father was a rich man then, John, and that was 
 the cause of his death. Eighteen years ago he bought a 
 great stock-range, covering nearly all the eastern part of this 
 county, and intended to raise cattle on a large scale. He 
 had thousands of cattle; and besides, he had ten thousand 
 dollars to his credit in San Francisco. He sold all his 
 stock and his old range, and was on his way home from San 
 Francisco with the money when he was murdered. The 
 
lo BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 money was a good load, but he had a strong horse. He 
 wasn't afraid of anything living, John. You are just the 
 image of him, and when you are older you will be as brave 
 as he was. I don't say that you ain't brave now; but your 
 father wasn't timid and bashful, although he was when he 
 was a young man." 
 
 In the excitement natural to her under the circumstances, 
 she lost the sequence of her thoughts, and then checked 
 her rambling remarks. After a moment of silence the idea 
 she had in her mind recurred to her, and looking straight at 
 her grandson, she asked : 
 
 " Do you know how much money he had with him when 
 he was murdered, John ? " 
 
 " I don't remember, grandmother." 
 
 "Well, that letter tells you." 
 
 "Twenty-two thousand dollars?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "AVell, grandmother," said John, half divining the old 
 woman's meaning, but afraid of committing an error, " what 
 has the twenty-two thousand dollars buried under Lone Tree 
 to do with my father's money?" 
 
 " It's the same money, John." 
 
 The young man held his breath, as he realized the strong 
 probability that the money under Lone Tree was conscience- 
 money; and that the murderer, after eighteen years, had 
 thus voluntarily surrendered to the rightful owner the money 
 that came by blood. , He gasped for breath at the prospect 
 of a wonderful fortune so suddenly brought within his grasp 
 — a fortune greater than that ever pictured in his day-dreams, 
 
A MYSTERIOUS LETTER. U 
 
 dazzling in its splendor, overpowering in its magnificence, 
 and lifting him far above the surroundings of his humble lot. 
 It is not surprising that his heart throbbed wildly, and that 
 visions of enchantment appeared to his excited imagination. 
 Nor is it a matter of surprise that the sudden and danger- 
 ous ecstasy into which he was thrown by the prospect of 
 these splendid riches gave Uttle opportunity for a quicken- 
 ing of sorrow, as the terrible tragedy that rendered him an 
 orphan was thus almost re-enacted before his eyes. The 
 old woman sat and brooded in silence over what was still 
 fresh in her failing memory ; but a glance at the flushed face 
 and sparkling eyes of her grandson brought her back to the 
 present, and she was joyous for his sake. 
 
 "It will make you a great, rich man, John; and I know 
 you will always be a good man." 
 
 In order to have a clear conception of the extraordinary 
 vicissitudes through which John Graham passed after the 
 receipt of the mysterious letter, it will be necessary to have 
 some knowledge of his character and personal appearance. 
 He was of the average size of men, and had a fair com- 
 plexion and blue eyes. Hard work in the pure open air of 
 the plains had toughened his muscles, and there was no 
 young man of his acquaintance who was his rival in feats of 
 strength. By nature he was ambitious; but so unselfish 
 and patient was he that no one knew of his dreams. He 
 never complained, and his energy never abated. Although 
 bashful and apparently timid, he was by nature utterly 
 dauntless. A woman could frighten him, but a man could 
 not. Underlying all other traits, and as yet unknown even 
 
12 BLO OD-MONE Y. 
 
 . to him, was a stern stubbornness, that was capable of des- 
 perate urgings in an extremity, and that would strangle and 
 murder if driven to the wall. This hidden ferocity of 
 nature was at present subservient to a natural goodness 
 that trying circumstances had not yet chilled; and in any 
 event, he possessed that natural caution which necessarily 
 comes with wholesome courage. 
 
 He had a fair education: his grandmother, who herself 
 had had tender rearing, taking great pride in his quick sus- 
 ceptibility of knowledge under her careful but not thorough- 
 ly efficient training. 
 
 He was not a man given up to a ready acceptance of 
 every plausible thing that presented itself; but the magni- 
 tude of the import of the anonymous letter overcame his 
 cooler judgment, and suffused his imagination with the 
 wildest dreams. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE LONE TREE TREASURE. 
 
 i^^ITHOUT delay John Graham set out to dis- 
 cover the treasure buried at the foot of Lone 
 Tree. It may be here remarked, that there 
 seems to be in CaUfornia a fashion of naming 
 every isolated tree " Lone Tree." The writer of the anony- 
 mous letter was perhaps not fully aware of that fact. He 
 should have reflected, especially, that the broad stretch of oak 
 timber that surrounds the quaint old town of Visalia is a 
 great rarity on the plains, this being the only oak belt in the 
 San Joaquin Valley; and that the scattering outposts of this 
 army of oaks surrounding Visalia, and repelling the furious 
 assaults of sand-storms sweeping down from Merced, are 
 objects of considerable attention. Besides, other trees stand 
 at intervals about the borders of the lake. The willows that 
 abound in. Mussel Slough — a section of magnificent country 
 lying north of the lake, and which takes its name from a 
 slough that makes out from the lake— the willows that there 
 abound attract far less attention than do the occasional soli- 
 tary oaks that still remain as relics of a forest that passed 
 away centuries ago. Now, the writer of the mysterious let- 
 
14 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 ter would have known, had he been better acquainted with 
 the country thereabout, that there are now several stately 
 old forest kings there, each bearing the name of Lone Tree. 
 As the inhabitants of a country settle the decrees of fate, so 
 far as geographical nomenclature is concerned, it would 
 hardly be fair to find fault with the condition of things as 
 they now exist; and it has come to be so that, in the minds 
 of local geographers, there is much doubt as to which Lone 
 Tree is the only original Lone Tree of early local history. 
 As the new order of things has come about under the natural 
 operation of the laws of progress and civilization, it would 
 be hardly just to attach blame to anybody, or to assume that 
 the unknown . writer of the letter might have kept himself 
 informed in contemporaneous history, so that the identity of 
 the only original Lone Tree should not be swallowed up by 
 the tendencies of advancement toward multiplication. Cer- 
 tain it is, that the existence of more than one Lone Tree 
 proved a serious stumbling-block to John Graham. That 
 the writer of the letter did not know that Lone Tree had 
 been multiplied indefinitely was evidence of the fact that he 
 had not visited that section of country for many years. 
 
 Indeed, as Graham was comparatively a stranger in that 
 particular section of country, he had to learn, by hard expe- 
 rience, that Lone Tree, for all he knew, might exist at inter- 
 vals indefinitely all over the world. 
 
 He arrived in the Mussel Slough country the day follow- 
 ing the receipt of the letter, and inquired for Lone Tree. 
 He had ridden his horse, and had brought with him some 
 food, a pick, a shovel, and his grandmother's blessing. He 
 
THE LONE TREE TREASURE. 15 
 
 did not search far before he found a man who told him 
 where Lone Tree was. 
 
 After a short hunt the young man found it. His heart 
 beat high as he secured his horse to a neighboring willow 
 and approached Lone Tree. Would he find the treasure? 
 or would his bright dreams be routed and scattered to the 
 winds? To his excited vision the lonely tree had an awful 
 look. The branches waived ominously, as though shaken 
 by a horde of ghosts suddenly put to flight ; and the 
 gnarled and twisted and deformed branches appeared to be, 
 one a man helplessly struggling for his life, the other a mur- 
 derer wielding a cruel bludgeon, and dashing out the brains 
 of the victim. The silence of the midday, w;hen not even a 
 bird twittered in the willows, was appalling. 
 
 But the young man was sturdy and stout of heart, and he 
 thrust these unwholesome visions aside, and pushed on to 
 the task — a simple one — that lay before him. 
 
 He searched that side of the trunk turned to the east for 
 a cross, but found none. He was not discouraged by this, 
 for the reason that the cross might have been obliterated by 
 time. Certainly, however, he could not find any trace of a 
 cross. 
 
 Nothing daunted, he carefully measured off the ground, 
 under the explicit directions of the letter, and com- 
 menced to dig, having first assured himself that no one was 
 watching him. While hardly permitting himself to believe 
 it, he could not, if he would, have abandoned the hope that 
 twenty-two thousand dollars in bright gold lay just under 
 his feet, and almost within his grasp. 
 
1 6 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 He rapidly penetrated the yielding, sandy soil found 
 almost exclusively in that section. His shovel piled the dirt 
 on either side. He was digging a hole about four feet 
 square, to allow for inaccuracies of measurement. Time 
 flew swiftly, and the hole deepened visibly under the steady, 
 almost furious, work of his strong arms. 
 
 Presently a gloomy idea, that had been silently taking 
 possession of his mind without his knowledge, gained sud- 
 den mastery over him, and paralyzed his arm. The surface 
 of the ground was level with his shoulders, and yet he had 
 discovered no trace of a pot. A realization of the futility of 
 further digging burst upon him with irresistible force. The 
 bitterness of that blow entered his heart like iron, and hurt 
 like a knife in the flesh. His first impulse was despair, and 
 the next furious anger. 
 
 "It was all a lie!" he muttered, with terrible anger. "It 
 was a cruel lie, to make a fool of me. If I knew who the 
 scoundrel is, I'd — " 
 
 There is no doubt about it. He would then and there 
 have carried out any threat, expressed or thought, stopping 
 at nothing short of murder. 
 
 "If I had only myself to think of," he muttered, some- 
 what in a philosophical vein, "I wouldn't care so much; 
 but I was thinking of Nellie, and of how fond she is of fine 
 things, and of how handsome she would look, and of how 
 we could travel after we marry, and all that. I say it's a 
 downright shame — a damnable shame ! " 
 
 That was the first expression of such a nature that had 
 ever passed his lips. 
 
THE LONE TREE TREASURE. I7 
 
 After the first licat of anger had cooled, he discovered 
 that he was very tired. The afternoon was wearing away, 
 and in two hours the sun would set. The young man 
 calmed himself sufficiently to reflect on the plausibility of 
 the theory advanced by his grandmother, and on the possi- 
 bility of error in the directions given by the letter, or on his 
 own part, in various ways. He was too much exhausted to 
 work more that day; and mounting his horse, he rode away 
 to find shelter for the night, his own home being many 
 miles distant. As he moved away he again looked for the 
 mysterious rustling of the leaves, and the hideously gro- 
 tesque shapes that the branches of Lone Tree took at first ; 
 but, strange to say, he saw only a very ugly, ill-shaped tree- 
 verily a lone tree in point of an ugliness .so intense as to be 
 almost picturesque. 
 
 That night at the house of his host he brought up the 
 subject of Lone Tree, and learned, to his astonishment, 
 that there were several trees of that name in that part of 
 the country. It discouraged him in the sense that possibly 
 he might have to dig for the treasure under every Lone Tree 
 in the country ; but it encouraged him to think that his 
 failure to succeed with the first was not evidence that he 
 w^ould experience similar ill fortune with all the others. 
 
 The task that now confronted him w^as to ascertain, if 
 possible, the tree that was called Lone Tree eighteen years 
 ago ; there evidently having been but one such tree at that 
 time, as otherwise the letter w^ould have mentioned it, and 
 left no room for doubt. 
 
 It is a safe assertion that John Graham slept little that 
 
 2 
 
1 8 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 night; and that when he did sleep, unpleasant dreams, 
 wherein blood and gold were mingled — as nearly always 
 they are — came to disturb his rest. It is unnecessary to 
 follow him in his energetic but guarded efforts to find the 
 Lone Tree under which the treasure was possibly buried. 
 After a search of three days he did find the tree, and on 
 that side of it facing the rising sun v/as a dimly outlined 
 Swiss cross, all awry with age, and distinguishable only by 
 one who was earnestly looking for it. 
 
 The young man's heart bounded with a furious delight 
 as he traced the cross in the bark. So eager and excited 
 was he, that he failed to notice a man standing a few rods 
 away and eyeing him curiously. 
 
 Graham, with an accuracy that may be called, with some 
 men, an intuition, measured the ground with his eye. 
 Weeds and grass grew tall and rank in the immediate vicinity 
 of Lone Tree, and the surrounding ground was under culti- 
 vation. The man who was watching Graham with so much 
 interest was the owner of the field in which Lone Tree stood. 
 It cannot be said that this man had a pleasant face; but that 
 might be because he was ugly almost to a sinful extent. He 
 had a pointed chin, a small mouth, a thin hooked nose, pale 
 blue eyes, that were very piercing, a low forehead, and his 
 face was covered with a thin set of sandy whiskers. This 
 man did not inspire confidence with certain other men. He 
 also, as well as Graham, is a person of some use to this sim- 
 ple story. 
 
 When Graham had located, with perfect accuracy, the spot 
 indicated in the letter, he saw a thing that made his heart 
 
THE LONE TREE TREASURE. It, 
 
 Stand still. It was evident that within the last few months 
 the dirt there had been disturbed. This revelation, bring- 
 ing with it the idea that possibly the treasure had already 
 been taken away, caused Graham to stagger backward. As 
 he did so, his foot caught in the rim of an iron pot; and 
 Graham, tripped by the pot and stunned by the revelation, 
 fell heavily to the ground. 
 
 He immediately roused himself and glared about him. 
 None who have never felt it can realize the weight of the 
 shock that comes when the fondest hope in life is suddenly 
 and violently strangled. 
 
 While Graham was thus sitting, a thin, wiry, nasal voice, 
 entering the ear like a corkscrew, and burrowing in the brain 
 like an earwig, called: 
 
 "Hey!" 
 
 This hail was insulting in fact and impudent in essence. 
 Graham possessed natural dignity of character, and intuitively 
 resented any unwarranted familiarity. He rose to his feet, and 
 glared around to discover the source of the voice, and found 
 it. He regarded the intruder with silent scorn; but at the 
 same time he felt himself in an undignified position, and his 
 cheeks flushed with shame that he should be discovered. 
 
 "What are yer doin' ther?" asked the intruder, who for 
 some reason of his own did not advance nearer the treasure 
 hunter. Graham maintained a stolid and combative silence. 
 
 "I was a-goin' to say," continued the older man, "that 
 if ye're a-lookin' fer that treasure, some other feller's got 
 ahead o' yer." 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked Graham, considerably in- 
 terested, but none the less on his guard. 
 
20 BLOOD-MONE Y. 
 
 "Wall, yer'U have to git up soon to git ahead of a priest." 
 
 "A priest!" 
 
 "Yes; a priest. He got the treasure. Say, how 'd yer 
 know ther was any treasure ther? I've been here two year, 
 an' I never knowed it." 
 
 Graham vouchsafed no reply. 
 
 " Might I ask wher yer live?" 
 
 Graham said nothing. The older man, desiring for his 
 own gratification to learn more of Graham's connection with 
 the mystery surrounding the affair, said: 
 
 " My little boy Frank seen him dig the treasure up and 
 take it awa)\ I'll call Frank, an' he kin tell yer more about 
 it. Hey! Frankie! Frankie ! Come here !" 
 
 A dirty little urchin came running to the spot, from a 
 slough where he had been amusing himself by trying to train 
 his mother's chickens to swim in the pool. 
 
 "Frankie, tell this man all about the priest; an' how he 
 dug up the treasure an' took it away." 
 
 The boy, not at all abashed by the presence of a stranger, 
 told the following story, in a voice and manner that would 
 have rendered unnecessary any uneasiness on his father'.s 
 part as to the boy's paternal origin: 
 
 "Waal, me 'n Jim — that's my little brother, you know — 
 was a-throvvin' rocks at some birds in them willers there, an' 
 putty soon Jim, he says, 'What's that?' an' I says, 'What's 
 what?' an' he says, "Tain't what; it's a buggy'; an' then I 
 looks, an' I see a buggy, an' it was a-turnin' out'n that road 
 over there, an' was a-coming right after us, an' I says to Jim, 
 'Le's hide,' an' we got down on our bellies under the 
 
THE LONE TREE TREASURE. 21 
 
 willers, an' we could see all the time. Then the buggy it 
 driv up to Lone Tree an' stopped, an' a man got out, all 
 dressed in black, an' no whiskers, an' measured on the 
 groun', an' then commenced — " 
 
 "That was a priest," interrupted his father. 
 
 "Yes, a pries', all buttoned up to the chin, an' he worked 
 and digged like fury, an' then putty soon he fetched up a 
 iron pot, an' knocked off the lid, an' poured a great big pile 
 o' money in a sack, an' then he put it in the buggy an' driv 
 off." 
 
 Frank was entirely out of breath when he had finished 
 this minute and satisfactory recital, and his father plied 
 Graham with judicious questions, but received no satisfac- 
 tion. The young man thanked him for his trouble; and 
 mounting his horse, rode away, weary in body, crushed, 
 broken, and humiliated in spirit, and nursing unconsciously 
 in his heart the germs of a deep, desperate, and bitter deter 
 mination. This, although he had not yet met it face to 
 face, was that he would clear up the mystery of the stolen 
 treasure, and avenge the murder of his father. Perhaps if 
 he could have known in time that this determination was 
 insidiously establishing itself in his heart, he would have 
 thrust it aside, forgotten the dream of wealth, returned to 
 the old shadowy memory of his father's murder, and settled 
 down to the life to which he had been accustomed since his 
 birth. But the poison had been drunk too deeply. It 
 mastered him. He would in turn master all that it led him 
 to. Such was his nature; and one would say that he was 
 not quick-witted enough for the task that confronted him, 
 though he lacked not courage and perseverance. 
 
J^. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE TERROR OF DESPAIR. 
 
 ^^T was with a heavy heart, almost bursting with 
 the weight of its disappointment and humiHation, 
 that John Graham approached the small house 
 that had been his home for a few years past. 
 The entire face of nature and the whole expression of home 
 were changed to him now. A great load had fastened itself 
 upon him, clinging to him like the Old Man of the Sea, and 
 beating him and urging hmi onward to the goal that lay 
 before him. It might not have been so had his nature been 
 different. He possessed a depth of character, a strength of 
 will, a pertinacity of purpose, a stubbornness of adamantine 
 resistance at the appearance of opposition, that he had not 
 yet even dreamed of, and that he did not realize, and that 
 would in good time change the bashful, quiet, country boy 
 into a man, with a will to follow a terrible purpose to its ac- 
 complishment ; though it may lead him through fire, and 
 though it may bring him to a footing up of that final account 
 which strikes the balance of life. He was slow of purpose 
 and tardy of execution; but once in motion, the momentum 
 would carry him through without faltering, without a regret. 
 
THE TERROR OF DESPAIR. 
 
 23 
 
 He cared no longer for the bright sprhig flowers that cov- 
 ered the plains, a gorgeous carpet from the Maker's own 
 hand. He heeded not the squirrels that, frightened at his 
 approach, darted into their holes in the ground. The grand 
 Sierra, looming up before him as he slowly rode along, and 
 which in his fancy he had often imagined to be gigantic 
 mcnarchs, hoary with time, standing guard over the bound- 
 less plains and the people thereof, inspired neither awe nor 
 reverence now. His youthful spirit was quenched, and in 
 a single day he had become a man. The old dreams that 
 long had brightened his youth passed out, and were scat- 
 tered by the winds that bore silent tidings from Yosemite 
 to Tejon; and grim shadows that crawled out from the 
 canons in the mountains, and homeless ghosts that shivered 
 in the breeze that swept over the lake, took up their abiding 
 place in the deserted home of the dreams. • 
 
 The old home, with its bright green poplars, and its little 
 patch of geraniums and verbenas in front, gave rise, as it 
 came upon his view, to no sense of inviting rest. It seemed 
 poor and drear and comfortless. And when he saw the aged 
 grandmother standing in the door, and with her palsied hand 
 shading her eyes from the glaring light that suffused the 
 earth, his heart sank to its lowest depths, and for the first 
 time in his life he wished he were dead. When the failing 
 eyes of the old woman recognized the boy she loved more 
 than her life, she waved her handkerchief, as she had often 
 done before ; but the accustomed greeting in return did not 
 come. She boded evil, and her withered hand dropped 
 listless to her side. 
 
24 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 John looked to neither right nor left, but rode straight to 
 the barn, removed the saddle and bridle with his accustomed 
 care, pitched the hungry animal its modicum of hay, and 
 with a heavy step turned toward the house. The old woman 
 had left the front door and gone to the rear, and there she 
 awaited her grandson. It had been her custom always to 
 follow him to the barn, but on this day a dread kept her 
 back. She had always been a weak and timid woman, but 
 never until this day had she feared her grandson. 
 
 "John!" she said in a timid, quailing voice of welcome, 
 as the young man approached the door wherein she stood. 
 
 "Grandmother!" he replied; but not with the tenderness 
 and light-hearted freedom of old. A harsher and deeper 
 and sterner voice spoke to her now, and frightened her. 
 He mounted the single step that led up to the threshold, 
 and she instinctively stood aside to let him pass. It was 
 then that the great change in her manner impressed itself 
 upon him, and he looked at her a moment in surprise. 
 
 "Grandmother," he said, "aren't you glad to see me? I 
 failed, but don't blame me for that." There was a faint 
 tinge of reproach in his tone, and it cut her to the quick. 
 
 "I don't blame you, my darling boy," and the tears trick- 
 led rapidly down her wrinkled cheeks. She would have 
 given the world to throw her arms around his neck, and kiss 
 his hot face and his burning lips. 
 
 "Then, grandmother, why do you act so strangely? You 
 used to be glad to see me when I came, and now you stand 
 back and look at me as if I were a wild animal." 
 
 The poor old woman did not know his nature, and was 
 
THE TERROR OF DESPAIR. 
 
 25 
 
 ignorant of the change that had taken place within him. 
 She could not know that the grandson she loved had died, 
 and was buried in the shadow of Lone Tree ; and that, mas- 
 querading as her boy, there came to her house that day a 
 man whom well she might fear, and whose manner invited 
 no caresses. She could say nothing, and could only stand 
 and weep before him. 
 
 " Have you, too, grandmother," he said, the light bright- 
 ening in his eyes, the color deepening in his cheeks, and the 
 hardness of his voice increasing — "have you, too, turned your 
 back upon me? Must I bear this blow, in addition to the 
 murder of my father and the theft of his money?" 
 
 All the hidden ferocity of his nature came to the surface, 
 and the poison boiled in his blood and made a madman of 
 him. 
 
 "If so," he said, "let it be. And will Nellie, too, learn 
 to hate me? Do you think, grandmother, that I will sub- 
 mit and cringe like a coward to all these things? No, 
 grandmother! I'll take up the fight against this man who 
 murdered my father, stole his money, and destroyed the hap- 
 piness of my home. I'll hunt him to death. Do you hear 
 that, grandmother? I'll hunt him to his hole, and cut out 
 his heart with my own hands; and I'll send his cowardly soul 
 to hell, and pray God to damn him forever, and to curse his 
 children with disease and insanity. Do you hear that, grand- 
 mother?" 
 
 He turned to leave, and through the wild madness that 
 dimmed his sight and caused the room to swim before his 
 eyes, he saw, standing on the threshold, the trembling and 
 
26 BLOOD -MONEY. 
 
 terror-stricken form of a girl. Slie stood like the Angel with 
 the flaming sword. He staggered backward before this 
 apparition, and exclaimed : 
 
 " Nellie, I have been cheated and fooled. The whole 
 world is against me. My own grandmother hates me. You 
 will do as the rest have done. Stand aside, and don't touch 
 me!" 
 
 "John!" 
 
 " Stand aside, I tell you ! I know what you are gomg to 
 say. I tell you it wasn't my fault. Stand aside, Nellie ! 
 Don't look at me that way ! Hell is in me now, and if you 
 look at me so, you may drive me to murder you with the rest 
 of them." 
 
 The undaunted girl, moving not an inch, and recovering 
 the nerve natural to her under trying circumstances, stood in 
 his way like the Angel at the Gate, as he attempted to pass 
 out, and continued to gaze steadfastly upon him. Burning 
 with rage and desperation, knowing not what he did, but 
 blind with the fury of the maddened devils within him, he 
 rushed a short distance toward her; then a strange look sud- 
 denly came in his eyes; he stopped, threw up his hands as 
 does a drowning man, clutched wildly at the air, ground his 
 teeth, toppled, and fell heavily to the floor. 
 
 He lay still as death. The two women looked at each 
 other with terror in their faces. The old grandmother tottered 
 toward him, and fell on the floor at his side, and covered 
 his cold face with kisses, and wept, and moaned piteously: 
 
 "My poor boy! my poor boy! I didn't mean to do it!" 
 
 The younger wonian knelt on the other side, and tenderly 
 
THE TERROR OF DESPAIR. 
 
 '■7 
 
 caressed the inert hands. Then she raised the grandmother 
 and seated lier on a chair; and then brought a pillow and 
 placed it under John's head ; and then chafed his hands, and 
 begged him to speak to her, while the tears streamed down 
 her pallid cheeks and a terrible fear seized her heart. The 
 old woman could only rock and moan. 
 
 In a short time the unconscious man sighed heavily; and 
 then sighed again, and moved uneasily on the floor. As 
 if by a violent effort of almost unconscious will, he mastered 
 his helplessness, opened his eyes, and looked hurriedly 
 around, as though fearful of seeing some unearthly specter. 
 He laboriously assumed a sitting posture, and put his hands 
 to his head. Then he looked at the girl and smiled faintly, 
 and looked at his grandmother with a wondering air, and 
 extended his hand to the girl, who grasped his. 
 
 "Good morning, Nellie," he said, with the greatest 
 kindness and tenderness. 
 
 "Good morning, John." 
 
 "Have I been asleep, Nellie?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I must have slept long, for I have a frightful headache." 
 
 "You'll be better directly, John." 
 
 "But I feel so strange and unnatural. I think I cannot 
 be well. Grandmother, what is the matter? Have you 
 been crying?" 
 
 All the old gentleness and tenderness, so sweet to the 
 ears of the old woman now, were in his voice and his 
 manner. He glanced from his grandmother to Nellie, and 
 did not seem to understand something. A look of perplex- 
 ity came into his face. 
 
28 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 "Is there anything the matter, Nellie — grandmother?" 
 
 "Nothing whatever, John," replied the girl, her lips slightly 
 quivering. 
 
 John attempted to rise to his feet, but he staggered, and 
 Nellie took his arm. 
 
 "This is very strange," he said, as he regained his feet 
 and clung to Nellie's arms to steady himself "I never felt 
 so before. Everything seems to be turning around. My 
 head is so heavy I Nellie, dear, please help me to the next 
 room, and I will lie down. I feel very drowsy, somehow; 
 and it's an unusual thing for me to be sleepy in the daytime. 
 I think that if I sleep a while I shall be better." 
 
 The old woman hurried ahead and arranged the bed for 
 him ; and leaning heavily on Nellie, he went into the room, 
 and fell upon the bed. Nellie removed his shoes, and he 
 thanked her tenderly. She sat by the bed, and took his 
 hand in hers. With a smile full of love and gentleness — ■ 
 and, in fact, he was meeker and more patient than ever 
 before — he closed his eyes, and in a moment was sound 
 asleep. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE SEARCH COMMENXED. 
 
 ^^HEY watched him as he slumbered. After the 
 first heavy stupor, resulting from nervous 
 
 prostration, had passed away, he became 
 restless, and muttered unintelligible words, 
 and tossed from side to side. When four or five hours 
 had passed, he awoke. They spoke to him kindly, and 
 watched his expression anxiously. He was now refreshed, 
 and in full possession of all his faculties. It was soon 
 evident that he remembered nothing from the time when 
 he led his horse to the barn, and they did not mention 
 his wild fury before the faint overcame him. A hard look 
 was in his face — the reflex of a determination that had insid- 
 iously shaped itself into form — a purpose based on an iron 
 will and an inflexible stubbornness — dark, deep, and irrevo- 
 cable. Nellie saw it and understood it; for she knew of the 
 letter and the unsuccessful search for the buried treasure; 
 but she was happy to see that he felt no resentment toward 
 her and his grandmother, and that his determination in no- 
 wise changed his feeling for them. His conduct after his 
 arrival was the result of madness, brought on by despair. 
 
3° 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 Nellie Foster was in very few respects suited to become 
 the wife of John Graham. There were marked differences 
 in these two young people, who loved each other fondly, 
 and who were to be married within the year. She was 
 pretty, vivacious, witty, and quick to learn; but she had no 
 depth of character, no latent trait but courage. Her nature 
 Avas apparent to all: vain of her comeliness, fond of finery, 
 and ambitious to a dangerous extent. She believed that 
 she was fitted to adorn a higher circle of society, and no 
 doubt she was. By nature she was qualified to become a 
 dashing woman of the world, courting admiration, conquer- 
 ing hearts, and trampling under foot everything that opposed 
 her wishes. She had never had opportunity to shine in the 
 world. She, like Graham, was an orphan ; and doubtless it 
 was their common desolation that first drew them together. 
 She lived with an uncle, who, though a kind-hearted and 
 indulgent man, was compelled, by reason of straightened 
 circumstances, to deny his winsome niece a hundred things 
 that he knew would make her heart glad. She was full of 
 energy, a nervous, restless, and indefatigable worker, and was 
 really the controlling, not to say domineering, spirit in her 
 uncle's house. Her aunt was a meek, submissive woman, 
 and Nellie had a way of ruling her and all the others that 
 was pretty and amusing. None were so bright and cheerful 
 as Nellie. She sang and laughed and talked the whole 
 day long. Many were the sturdy, industrious young fellows 
 v/ho had thrown themselves at her shapely feet and pleaded 
 for her hand; but she had laughed at them all, and sent 
 them away wondering whether she was a woman or a devil. 
 
THE SEARCH COMMENCED. 3 1 
 
 When John Graham, scarcely more than a year prior to the 
 opening of this story, presented himself, she saw in his 
 square chin and calm blue eye a depth of strength and man- 
 hood she never had seen before. With the quick, searching, 
 and accurate divination that belonged to her, she saw in 
 him a placid, quiet, grave, and patient man, willing to give 
 his life for a friend ; unselfish and generous to a rare extent ; 
 deep and silent; but for all that — which was enough to 
 make her look up to him and respect him — there was some- 
 thing else: this man was a slumbering lion, slow to be 
 aroused, but terrible, desperate, unflinching, when brought 
 to bay or driven to an extremity. All this she dimly saw, 
 but unconsciously. For the other, she respected him; for 
 this, she feared him. Such a man, before all others, she 
 would crown the king of her heart and life. 
 
 But how was it with him? Should such a woman be his 
 wife? Could a coquette, shrewd, scheming, and vain, fill 
 the measure of his happiness? Should his wife be a selfish 
 woman? Was Nellie seffish? In all the wide, wide world, 
 is there ever vanity without selfishness? Is there ever vanity 
 without heartlessness? without a lack of charity? without a 
 lack of dignity of soul and purity of heart? 
 
 A shadowy phantom had risen up unbidden between these 
 two loving people — not a phantom that Graham saw, but 
 one that appeared to the keener sight of the girl. As yet 
 it had the innocent guise of regret, and the implanting of 
 ambitious and disturbing longings. Living near Graham, it 
 was her custom to visit the grandmother every day while 
 John was in the field at work, and she thus at once learned 
 
32 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 of the mysterious letter, and afterward of the failure to find 
 the treasure. During the time that John was absent, she 
 indulged in dreams of oriental magnificence, wherein she 
 was the center of all attraction. When these dreams were 
 dashed to the ground and broken into fragments, the blow 
 was crushing and stuj^efying. It was not surprising, then, 
 that she offered no objection when John quietly remarked 
 after his sleep: 
 
 "Grandmother, I have decided to hunt for a solution of 
 this mystery. If the money is mine, I would be a coward 
 to sit down and resign myself to being robbed. It is late 
 to think now of revenging my father's murder, but in 
 accomplishing one end the other will be served also." 
 
 Nellie's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she smiled en- 
 couragingly on John. The elder woman said nothing, but 
 it could be seen that the old, familiar look of pain was in 
 her face : whether from the memory of things that were past, 
 or on account of John's determination, he did not know. 
 It troubled him, and he asked : 
 
 "Grandmother, do you oppose the idea?" 
 
 "Well, John," she said, after a pause, "you are doing 
 pretty well now, and you know they are talking of some 
 trouble about the land, i^in't you afraid that we can't make 
 enough to live on, and that we might lose the place, if you 
 quit earning anything? Besides, who '11 harvest the crop?" 
 
 John was silent a long time. Then he .said: 
 
 "You shall never be in want, grandmother. I will not 
 leave you entirely, but shall be absent only at times; and 
 when I am away you will stay with grandmother, will you 
 not, Nellie?" 
 
THE SEARCH COMMENCED. 
 
 3- 
 
 "Yes," exclaimed Nellie cheerily, and nodding encourag- 
 ingly to the poor old lady. 
 
 "And as for the crop," continued John, "I will harvest it; 
 and I hope we shall make enough to buy a home if they 
 turn us out of this place." 
 
 "Ain't you afraid, John," persisted the grandmother, with 
 some timidity, "that something may happen to you?" 
 
 " I will not put my life in danger, grandmother. On the 
 contrary, I would have every incentive to take the best care 
 of myself," and he looked significantly at Nellie, who dropped 
 her glance to the floor. "Besides," he continued, "I am 
 not sure that I shall be warranted in undertaking this matter. 
 I am not a detective, and am not able to employ one. But 
 we shall first see what we can find out now. Grandmother, 
 think carefully over all the circumstances surrounding my 
 father's death. You think there can be no doubt that rob- 
 bery was the sole object of the murder?" 
 
 "It couldn't have been anything else, John. Your father 
 was one of the best men I ever saw, and he didn't have an 
 enemy in the world." , 
 
 "But don't you think it is possible that the money was 
 taken in order to divert attention from the true cause of the 
 murder? It is a very extraordinary thing for a murderer to 
 have enough conscience to restore money which was obtained 
 through murder." 
 
 "I know it, John; but there couldn't have been any other 
 cause." 
 
 "My mother died soon afterward, didn't she?" 
 
 "Yes; the shock killed her." 
 3 
 
34 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 " Another account to settle with them," muttered John to 
 himself, with something of the fireceness he had exhibited in 
 the morning. " Isn't it possible, grandmother, that some 
 envious man killed him through jealous)', on account of his 
 prosperity?" 
 
 "Why should he, John? Your father was such a good 
 man, and helped so many people in distress, and was so lib- 
 eral with his money, and did so much good everywhere, that 
 nobody could be envious of him. He wasn't a proud man, 
 and didn't consider himself better than anybody else." 
 
 "Did he ever have a difficulty with anybody before he 
 came to California?" 
 
 "Not to amount to anything. Of course he wouldn't 
 allow people to impose on him ; and he was a fearless man, 
 and sometimes he had to be severe. But I don't think any- 
 body could have laid it up against him." 
 
 "Did suspicion point to anybody at the time?" 
 
 "No. Of course we had nobody to hunt the matter up; 
 but there were some officers who did all they could to get at 
 the bottom of it, and the neighbors took a hand in it; but no 
 trace was ever found, of either the murderer or the money." 
 
 "Did the officers track my father from San Francisco?" 
 
 "Yes; they trailed him to within a few miles of the spot 
 where he was murdered, which was about five miles from 
 home." 
 
 "No one traveled with him?" 
 
 "No one." 
 
 "Nor behind him a few miles?" 
 
 "No: not after he crossed the Coast Range and came 
 down into the valley." 
 
THE SEARCH COMMENCED. 
 
 .-0 
 
 " Did any of the officers express any idea on the subject?" 
 
 " Well, they held a consultation about a week after the 
 murder — your mother was lying dangerously sick then in the 
 house — and they came to the conclusion that men in San 
 Francisco knew of his having money, and came on ahead 
 and waylaid him." 
 
 The young man reflected a while, and then said : 
 
 "That was plausible then, but it isn't now. If it had 
 been men from San Francisco, they would have taken the 
 money with them, and would not have buried it under Lone 
 Tree. Of course the officers didn't know then that the 
 money was buried there, and hence their theory was plaus- 
 ible. Grandmother, think carefully over what I am going 
 to ask you: Did anybody in the neighborhood leave about 
 that time, or shortly afterward?" 
 
 She reflected a long time, and then shook her head. 
 
 "No, John," she said; "nobody left." 
 
 "Are you perfectly sure, grandmother?" 
 
 "Perfectly sure." 
 
 "Remember that you were distracted with grief, and that 
 a great many things might have happened that you wouldn't 
 notice." 
 
 "That's true; but there were so few people living here 
 then, that I should have known if any left." 
 
 "A great many people have come in since that time.'' 
 
 " O yes; a great many." 
 
 "And didn't any of the old residents sell out to the new 
 comers?" 
 
 "Yes; but not at that time." 
 
36 BLOOD-MONE Y. 
 
 ■Finding his grandmother positive on that branch of the 
 subject, he tried another. 
 
 "Wasn't that about the time of the Indian. troubles?" 
 
 "Well, it was after the worst of that." 
 
 "Wasn't there a great deal of feeling among the people 
 on account of the war between the North and the South?" 
 
 "No ; not particularly. Nearly all the people in this part 
 of the country at that time were Southerners, but there 
 was very great difference of sentiment." 
 
 "My father was a southern man?" 
 
 "Yes; but he never hurt anybody's feelings on that sub- 
 ject, because he never talked about it except to me and 
 your mother; and we never repeated anything he said, as 
 he always cautioned us against it, and said it would do no 
 good to stir up bad blood." 
 
 "Grandmother, was anybody ever killed by Indians in 
 this county?" 
 
 "Yes; several men were killed." 
 
 "Can you remember distinctly how many were killed 
 after my father was murdered?" 
 
 "After your father was murdered? Let me see. That 
 was in i860, after the troubles were nearly all over. About 
 a ye'ar after that, an old sheep-herder living near the foot- 
 hills was killed by the Indians, and they stole his cattle." 
 
 "I have heard Uncle Dan speak of that," interrupted 
 Nellie. "He was one of the men who went after, the 
 Indians, and I have heard him say that he helped to bury 
 old Frenchie." 
 
 "You are sure of that, Nellie?" asked the young man — 
 "sure that your father helped to bury him?" . 
 
THE SEARCH COMMENCED. 37 
 
 "Yes; I have heard him tell how horribly the Indians 
 mangled him." 
 
 This seemed to satisfy John, and he again turned his 
 attention to his grandmother. 
 
 "Was anybody else killed?" 
 
 "Yes; two brothers named Webster — Henry and James 
 Webster." 
 
 "When was that?" 
 
 "I think it was about a year after the old Frenchman "was 
 killed." 
 
 "The danger was greatest along the foothills, wasn't it?" 
 
 "Yes; they never troubled us away out here on the 
 plains." 
 
 "Now, these men — these Websters: were they consider- 
 ed rich men?" 
 
 "Yes; at least, they had a great deal of land, but it was 
 mortgaged, I believe." 
 
 "Were they married?" 
 
 "The older one — Henry — was married." 
 
 "Any children?" 
 
 "One, but it died." 
 
 "Where were the two brothers buried?" 
 
 "At that graveyard on this side of King's River, below 
 the ford." 
 
 "Were you at the funeral?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Did you see the two men after they were killed?" 
 
 "No; they were too badly mutilated. It brought your 
 father's death right back to my mind as plainly as if I saw 
 it all over again." 
 
38 BLOOD-MONE Y. 
 
 "Who held the mortgage on their land?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Who found them dead?" 
 
 "Well, it seems they were not found until after they had 
 been dead several days. They even refused at first to let 
 Mrs. Webster see her husband." 
 
 "Who refused?" 
 
 "The men who found the bodies." 
 
 "Who were those men?" 
 
 "I don't remember. Why, John, what in the world has 
 all that to do with your father's death?" 
 
 "Perhaps nothing, grandmother; but I wish you would 
 try to remember who found the bodies." 
 
 "Let me think. O, I remember now! They were some 
 miners who had been prospecting for gold in the moun- 
 tains, and they were coming down into the valley for pro- 
 visions." 
 
 "Did anybody know them?" 
 
 "I can't say now, John." 
 
 "Did you see them?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Where was Mrs. Webster living at that time?" 
 
 "About two miles from my house. Don't you remember 
 her?" 
 
 "Yes; I remember her very well now. You took me to 
 the funeral with you. I was about nine years old." 
 
 "Exactly." 
 
 "If I remember correctly, grandmother, the miners, on 
 finding the bodies, got some lumber somewhere, and made 
 
THE SEARCH COMMENCED. 
 
 39 
 
 two rough coffins, and placed the Websters in them. Now, 
 I want you to follow me closely, and correct any error I 
 may make, for this is very important. The first thing they 
 did after finding the bodies was to search the pockets for 
 some means of identification, because the Websters were 
 .strangers to them ; and besides, the faces of the dead men 
 were perhaps unrecognizable. Am I right so far?" 
 
 "Perfectly; though I had forgotten some of that." 
 
 "They found letters, or some kind of documents, fixing 
 the identity of the men and their place of residence, and 
 then they hired a friendly Indian to carry the news to Mrs. 
 Webster. Am I right?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "They sent word to Mrs. Webster to send or bring a 
 wagon in which the bodies could be taken home, and in- 
 structed the Indian to tell her that they would have the 
 bodies in coffins by the time she arrived. Correct?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "The messenger wanted to return with her, but she re- 
 fused, as she was afraid of him, and she would not accept 
 the services of any of the men in the neighborhood, telling 
 them the miners would return from the mountains with her, 
 and that she would not be afraid to go alone. The dis- 
 tance was about sixty miles — maybe sixty-five. She made 
 the trip to the mountains and returned alone, the miners, 
 for some reason, not having come. Am I correct again?" 
 
 "Perfectly correct. You have a splendid memory, John. 
 But wasn't she a brave woman to make that terrible jour- 
 ney alone? I am sure I couldn't have done it." 
 
40 BLO OD-MOiVE Y. 
 
 " No, grandmother ; you never could have done it," re- 
 plied Graham, gravely and thoughtfully. Then he asked: 
 "What reputation did those men bear?" 
 "A very good one, so far as I know." 
 "Was there never anything against them?" 
 "Well, of course people will talk, you know. Some said 
 they would take cattle from other people's bands, but I nevei 
 believed a word of it." 
 
 "Let me see," said Graham: "Mrs. Webster left about a 
 year after that, didn't she?" 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Do you know where she went?" 
 "To her people in Indiana, I think." 
 "And she has never been heard of since?" 
 "No. She promised to write to me, but she never did." 
 " How old were those men when they were killed?" 
 " Henry was, I should judge, about forty-two years of age, 
 and James was two or three years younger." 
 
 " Describe them to me accurately, grandmother. I think 
 I remember, but I want to see if your recollection agrees 
 with mine." 
 
 " Henry was a tall, straight, fine-looking man. He had 
 black hair, a straight, thin nose, dark eyes — " 
 "Brown, were they not?" 
 "Yes; brown, or a very dark blue." 
 "It was James who had dark blue eyes." 
 "You are right, John. It was James." 
 "Weren't Henry's eyes somewhat close together?" 
 " Yes. James was a shorter man, and not as good look- 
 
THE SEARCH COMMENCED. 
 
 41 
 
 ing. His hair was not quite as dark as Henry's, and his eyes 
 were large and farther apart, and he hmped sUghtly on his 
 left leg, as he broke it when he was a boy, and the bone was 
 badly set." 
 
 "I think it was the right leg, grandmother." 
 
 "Sure enough! It was the right leg, for I remember that 
 he was sparking the Widow Perkins; and she used to laugh, 
 and say that his right leg would be left if he should run a 
 race." 
 
 John had learned all he wanted to know, and the conver- 
 sation came to a close. He escorted Nellie home, and was 
 unusually grave and thoughtful. She tried her most winning 
 subterfuges to make him cheerful, but she met with only de- 
 feat and chagrin. He stopped at the gate, and said : 
 
 " Nellie, will you come to-morrow, after you have finished 
 your night's work, and stay with grandmother to-morrow 
 night?" 
 
 "Are you going away, John?" 
 
 "Yes; but only for one night. 'Will you come?" 
 
 "Yes, if you will come for me." 
 
 " I will do that, certainly. And it's good of you to come, 
 Nellie. I will reward you for it the day after to-morrow." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " I will astonish you by telling you something very, very 
 strange." 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 A MIDNIGHT REVELATION. 
 
 ^!*?I/HE sun was still hi;j;h in the heavens when 
 
 Graham tenderly kissed his grandmother and 
 Nellie, telling them he would be out all night, 
 and left the house. He saddled his horse, 
 lashed a shovel to the pommel, and sallied out across the 
 broad plains. 
 
 His thoughts took better shape in the quiet solitude that 
 surrounded him, and that soothed his excited nerves. He 
 felt that the murder, although admirably and indeed 
 elaborately planned, could have been committed ijy none 
 other than an amateur, for the simple reason that the mur- 
 derer buried the money under Lone Tree. An experienced 
 and skillful criminal would undoubtedly have escaped with 
 the gold under cover of darkness. There was no doubt in 
 his mind that the Lone Tree treasure was the fruit of his 
 father's murder. The practiced highwayman would never 
 have yielded to the demands of conscience, and told of the 
 whereabouts of the gold; and this was additional foundation 
 for the belief that an amateur did the work. The coinci- 
 dence of dates and amounts was too singular for chance to 
 be probable. 
 
A MID ALIGHT REVELATION. 
 
 43 
 
 Aside from a discovery of the assassin, three problems 
 presented themselves for solution : First, why was the treas- 
 ure left undisturbed for nearly eighteen years? Second, 
 why was it that the letter pointing out the Lone Tree secret 
 came some months after the gold was removed? Third, 
 why was the treasure taken up at all, and how could it 
 have been done without the knowledge of the writer of 
 the mysterious letter, who was evidently the murderer, de- 
 sirous of making restitution and atonement so far as in his 
 power lay? It would be an easy matter to say that the 
 assassin had never possessed the courage to revisit the coun- 
 try and secure the gold: but how was it possible that so 
 timid and cautious a man could have been overreached, as 
 he evidently was, and without his knowledge? After all, 
 there seemed to be no sympathy nor understanding what- 
 ever between the assassin and the priest who robbed 
 Lone Tree of its treasure. They were independent of each 
 other, and perhaps at cross-putposes. Here is one curious 
 idea that forced itself upon John Graham's mind: would 
 it be a brave and manly act to hunt down and wreak ven- 
 geance upon the murderer, when that man had done so re- 
 deeming and atoning a thing as to take all the steps he 
 considered necessary to restore the fortune? Was not the 
 dead man's blood washed away by that one wave of human- 
 ity? Was not the proper task before him a search for the 
 treasure that was his by right, and just punishment to the 
 man who ferreted out the secret of the iron pot? That act 
 was baser than the murder itself, if that be possible ; as in 
 this case the criminal was a traitor, a thief, and a robber. 
 But this man was a priest ! 
 
44 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 It must be borne in mind that Graham was unskilled in 
 matters of the world, and had little knowledge of the darker 
 side of human nature; also that he lacked quickness of per- 
 ception and skill in methods, and that altogether he would 
 have been utterly unfit for the task he had imposed upon 
 himself, had he not possessed untiring patience, the power 
 of continuous concentration of mind upon a particular sub- 
 ject, and an indomitable will. His conclusions were arrived 
 at very slowly and cautiously; and even when they were 
 thus formulated, he was not over-sanguine of their correct- 
 ness. In some respects he was a remarkable man, else he 
 could not have been the one to pass through such strange 
 experiences as afterward fell to his lot. 
 
 After he had consumed about an hour in a brisk canter 
 over the plains, a dark, low line, stretching as far as he could 
 see on either hand, appeared to the northward, in place of 
 the smooth line that had hitherto bounded the horizon. 
 That which he now saw seemed almost black. This dark 
 line was the timber that grows on the banks of King's River. 
 
 He now took a precaution. Heretofore he had traveled 
 straight across the plains, thus saving much distance that he 
 would have lost by traveling to the eastward, and finding 
 and following a sinuous road to his destination. He sup- 
 posed that he had been gradually nearing this road, and it 
 became necessary to find it, especially as he soon became 
 aware that a dreadful disturbance of the elements was 
 threatened. An inexperienced observer would have over- 
 looked these ominous signs ; but Graham was familiar with 
 the plains, and the strange occurrences of nature there. He 
 
A MIDNIGHT REVELATION. 45 
 
 knew the significance of every breath of air, and of every 
 change in the temperature and direction of the winds. On 
 this afternoon he said to himself: 
 
 "I must find the road, for the sand-storm is coming." 
 
 None who have ever witnessed this terrible phenomenon 
 in the height of its fury will wonder that Graham felt some 
 uneasiness. 
 
 "Let me see," he said : "I have not paid close enough 
 attention to the direction in which I have been traveling. I 
 am now within three miles of the river. Very good ; but if 
 I go straight ahead until I reach it, I may not know whether 
 to turn to the right or to the left. I think I must be about 
 two miles west of the road that leads to the ford. I must 
 hurry." 
 
 After cogitating a few moments, he turned his' horse 
 slightly to the east, and took an oblique north-easterly 
 course toward the river. This course considerably length- 
 ened the distance between him and the river, as it was not 
 a direct line thereto. 
 
 Graham spurred rapidly forward. He closely watched 
 the line of trees, and presently he saw a dark reddish-gray 
 wall looming up beyond the foliage. At the same time a 
 brisk, cool breeze sprung up. This was the vanguard of the 
 storm. Then a hoarse rumbling became audible, as the 
 hurricane tore over the plains. The breeze freshened, and 
 the trees in the distance were violently wrenched. 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed Graham, in dismay. "I can't reach 
 the road in time." 
 
 He turned his horse's head directly toward the trees, and 
 
46 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 vigorously plied the spur. The trembling beast went rapid- 
 ly on, with his nose close to the ground. Graham's inten- 
 tion was to reach the river as soon as possible, as the terrible 
 cloud of sand would soon obliterate every landmark on the 
 plains. 
 
 The rumbling changed to a bellowing. The furious storm 
 rushed madly on — a storm without a cloud in the sky, but 
 with one more terrible on the earth. In an incredibly short 
 space of time, while Graham was still a considerable dis- 
 tance from the river, the sand-storm met him with terrific 
 fury. He buttoned his coat to the chin, and pulled his hat 
 far down. It was not a steady wind, but one of eddies and 
 rushing whirlwinds. It discharged volley after volley of 
 sweeping shrapnel, that sought every moment to unhorse the 
 rider. It charged and enfiladed, tearing, uprooting, and 
 scattering broadcast everything that stood in its way. 
 
 And that was not all. The sinking sun was blotted out, 
 and his red rays imparted a somber glow to the cloud of 
 driving sand that rushed headlong over the plains, and that 
 besieged man and horse with pitiless fury. The line of 
 trees had disappeared, and the horizon was gone. The 
 •ground beneath and a blank red glow around were all that 
 could be seen through the impenetrable and all-pervading 
 sand; which, driven at frightful speed, stung like the points 
 of countless thousands of needles pricking the skin. This 
 was the lash that the demon of the storm laid on, while he 
 roared and bellowed with maddened anger. The horse 
 could make no headway. Graham sent the spur home 
 impatiently, and shouted; but his voice was lost in the roar 
 
A MIDXIGIIT KEVELATION: 
 
 47 
 
 of the storm, and the poor horse merely flinched when the 
 spur was pUed, refusing to move a step. Quivering in every 
 muscle, the horse stood still, with drooped head and tail, 
 and blinking his eyes as the stinging sand drove into them. 
 
 And that was not all. The wind cut the ground like a 
 harrow, tearing up sage-brush and sending it whirling 
 through the air. It uprooted the flowers in its giant strength, 
 and scattered them over the plains. It tore along madiy, 
 finding victims here and there, and venting its full fury upon 
 them. The ground heaved and rolled with moving waves 
 of sand, like the sea in a storm. 
 
 It was a terrific storm. No thunder-storm could be more 
 dreadful. It was swifter than a greyhound and stronger 
 than a lion. It whisked and skimmed and dashed along; 
 rushing and bounding and darting ; nimble, yet strong ; ex- 
 ploding like the crash of many cannon ; wielding its bludgeon 
 of sand — a catapult and a cudgel in one; violently riotous 
 and fiercely wild; a tempest of rage and uproar; savage, 
 ferocious, and frantic; thundering with impetuous turbulence; 
 sharp, keen, and double-edged; fierce as a tiger; spreading 
 havoc and desolation in its track; and ravaging and destroy- 
 as if the Devil were in it. 
 
 In two hours it had spent its fury; and with one shake of 
 its shaggy mane, it expired with a groan. The last straggling 
 gusts, outstripped in the mad race with the stronger forces 
 that had gone ahead, passed on, and a dead calm fell. But 
 such a calm ! The storm had left its trail of sand behind, 
 like the straggling tail of a comet. The sun had set and the 
 moon was up ; but nothing could be seen but this silent and 
 
-48 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 awful cloud of sand, that reached from the earth to the sky, 
 shutting out everything from sight. Even the horse did not 
 cast a shadow, though the moon was at the full. The warm 
 glow that the setting sun had given to the cloud of sand was 
 gone, and a pale yellow, spectral and feeble light remained 
 — a weird, ghostly light, having not a suggestion of life, but 
 cold and pallid, lilce death. After the roar came the silence, 
 as of the grave. 
 
 The sand fell softly and noiselessly, like snow, and gath- 
 ered on the rim of Graham's hat, and lodged on his shoulders 
 and in creases in his clothes, and filtered through his horse's 
 mane. If Graham opened his mouth and drew his breath, 
 the sand would alight upon his tongue and be ground be- 
 tween his teeth. 
 
 But Graham was not idle. When the storm subsided, 
 which was suddenly, he pushed on toward the river. As 
 long as a straggling gust of wind remained, he knew the 
 points of the compass, for the wind came from the north; 
 but when the calm fell, and he found himself in this impene- 
 trable cloud of falling sand, with no landmark visible by which 
 to steer his course, he knew that he was in great danger. 
 He did not fear the storm, for he could and did withstand 
 its fury; but after the storm came the sand-cloud, which was 
 infinitely more terrible than the storm. 
 
 On he rode through the gloom — on to the river. On he 
 went, caring nothing that he dashed through stubborn sage 
 and ran the risk of treacherous gopher-holes. The river, 
 with its line of trees, lay just ahead, and in a moment he 
 would reach it. 
 
A MIDNIGHT REVELATION. 
 
 49 
 
 Strange to say, although he calculated after he had ridden 
 some distance that the trees could be only a few steps away, 
 and although he expected every moment to find some change 
 in the contour of the ground indicating the near vicinity of 
 the stream, yet he found no such change, and no sign of the 
 trees. Still he pushed on, and still farther on ; but the river 
 did not appear. 
 
 A remarkable sensation is experienced on such an occa- 
 sion. One knows a certain thing lies just ahead, and one 
 knows the distance. When that distance is traversed, and 
 more, and yet the thing sought is not found, one cannot, 
 help believing, in spite of any mental effort to the contrary, 
 that the object has been removed. 
 
 "Egad!" exclaimed Graham, in dismay. "The river is 
 gone!" 
 
 In other words, Graham was lost. Unconsciously he had 
 turned out of the direction in which the river lay, and he 
 might be three miles away. He could not see beyond his 
 horse's ears, although there was no darkness, but only the 
 yellow pallor of the sand-cloud. 
 
 He halted. It was useless to go farther at such a pace, 
 which would soon take him twenty miles into the plains, in 
 what direction he knew not. He sat and studied the prob- 
 lem a long time. Then a novel idea occurred to him. 
 
 " I have ridden the horse," he thought, " several hours, 
 and he must be thirsty. If so, he will go toward the river if 
 I give him the rein." 
 
 Graham tried the experiment. He dropped the rein and 
 gently urged the horse. The animal took a few uncertain 
 4 
 
2 o BLO OD-MONE Y. 
 
 Steps in the direction he faced, and then refused, in spite of 
 Graham's urging, to go farther. 
 
 "This proves the course is wrong," thought Graham. 
 
 Then he turned the horse about, again dropped the rein, 
 and gave a Hght touch with the spur. The animal started 
 forward in the same uncertain manner as before, advanced 
 a rod, and then came to a halt. Not only that, but he 
 showed signs of the deepest fear. Evidently he realized that 
 his master was lost, and instinct taught him to remain still 
 until the sand-cloud should clear away. The signs of in- 
 creased distress and fear showed themselves in the violent 
 trembhng of his legs and flank, and in an occasional loud 
 snorting, and in a high raising of the head and pricking up 
 of the ears. 
 
 Graham saw that this plan was not feasible. Then he 
 carefully studied the situation. 
 
 "If my mind had been less troubled," he thought, "I 
 shouldn't have fallen into this bad scrape." 
 
 He put aside his preoccupation; and no sooner had he 
 succeeded in this effort than a thought, startling for its sud- 
 denness, occurred to him. 
 
 Then he dismounted, and taking the bridle in his hand, 
 commenced to study the ground narrowly. 
 
 "T might have known," he muttered, "that the weeds 
 lean from the river." 
 
 The explanation of this phenomenon lies in the fact that 
 the storm, coming from the north, caused all vegetable 
 growth to incline to the south. As he was south of the 
 river, the weeds must lean in a direction contrary to that in 
 
A MIDNIGHT REVELATION. 
 
 51 
 
 which the river lay. Having thus found the proper direc- 
 tion, he mounted Iiis horse, proceeded a few rods slowly, 
 and then dismounted to observe the weeds. He corrected 
 his course from the slight deviation into which he had 
 fallen, remounted, and proceeded. He repeated this several 
 times, and had progressed a mile or more, when his horse 
 stumbled over a hillock, and then abruptly halted. 
 
 "This is the bank of the river," said Graham, with elation. 
 
 He dismounted and carefully examined the hillock. It 
 had an unusual shape, and, strange to say, was unaccount- 
 bly softer than the surrounding hard ground. It was about 
 seven feet long, and tapering small at the ends. 
 
 "I don't understand it," muttered Graham. "This can't 
 be the river bank." 
 
 The matter was one deserving close scrutiny; and so 
 Graham tethered his horse to a scrubby bunch of sage, and 
 commenced an investigation. The sand-cloud was so 
 dense, and the obscuration of the moon so complete, that 
 Graham, standing at one end of the mysterious hillock, 
 could not see the other end. He went around it to the 
 other side, and had taken but two or three steps when he 
 discovered another mound very similar to the other, the 
 difference being that the second was smaller and firmer than 
 the first, and some wild-flowers grew on it. He,passed this 
 one, and at a distance equal to that between the others, he 
 found a third, but it was much shorter. 
 
 The darkness was so inpenetrable that he could not see 
 these hillocks, or mounds, until his feet encountered them, 
 and on coming to one he vv^ould stumble and nearly fall. 
 
52 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 He passed the third mound — or, more properly, ridge — 
 and suddenly floundered in a high and irregular pile of soft, 
 loose dirt, evidently thrown up recently. He sank to his 
 shoe tops, and pulled through to the other side. As he did 
 so, not suspecting that it ended abruptly, he pitched forward, 
 turned suddenly to regain his footing, failed, and then dex- 
 trously made a leap for the firm ground beyond. Instead 
 of succeeding in that, he plunged headlong into an abyss. 
 
 He struck the bottom with a hollow, heavy thud, and lay 
 for a moment half stunned. He had fallen about six feet. 
 He attempted to regain his feet, but his head and shoulder 
 struck a wall of dirt. He glanced upward, and saw through 
 the mouth of a hole a little over six feet long and a little less 
 than three feet wide, into which he had tumbled, the pale 
 yellow sand-cloud between him and the sky. He put out his 
 hands, and felt the walls of the hole. They were smooth 
 and straight. He stood up, grasped the edge of the open- 
 ing, and was almost in the act of springing to the surface, 
 when a ghastly realization burst upon him. 
 
 "I am in a grave!" he whispered half aloud. 
 
 The horror of the situation momentarily paralyzed his 
 arm, and a cold, creeping chill passed down his back. With 
 an agile strength, rendered doubly strong by the fear that for 
 a moment possessed him, he sprung nimbly to the surface. 
 In another moment all his .self-pcissession had returned, and 
 he was half inclined to laugh at his fright. 
 
 As a sequence to this realization came another. 
 
 "Ah !" he exclaimed, " I am in a burying-ground — the very 
 one I was hunting for." 
 
A MIDNIGHT REVELATION. 53 
 
 The relief that he experienced from this rejection was 
 ahnost exhilarating. In order to assure himself that his 
 opinion was correct, he reflected a moment; then gathered 
 up the stems of a few dead weeds, produced a match, and 
 soon had a small blaze kindled. The light thus produced 
 enabled him to find other sticks; and in a short time he had 
 a cheery little fire crackling in the graveyard. He got his 
 bearings from two or three head-boards that he recognized; 
 and, as the river was only a few steps away, he went toward 
 it, carrying a small torch to light his way, and presently 
 returned with an armful of dry branches from the willows. 
 With these he made a considerable fire. He brought his 
 horse within the small circle of light, secured the halter to 
 a sickly tree standing at the head of a neglected grave, 
 unlashed the shovel, and proceeded about the work before 
 him. 
 
 The red glare of the fire imparted a ruddy hue to the 
 sand-cloud, whose whiteness then seemed tinged with 
 blood. 
 
 Arming himself with a torch, he sought carefully among 
 the scattered graves, patiently deciphering the half-obliter- 
 ated inscriptions on the painted boards. 
 
 Presently his efforts were rewarded. 
 
 "This is it," he said, as he pushed the shovel into the 
 mound over a grave. 
 
 He carefully noted the surroundings, went back to the 
 fire, and returned with some fagots he had held in reserve. 
 With these he made another fire close to the grave he had 
 selected. 
 
54 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 Then he threw off his coat and hat, and assailed the 
 mound with his shovel. It was an old grave, and badly 
 neglected. The board at the head, being of redwood, was 
 well preserved. 
 
 In a moment the mound had disappeared, and it lay in a 
 heap on one side. He worked furiously, throwing out the 
 dirt with great rapidity. He was down two feet, then 
 three, then four. 
 
 Suddenly the point of the shovel struck something hard 
 at the bottom. He worked with greater care, fearing the 
 boards were rotten. He removed all the dirt that his 
 shovel could reach; then he sprung to the surface, and 
 moved the fire to that side of the pile of dirt nearest the 
 grave. In this manner he succeeded in throwing a very 
 good light into the grave, but it did not reach the bottom, 
 as the wall nearest the fire prevented. 
 
 He went down into the grave again, and carefully re- 
 moved one of the loose boards that covered the cofifin. 
 He found these boards in a fair state of preservation. He 
 took up one of these. 
 
 The coffin appeared to his view. He could see that, as 
 it was pine, which is not nearly so durable as redwood, it 
 was very rotten, and ready to fall to pieces. 
 
 He reached around and grasped the shovel, and care- 
 fully inserted the edge of the blade under the coffin lid. 
 The soft wood yielded, hardly without resistance. 
 
 Then he laid the shovel aside, knelt down, slipped his 
 fingers underneath the end of the lid, and gave a steady 
 pull. The board yielded like rotten paper, and broke short 
 oif about two feet from the end. 
 
A MIDNIGHT REVELATION. ^^ 
 
 At that moment, when the object of Graham's search lay 
 just under his eyes, the blaze suddenly expired, and he 
 found himself in total darkness. 
 
 An indefinable fear, an intense loathing, and the unutter- 
 able horror of the situation, sent a sudden shock through 
 his frame. 
 
 But he was a brave man, and was, above all things, in- 
 tensely stubborn. Through spite and sheer force of will, 
 he overcame the timidity that threatened to overpower him, 
 and mincingly began to feel around with his hand. It 
 found the edge of the coffin, and very carefully and very 
 slowly it traversed the distance to the bottom. He re- 
 mained in that attitude nearly half a minute, and his hand 
 Avas not idle. 
 
 Then he withdrew his hand, replaced the boards, emerged 
 from the grave, lighted the fire, and stood upon the ground, 
 staring wildly around, with a terrible look in his face, in 
 which were mingled fierce anger and a desperate hate. 
 
 He refilled the grave, placing the headboard again in 
 proper position, rounded over the mound, put on his hat 
 and coat, picked up the .shovel, remounted his horse, found 
 the road, and plied the spur. The sand-cloud had passed, 
 and the night was beautiful. 
 
 The first tinge of dawn was warming the sky over Miners' 
 Peak, when he softly rapped at his grandmother's door. 
 The good old lady welcomed him home, but asked him no 
 questions. He spoke gently to her, and called "Good 
 night" cheerily to Nellie. 
 
 "It is good morning, John," she replied. 
 
56 BLO OD-MONE Y. 
 
 Laughing at the sally, he passed on to his own room, and 
 was soon in a dead sleep from utter exhaustion. 
 
 When he emerged from his room at noon that day, the 
 first thing he said was: 
 
 "Nellie, do you remember that I promised to tell you 
 something strange to-day, as a reward for your staying with 
 grandmother last night?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Nellie, dying with curiosity. 
 
 "But before I tell you, I want to strike another bargain 
 with you." 
 
 "What is it, John?" 
 
 "That we postpone our wedding until I am rich." 
 
 A dubious look came into her face, but it was followed 
 by a sparkle in the eye as she asked: 
 
 "Will it be long?" 
 
 "Less than a year, I hope — may be longer; but we are 
 young, and I shall have another strong incentive to carry 
 out my determination." 
 
 "Very well, John," she answered, with a pretty look of 
 resignation, and with a well-feigned sigh. 
 
 "And now for that something strange I promised to tell 
 you. Grandmother, listen attentively to what I am going 
 to say. I want you also to know it." 
 
 "Well, John, I am listening." 
 
 "I know who murdered my father," he said quietly. 
 
 They stared at him in speechless astonishment. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A STRANGE VISITOR. 
 
 ^OHN GRAHAM had undergone a wonderful 
 I transformation within the last four days. Into 
 that short space had been crowded hope, ambi- 
 tion, anger, and despair, to an extent seldom felt 
 throughout the whole span of one man's natural life. He 
 was broken, but not seasoned. The hardening would come 
 with time, and a continuation of the anxieties that had 
 recently harassed him. He was no longer a boy; but was 
 not yet a man, in the sense of manhood equal to a battle 
 with dire emergencies. The timidity of the boy was gone; 
 and the bold, daring, resolute man stood revealed. By an 
 accident, he had discovered his strength; but this brought 
 him no pride nor vanity. Indeed, he did not even know he 
 had undergone so great a change. If his thoughts entered 
 that channel at all, they perceived only the apparent fact 
 that it was outward things and circumstances that had 
 suffered any change, and that their bearing upon him called 
 for the exercise of all the sterner stuff in his nature. Vanity 
 was a stranger to this man. He was proud, almost to the 
 extent of scorn; but his pride was healthful, elevating, and 
 
58 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 ennobling. It was pride in a clean conscience and unsullied 
 honor, and pride in consistency in right action, and pride in 
 yielding not an inch to wrong, but in pursuing it to the 
 ends of the earth. 
 
 He was fortunate in the possession of great patience. It 
 would have been a difficult matter to cause him to be car- 
 ried away with some pet scheme that did not have a grand 
 result in view. His nature was large and roomy, and it was 
 proportionately strong and durable. It might have been 
 better for him had he been endowed with greater caution ; 
 but the absence of unusual prudence was more than com- 
 pensated for by his daring, which w'ould carry by storm what 
 could as well be accomplished by strategy. 
 
 He remained inactive at home for an entire week, study- 
 ing his plans, learning by heart every incident that had 
 passed, and quietly making inquiries here and there. Hav- 
 ing put everything in readiness for his departure, and having 
 made arrangements for his grandmother's stay at the home 
 of Nellie's uncle for a few days, he provided himself with a 
 little money from the hoard in his grandmother's keeping, 
 mounted his horse, and struck out across the plains. 
 
 He crossed King's River, skirted the northern shore of 
 Tulare Lake, crossed the parched desert beyond, penetrated 
 the Coast Range, emerged on the western side through 
 Pacheco Pass, entered the broad, beautiful valley between 
 the Coast Range and the Santa Cruz Mountains, turned 
 northward, passed through Gilroy and San Jose, skirted the 
 Bay of San Francisco on the west, and arrived at San 
 Francisco, three hundred miles from home. 
 
A STRANGE VISITOR. ^g 
 
 It was the first time he had ever seen a city; yet so even 
 was his organization, and so readily could he adapt himself 
 to circumstances, that he was not seriously, if at all, bewild- 
 ered. He asked necessary directions in an easy manner, 
 and had a straightforward way and a dignity of bearing 
 that won him respect. He felt at home in any street, and 
 found his way without difficulty or embarrassment. Two 
 weeks ago he could not have done it. 
 
 In due time he presented himself to the chief of police. 
 
 "Can you tell me," asked Graham, "where I may find a 
 man who will undertake a difficult piece of detective work 
 for a heavy fee — which, however, must be contingent?" 
 
 "Hump!" grunted that worthy functionary. "They are 
 generally contingent." 
 
 "You know the men engaged in such business, and you 
 would place me under many obligations by recommending 
 a man equal to the task." 
 
 "What is the nature of the job?" 
 
 "I want to find a man who committed a murder eighteen 
 years ago." 
 
 The detective gave a long whistle. 
 
 " But I don't see anything contingent m that," urged the 
 chief. 
 
 "The murderer was also a robber." 
 
 "I see." 
 
 "By the murder he secured a large sum of money." 
 
 "Exactly. How much?" 
 
 "Twenty-two thousand dollars." 
 
 "Twenty-two thousand dollars!" echoed the chief, in 
 astonishment. 
 
6o BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 "That money is mine by right," continued the young 
 man. 
 
 "I see." 
 
 "And I will give five thousand dollars of it to the man 
 who finds the murderer." 
 
 "Exactly; but suppose the murderer hasn't the money." 
 
 "I know he hasn't." 
 
 "O, you do!" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "Then how can you recover the money?" 
 
 "The murderer knows who has the money." 
 
 "That's a good idea," grunted the chief. "I will think 
 the matter over, and try to find you some man equal to the 
 case." 
 
 The young man returned to his lodgings, the chief say- 
 ing he would send a man the following day. 
 
 The next day a man rapped at Graham's door. 
 
 "You are the detective whom the chief was to send, I 
 suppose?" asked Graham, bluntly. "Come in. Sit down. 
 What is your name?" 
 
 Graham did not notice a slight abashment in the man's 
 manner, produced, possibly, by the direct, frank, and busi- 
 ness-like welcome of the young man. 
 
 The stranger seated himself on the proffered chair, not 
 
 yet having spoken a word, and handed Graham a' card, on 
 
 which was printed : 
 
 J. V. COVILL, 
 
 PRIVATE DETECTIVE. 
 
 "I am glad to know you, Mr. Covill," said Graham. 
 "Do you want to undertake this case?" 
 
A STRANGE VISITOR. 6i 
 
 "Well," said the man, drawing a deep breath of relief, 
 "we'll talk it over, and see what there is in it. I must 
 know all about it, you see, before I can have any idea 
 whether or not it will pay me to undertake it. You don't 
 propose to put up any money on it, do you?" 
 
 "Not a cent." 
 
 "That makes it rather bad, you understand; because I 
 might spend what little money I have, and then not accom- 
 plish anything." 
 
 " If that's your disposition, I had better look for another 
 man." 
 
 "O, you are in too big a hurry! When you've been in 
 the business as long as I have, you'll learn a little caution — - 
 that's all. I simply want to know something about the case. 
 As 1 understand it, the murder was committed a great many 
 years ago." 
 
 " Eighteen years.'' 
 
 "That's a long time, you know. The chances are that 
 the man is dead." 
 
 "No; he's alive." 
 
 "You seem to know who did it," exclaimed the detective, 
 in astonishment. 
 
 "I do know." 
 
 "Oh!" ejaculated Covin. He looked at the young man 
 with the keenest interest, . and with a surprise that he did 
 not attempt to conceal. 
 
 "How long have you known it?" he asked. 
 
 "That is no matter," replied Graham, sharply and sternly. 
 
 Covin was evidently uneasy. He had to deal with a man 
 more than his match in nerve and will. 
 
62 BLO OD-MONE Y. 
 
 "Then you don't propose to tell me all you know?" in- 
 quired Covin, in tones of deep respect, but with a certain 
 awkwardness, as if he feared an unpleasant explosion at any 
 moment. Graham eyed him steadily and sternly; and with 
 a barely perceptible tinge of scorn in his voice, he answered: 
 
 "I will tell you what I please to tell you, and nothing 
 more. I will tell you all that is necessary for you to know. 
 I will throw nothing in your way, but will assist all I can. 
 If you undertake this case, I shall expect you to follow any 
 instructions I choose to give you." 
 
 Covin saw that he had a man before him who would bear 
 not the least trifling; who feared nothing, and who respected 
 no unnecessary scruples; whom Covill could manage no 
 more successfully than he could a grizzly bear at bay. 
 
 "Well," said Covill, after a long pause, "tell me what 
 you can then, and I shall see what can be done." 
 
 Graham readily assented. He gave a history of the mur- 
 der and of the search for the treasure, and then he stopped. 
 
 "Is that all?" asked Covill, evidently disappointed. 
 
 Graham remained silent a minute in deep thought. 
 
 "How did you know the treasure was buried at the foot 
 of Lone Tree?" asked Covill respectfully. 
 
 "I had thought," musingly replied Graham, "not to tell 
 you, but I now believe it is best you should know." 
 
 "It is absolutely necessary," said Covill. 
 
 "Not absolutely, but it may be better. I feel that I am 
 reposing great confidence in you, and I rely on you to keep 
 these matters to yourself." 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
A STRANGE VISITOR. (^^ 
 
 Graham produced the niysterious letter. The detective 
 read it carefully, and his eyes sparkled. He folded the let- 
 ter, and was in the act of placing it in his pocket-book, 
 when Graham's hand stayed him. 
 
 "You can't have that letter," said Graham, firmly. 
 
 The detective slightly flushed with anger, but offered no 
 opposition. 
 
 "But this is the only clew I have," urged Covill, with 
 some warmth; "and I can't take a single step without it. 
 Don't you see that the writer of this letter is, beyond 
 doubt, the murderer?" 
 
 "I know it," quietly responded Graham; "but he is only 
 one of them." 
 
 "One of them?" 
 
 "Yes; there are two." 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed Covill, leaning back helpless in his 
 chair, and regarding the young man with an indescribable 
 look of astonishment and wonder. 
 
 "Besides," continued Graham, "there's a third person — 
 the priest. And then, if you are anything of a detective, 
 you ought to know that the writer of this letter will learn 
 that I failed to find the treasure, and that therefore he has 
 been balked in his design by some one who has played fast 
 and loose with him, and that he will surely, beyond the 
 possibility of a doubt, let me hear from him again, and that 
 very soon. But he will not disclose his whereabouts. 
 Hence I want help." 
 
 The detective was crushed and dejected. The superior- 
 ity of Graham over him, and the high hand and absolute 
 
64 BLOOD-MONE V. 
 
 confidence with which he carried off this advantage, made 
 the detective feel uncomfortable and insignificant. Hap- 
 pening at last to observe in Covill's face traces of these 
 feelings, Graham silently pondered over the matter, and 
 then said: 
 
 "Don't think that I am to be contrary and unreasonable. 
 I have no doubt you are a skillful man, or the chief 
 never would have sent you to me.. Possibly I seem to you 
 to be abrupt and harsh. I don't intend to be. The reason 
 I am so positive concerning certain things is, that I have 
 given those things the very closest study. I don't pretend 
 to be a detective; but the conclusions I have come to are so 
 natural that you yourself could not avoid them, knowing 
 as much as I know." 
 
 The detective's face gradually cleared during the progress 
 of this frank speech, which brought the two men nearer 
 together, and placed them upon an even footing. 
 
 "As I was saying," continued Graham, "we may natur- 
 ally expect to hear again from the writer of that letter. 
 It seems to me that there cannot possibly be anything in 
 common between the writer and the priest. I think it is 
 probable that the other of the two murderers was the source 
 of information to the priest, who I don't believi^ was a 
 priest at all." 
 
 Another quick look of surprise darted across the detec- 
 tive's face. He instantly recovered himself, and the conver- 
 sation proceeded. After it had continued a few minutes, 
 the detective said: 
 
 "I will undertake the case." 
 
A STRANGE VISITOR. 65 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 "And am I to have five thousand dollars if I arrest the 
 man?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Is that all that's to be done?" 
 
 "No; the priest must be found." 
 
 "And is that all?" 
 
 "That is all. When you have done that much, I will 
 relieve you, and will finish the job myself" 
 
 He said this very quietly, and the puzzled and searching 
 look with which the detective regarded him failed to reveal 
 anything but a deep determination of some kind. 
 
 The conversation ceased. Graham had already given the 
 detective the names and description of the two murderers. 
 After some moments of silence the detective said calmly : 
 
 "I think you are on the wrong scent." 
 
 "How is that?" 
 
 "You have entirely overlooked one important thing." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "The man who wrote that letter is evidently a Catholic." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "I'll prove it: the letter shows on its face that he has re- 
 pented of the murder, and wants to do all he can to repair 
 the evil effects of it." 
 
 " Undoubtedly." 
 
 "A man who has such a disposition requires a confidant." 
 
 ' Evidently." 
 
 " It is apparent that this crime has for some time been 
 weighing heavily on his mind." 
 5 
 
66 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 " Possibly; but what makes you think so?" 
 
 Encouraged at the keen interest he had aroused in Gra- 
 ham, the detective's face brightened, all his assurance re- 
 turned, and he continued in a tone of the most positive 
 conviction : 
 
 "There can be no doubt about it. The inference is 
 unavoidable. You are not the only person he has taken into 
 his confidence." 
 
 "Indeed?" 
 
 " Yes. He made up his mind to be a good man, and 
 naturally desired forgiveness. As that was out of the ques- 
 tion, he resorted to a course very much like it." 
 
 "And what was that?" 
 
 " Absolution." 
 
 "Absolution!" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " But I don't understand you," said Graham, eagerly and 
 greatly confused. 
 
 "He joined the Catholic Church, which is the only one 
 that grants absolution." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " He went to a priest, resolved to begin a new life, and 
 made a full confession of all his past crimes and shortcom- 
 ings." 
 
 The light was dimly breaking upon Graham's mind. 
 
 " He confessed this murder to the priest, and told of the 
 robbery and the buried treasure. The priest's heart bounded, 
 and he trembled in every limb — " 
 
 "What is your theory?" interrupted Graham, impatiently. 
 
A STRANGE VISITOR. 
 
 67 
 
 "The priest extorted from the murderer a confession as 
 to the spot where the treasure was buried. Then the priest 
 absolved him and blessed him ; and then, yielding to a temp- 
 tation too strong for human nature, he procured a horse and 
 buggy, started out in search of the gold, found it, and hid it." 
 
 Graham certainly was excited. He was on his feet before 
 Covin had finished, and breathed deep and hard. 
 
 "You must be right," he said in a half whisper. "Strange 
 I had not thought of it before!" 
 
 "Now, give me a description of the priest with minute 
 accuracy." 
 
 Graham complied in a dazed, helpless way. 
 
 "Keep quiet a few days," added Covill, "and I am cer- 
 tain I can find the priest." 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 "When will you return?" 
 
 "I will stay here a few days longer." 
 
 "Good day. You shall hear from me again." 
 
 "Good day." 
 
 The detective had left the room, when he remembered 
 something forgotten, and then returned to the door. 
 
 "Probably," he said, "another detective will come to see 
 you about this matter. Of course it will never do to let 
 another man into this case without my consent." 
 
 "Certainly not." 
 
 "Good day." 
 
 "Good day." 
 
 Graham sat in a kind of half stupor nearly an hour, 
 when his reverie was interrupted by a rap at the door. 
 
68 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 "Come in." 
 
 A stranger, cahn, dignified, and self-possessed, entered in 
 obedience to the summons. 
 
 "Good afternoon, sir," he said gravely. "I was informed 
 by the chief of police that you want the services of a detec- 
 tive in an important and obscure case." 
 
 "I have already secured a man." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 The stranger was surprised. He shrugged his shoulders, 
 and with his grave, dignified manner, said: 
 
 "Then you have no need of my services." 
 
 "None whatever." 
 
 "Good afternoon, sir." 
 
 "Good afternoon." 
 
 In the mean time Covill went his way with a light step 
 and a self-satisfied air. In three minutes he arrived at a stair- 
 way, mounted two steps at a time, rapped at a door, and 
 entered. The room in which he stood, hat in hand, was a 
 cozy private room adjoining the elegantly appointed study- 
 room of a lawyer. A tall, white-haired man sat in an easy- 
 chair, and asked Covill to seat himself. Covill's manner 
 had undergone a strange change from the moment he 
 rapped at the door. In place of the buoyancy, he seemed 
 jaded and haggard. Before seating himself he closed the 
 door leading into the study-room. 
 
 "Well?" said the old man, inquiringly. 
 
 " I made it, Judge, but he's the hardest man to tackle that 
 I ever saw." 
 
 " But you succeeded ? " 
 
A STRANGE VISITOR. 69 
 
 "Yes: after a harder fight than I want to have again 
 soon, I got him under my thumb. But he's terribly ugly. 
 By George ! if I had known what kind of a man he is, I 
 wouldn't have commenced this job for a thousand dollars. 
 I am willing to draw out of it now, and not charge you a 
 cent for what I have done ; but I'll see myself dead before 
 I'll consent to carry this dirty job out for two hundred dollars, 
 as we agreed the other day. I must have five hundred dollars, 
 or I don't move a peg." 
 
 " I'll make it a thousand," quietly remarked the old man. 
 
 It was about this time that the second detective who visited 
 Graham remarked to the chief: 
 
 "That young fellow has employed a man." 
 
 "That is strange," replied the chief; "for I sent no man 
 but you to him. I suppose he picked up somebody." 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 NELLIES NEW FRIENDS. 
 
 ^|HERE had been a mild winter, and the spring 
 had opened unusually early. The rains had 
 ceased. They had been light, and the farmers 
 felt considerable uneasiness for fear the crops 
 would be a partial failure. Particularly was this the case in 
 the San Joaquin Valley, where other discouraging influences 
 operate than the uncertainty of the seasons. There were 
 artificial obstacles as well as those that were natural. 
 
 Still, an early spring was hailed joyfully by tourists — that 
 vast swarm of human bees that desert the busy hives in 
 summer, and go out to enjoy the fresh, perfumed air of the 
 plains. 
 
 A few days after Graham left for San Francisco, a merry 
 party of pleasure seekers left the railroad at a station in 
 Tulare County, and from persons living there, with whom 
 arrangements had previously been effected, procured large 
 wagons, in which to take a trip to Tulare Lake. Its shore is 
 covered with a dense growth of tules, and there is an utter 
 absence of inspiring scenery. Nevertheless, it possesses 
 some remarkable features, one of which being that it is the 
 
NELLIE'S NEW FRIENDS. 
 
 71 
 
 greatest resort of water-fowl in the State, wild ducks and 
 geese abounding in countless numbers. The time of year 
 at which the tourists found themselves on the plains of 
 Tulare County was well selected. The gentlemen of the 
 party could find no better sport than shooting wild geese; 
 while the women could amuse themselves with the excellent 
 fishing that the waters of the lake afford. 
 
 The presence of the great numbers of geese often pre- 
 sents a remarkable sight, and one well worth seeing. They 
 cover the ground like snow, and when disturbed they take 
 wing, with the noise of a rushing storm. It was for such 
 sights as these that the party of tourists proposed to 
 visit the lake — an unusual trip, but one offering many 
 inducements. *■' 
 
 The party consisted of four men and as many women — 
 all well-bred, well-to-do people from San Francisco. Some 
 of them were young and unmarried. 
 
 "This is glorious!" exclaimed one pretty and vivacious 
 young lady, as she stood on the veranda of the little hotel 
 at sunrise, and gazed wonderingly at the mirage on the plains 
 to the northward. "This surely ra«V be a mirage! Why, 
 there are beautiful tall palms standing on such pretty little 
 green islands, and such smooth, glassy water all around, and 
 the dark green trees away, away on the farther side! O 
 Auntie, surely that is not the dread mirage we read about, 
 that leads the thirsty traveler onward, and that finally melts 
 away, leaving only the desert before and behind and all 
 around ! It is as natural as life, and more beautiful than 
 anything I ever saw before. Did you ever see anything half 
 so grand, Auntie?" 
 
72 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 "I have seen the mirage often, my child — not here," said 
 the elder woman, correcting herself with some haste — "not 
 here, but on the desert, when your uncle and I came over- 
 land to California. You remember that trip, don't you? 
 It was ten years ago, and you were six years old then." 
 
 "I can barely remember it. I think it is good of Uncle 
 Frank to let us come down here instead of sending us to 
 Yosemite, don't you. Aunt?" 
 
 "Yes, Alice," replied the aunt, but with a preoccupied 
 air. 
 
 The other members of the party came tripping gayly out 
 from the breakfast-table. 
 
 "O Mr. Edwards !" exclaimed Alice. "Come and see 
 the beautiful mirage ! Why — ^why — Auntie, it is gone ! 
 Where is it?" 
 
 Her artless surprise and disappointment amused the man. 
 
 "See, Alice," he laughingly said, "the sun has just peeped 
 over the Sierra, and the mirage is frightened away." 
 
 The lovely girl gazed dreamily out upon the plains, 
 endeavoring to stamp ineffaceably on her memory the gor- 
 geous picture she had seen. 
 
 They laughed and chatted, like children out of school, 
 and ran about on the plains, gathering great armfuls of 
 bright wild flowers; exclaiming when they found one more 
 beautiful than the others, and exhibiting triumphantly every 
 rare floral trophy. Nothing half so bewitching had they 
 ever seen in the exotic gardens of the city. Surely these 
 whilom wind-swept, desolate plains — the abode of the 
 gopher, and the sleepy owl that was his companion, and the 
 
1 TT7 \Tr> a 
 
 | fej[i(=)!il|0i;te>;i0i[(iio!|ai!6ii©!;s 
 
 2 ^''^„m 
 
 '^^4 ^^Oy^ i 
 
 M 0) o ^ 
 
 = o 
 
 =0 ^ .s 
 
 a C -o .S ^ Ph H 
 
 '^ '*-' -i-s CJ 
 
 ^ <^ .^ -e be K 
 
 ^ >~^ ^ S 2 _ 
 "S ^ ^ O .1-1 M 
 
 _ c t:^ '-' TO "-I 
 9 - S <|^ « 
 ^ >, cS ^P Ji 
 
 o "-^ Qj K r- G 
 
 -►^ rT-lS :3 o o 
 
 r; ^3 .^ -tJ _ ^1 S/'' 
 
 -iTr,S 5 ^ ^ '^ fl 
 
 o 3 .S: S O "^ -r- "r" 
 
 ^ 00 ^ .'^ M S '^ 
 X S S cc o ix 
 
 ^.o p^c; g-^ a; 
 
 ^ .-^ ^ O be ce , .^ 
 -, ^^ -^ en ^ o^ E 
 
 
 -H^.S^C^ 
 
/? T nn ri—ivTn atj? v 
 
Jirtr r T rp' c MP hV IfRTF.MDS. 
 
 is ^* 
 
 -a' — -5 5 s 
 * a r-- © g a 
 
 'IS %% g^ 
 
 
 •S' c r ** 
 
 Kg-* 
 
 O O ™ 
 
 •5 ^.^ ■ 
 ^2 I 
 
 C-S^—SS' £"P^? 
 
 P ij? ti. -c ■ 
 
 2 — ^SS 
 
 
 
 || g 
 
 £. s_ c^ c' g^ 
 
 
 T £ 3 to 
 
 05 
 
 5 2.=- 
 
 
 c c 
 s 2.cr 
 
 o 
 
 a 
 
 < £ S ^ 
 
 ^ o 
 
 
 o » 
 
 p -a 
 S 5- 
 
 -»l'^R^l<gaRg/i^/gMaCM/ 
 
Rr nnn-!iTnAr}7v 
 
 '■^^mm^^^k. 
 
 V 
 
 ■ V*" ' V- 
 
 
 
 ^^-'^- \_ 
 
 r^"!*^- 
 
 •■^■v • 
 
 -jC(2i® e^'f- ''5,'oii<^'!® ®!®'®'0''Q:'© \\ 
 
 ■^ 
 
 2 
 
 2 
 
 i i 
 
 
 3 
 
 c 
 
 o 
 
 
 K4 
 
 'a? 
 
 1c 
 
 ^ '? 
 
 ro* 
 
 CD 
 
 
 +^ p 
 
 SxS 
 
 "o 
 
 o" c. 
 
 *>;■ 
 
 O 
 
 
 ■+^ "^ 
 
 
 I"] 
 
 "^ 
 
 C3 r— 
 
 
 o 
 
 c 
 
 
 
 
 q 
 
 
 SXS 
 
 > 
 
 ^ 
 
 "^ s 
 
 ff^ 
 
 I r 
 
 ^=tS 'I 
 
 
 S g ?:i 
 
 . Pi o 
 
 QC c^i 
 
 
 -^ 'bo ^ 
 
 c« OO 2 
 
 8 o^.t^ 
 
 r- ^ GC 
 
 -i to 
 
 "o '*"' 
 
 ^ - - bJO 
 I"' '^ -- 
 
 S Son 
 
 . — . X * 
 
 f— w >*^ 
 
 o 
 
 s-s 
 
 31 5- 
 
 s: o 
 
 ?^ O o 
 
 O 
 
 O r- ■ 
 
 \ N N N N X \ \ >. N. 
 
 X \ \ \ 
 
NELLIE'S NEW FRIENDS. 
 
 73 
 
 screaming hawk, and the broad-winged eagle — surely this 
 boundless, dried-up sea, with its deep, productive soil, and 
 its beautiful tree-lined streams, was the garden spot of all 
 the lands over which the winds from the Pacific passed — a 
 place where the bountiful blessings of nature should be 
 enjoyed ; where health, wealth, and happiness should be the 
 lot of men ; where men sowed the grain, and women milked 
 the cows, and children gathered wild-flowers from the plains 
 — surely human avarice should not mar this handiwork of 
 God, and lurk in the darkness, like a thief, and set man 
 against man, and neighbor against neighbor, and husband 
 against wife, and father against son ; and lay traps, and set 
 snares, and trip the unwary, and make cowards of brave 
 men; and rob the poor, and hinder the thrifty, and caiole 
 its misguided friends— surely these noble plains, lying under 
 the full light that pours straight down from heaven, should 
 not be cursed with the hand of the rich on the throat of the 
 poor; with the robber rolling in princely wealtli, itself out- 
 stripping in magnificence the hidden treasure of Monte 
 Cristo, and flinging this insult in the face of man and the 
 teeth of God — What are you going to do about it ? 
 
 Can a man raise wheat? Well enough; for the ground is 
 rich and the soil is deep. Can he sell it? Well enough; 
 for a hungry world holds out its hand for the harvest from 
 these plains. Can he reap a profit? Why not? — for cheap 
 is the land, and little is the work that this paradise demands. 
 Z>oes he reap a profit? God, no! for his costs are weighed, 
 and his gains are pared to the quick. 
 
 Well, 7vkat will you do about it? Nothing. Nothing. 
 
74 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 Absolutely nothing. Sit down and whine like a cur whose 
 tail has been stepped on ; unresistingly be bullied and trodden 
 under foot ; tremble under the frown of imperious arrogance, 
 and lick the boot that drives the stinging kick; grovel in 
 poverty, and sleep with gaunt hunger; laugh and sing, and 
 eat and be merry, like leering louts, like driveling idiots, 
 like brainless fools ; and dance, though the fiddler be Death. 
 
 That is what is done about it, and that is all that will be 
 done about it, until men are born and cowards are kicked 
 aside. 
 
 The wagons soon were feady. There were two, and they 
 were large and roomy. Mrs. Harriott (for such was the 
 name of Alice's aunt, who exercised a kind of maternal 
 supervision over the entire party) had wisely foreseen many 
 of the difficulties and inconveniences that would be met 
 with on the trip, and had already sent out a messenger, 
 charged with making preparations at farm-houses for dinner 
 and supper for the party. Acting under the instruction of 
 Mrs. Harriott, the messenger made arrangements for dinner 
 
 at the house of Nellie's uncle. 
 
 This Mrs. Harriott was a woman of unusual strength of 
 character. This was seen in her large, sinewy hands, in her 
 firm compression of the lips, her square shoulders and erect 
 carriage, and the steady glance of her eyes. She was a wo- 
 man to be depended on in a test of nerve and discretion. 
 She must have been at least fifty years of age, although a stran- 
 ger would not have supposed she was over forty. She had 
 cool self-possession, and would be at ease under any cir- 
 cumstances. Nevertheless, there -was a certain steely look 
 
NELLIE'S iXEW FRIENDS. 
 
 75 
 
 in her eyes — a certain dangerous and uncompromising cold- 
 ness — that would forever prevent her becoming the confiden- 
 tial friend of a sympathetic person. She displayed an 
 unobtrusive but surprisingly accurate knowledge of all the 
 common affairs of every-day life, under many of its varied 
 aspects. She was as much at home on the plains as she was 
 in her reception room in San Francisco. She knew the 
 name of every weed and flower. This one was poisonous, 
 that one fragrant. This flower was a bluebell, that a colum- 
 bine, the other a poppy, still another a lupin, and so on 
 through the list. She was familiar with the mountains, and 
 entertained the party with descriptions of Mt. Tyndal, Mt. 
 Whitney, Mt. Kaweah, and Miner's Peak. She had a quiet, 
 dignified air, that commanded attention and respect. Alice, 
 be it said, was an adopted child, although she did not employ 
 parental appellations. 
 
 It was a happy day for all the party, excepting, perhaps, 
 Mrs. Harriott, whose mqnner was by habit too stern and 
 composed to permit any exhibition of enjoyment or any 
 other feeling. 
 
 At noon they arrived at Foster's. Nellie, fluttering with 
 excitement at this hitherto unheard-of episode in her quiet 
 life on the plains, and feeling on her shapely shoulders the 
 whole weight of responsibility that the occasion imposed, 
 had made careful preparation for the reception of the party, 
 not overlooking certain primitive but effective secrets of 
 good taste in the matter of her own fresh personal appear- 
 ance. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed with 
 exercise and excitement when she went to the gate, followed 
 
76 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 1 
 
 by her slower uncle, to welcome the strangers. While Mr. 
 Foster cared for the horses, Nellie ushered the party into 
 the house, volubly disparaging the accommodations she 
 offered, and blushing prettily under the shower of compli- 
 ments that especially the gentlemen of the party heaped 
 upon her. 
 
 When Mr. Foster appeared at the gate, Mrs. Harriott 
 eyed him narrowly, and then her attention was directed to 
 Nellie. She warmed to the girl in a manner entirely 
 foreign to her usual way. She complimented Nellie's fine 
 black hair, her large blue eyes, her rosy-white complexion, 
 her dimpled cheeks, and her pretty mouth. Nellie laughed, 
 blushed, and chattered. She had never felt half so happy 
 in all her life before. The sensation of being v.ith these 
 bright, witty people was novel, exhilarating, almost intoxi- 
 cating. And let it be said — and not at all to Nellie's dis- 
 credit — that she was by no means abashed in their pres- 
 ence; that she gave repartee for sally, and laughed heartily 
 at them for their ignorance of country ways; and she made 
 the men stare in open-mouthed wonder, as she in an off- 
 hand manner recounted her daring exploits on the wild- 
 est mustang ponies in the country. 
 
 There never was a dinner half so jolly, and there were 
 never appetites keener or more appreciative, and there 
 never was a dinner more fit for a king. So agreeably did 
 the time slip away, that two hours had already passed since 
 the arrival — two hours of precious time. Strange that so 
 cool and calculating a woman as Mrs. Harriott should have 
 yielded to the sweet seductions of that pleasant home ! 
 
NELLIE'S NEW FRIENDS: 
 
 77 
 
 There was another person in whom Mrs. Harriott took 
 great interest — Graham's grandmother. The poor old lady 
 was dazed by the noise and overflow of spirits that the 
 happy party brought into the house, and she would have 
 been glad to run surreptitiously away to her own deserted 
 home; but Mrs. Harriott found good opportunity to pay 
 many kind attentions to the old lady, and engaged her in 
 conversation apart from the others, and listened with the 
 keenest interest to Mrs. Graham's recital of her troubles, 
 and her love for her grandson, whom the old lady solemnly 
 asserted to be the noblest boy that ever lived. With judi- 
 ciously framed interrogatories she learned every iota of 
 Graham's movements, discoveries, and intentions that the 
 old lady knew. 
 
 Calling Nellie aside, she thanked the girl in the tenderest, 
 most earnest manner; and before Nellie could realize what 
 had happened, she found upon her wrist a heavy bracelet of 
 rich, yellow, woven gold, and the solid ends of the graceful 
 spiral were set each with a handsome pearl and turquois. 
 It was the most magnificent piece of jewelry that had ever 
 come under the wrapt gaze of Nellie. 
 
 She turned deathly pale. 
 
 "Wear it, Nellie," said Mrs. Harriott, "as a memento of 
 this day, which has been such a happy one." 
 
 Nellie partially recovered from her stupor of surprise, and 
 then threw herself upon Mrs. Harriott's neck, and kissed 
 her again and again, and then sank down on a chair, and 
 cried piteously from pure excess of joy. Mrs. Harriott 
 soothed her in the kindest manner, and presently Nellie's 
 
7 8 • BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 equanimity was restored. Mrs. Harriott then passed her 
 arm through Nellie's and carried her back to the party, the 
 members of which were lounging in chairs on the veranda; 
 and Mrs. Harriott, addressing Mr. Foster and the tourists, 
 said: 
 
 " Mr. Foster, I have a proposition to make to you, and 
 one that I am sure will be heartily seconded by everybody 
 present. It is that you permit Nellie to accompany us to 
 the lake, and remain with us in camp." 
 
 This second surprise completely took the breath from 
 Nellie. The members of the party all joined clamorously 
 in the request; and before Nellie could say a word, Mr. 
 Foster had yielded under the storm that assailed him, and 
 he gave his consent. It is unnecessary to say that Nellie 
 was only too happy to join the party. By the time her 
 hasty preparations were completed the wagons were ready 
 to start; and then they sallied out over the plains, Nellie 
 gaily waving her handerchief to those she left behind. 
 
 Ah, Nellie! Nellie! Little dream you of the snares 
 that are laid to trip your pretty feet. Little know you of 
 how your weaknesses have been studied and analyzed. 
 Little suspect you that you may be used as a tool, and 
 twisted around a strong woman's finger; and then thrust 
 aside when your usefulness is over, and left bruised and 
 bleeding in the dust. Poor, foolish, vain, weak Nellie ! 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 BLACKMAIL. 
 
 OVILL," said the Judge, after agreeing to pay 
 the detective one thousand dollars for a certain 
 case, "it now becomes necessary for me to give 
 you a further insight into the case that I have 
 intrusted to you. In the first place, I wish to say that I 
 fully appreciate your success thus far, and I assure you that 
 you will never lose anything by your zeal in my behalf" 
 
 "I am certain of that. Judge," said Covill hastily, and in 
 a manner conveying an apology for his recent greedy de- 
 mand. 
 
 "And I wish to add," continued the Judge, bowing 
 slightly for the compliment implied by Covill's words, "that 
 I depend fully on your discreetness, your skill, and your 
 faithfulness." 
 
 Covill was profuse in his thanks, and he mentally re- 
 solved to throw his whole soul into the work before him, 
 and to never again distrust his employer's generosity and 
 honor. 
 
 "Now, Covill, please give me your closest attention, and 
 endeavor to fix in your memory every word that I am going 
 
8o BLOOD-MONE V. 
 
 to speak; for the matter is of some importance, and your 
 best detective skill will be called into requisition. 
 
 "I am all attention, Judge." 
 
 The Judge remained buried in thought for some moments, 
 and then he asked: 
 
 "Did the young man tell you whom he suspects of the 
 crime?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What name did he mention?" 
 
 The detective glanced around furtively, assured himself 
 that the doors were closed, and that no one could possibly 
 be in hearing, and then leaned forward and whispered a 
 name in the ear of the Judge, and then narrowly watched 
 the effect. 
 
 "Did he say there were two?" asked the Judge, in pro- 
 found astonishment. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What makes him think that?" 
 
 "He refused to tell me." 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed the Judge. "IVell," he added, drawing 
 a deep sigh, "the young man is in error; there was only 
 one. But you must find out the reason for his idea. As 
 soon as I heard that he was hunting for the treasure, I knew 
 he had been communicated with, and it is to learn how 
 much he knows and what he believes, that I sent you after 
 him. Of course you secured the letter, did you not, Covill?" 
 
 "Yes; here it is," replied Covill, producing the letter, 
 which the older man took and read with great interest. 
 
 "I am not sure, Covill," the Judge finally said, "but I am 
 
BLACKMAIL. 8 1 
 
 Strongly of the opinion that I know who wrote this letter. 
 The work that lies before you now is to find that man without 
 a moment's dela}". Covill, the circumstances leading to the 
 writing of this letter are so singular that they would seem to 
 you the wildest romance. It was written for a far deeper 
 purpose than that which it shows on its face. It may ap- 
 ])ear strange to you that I should know these things^ — ■ 
 indeed, it is more surmise than knowledge — but I am con- 
 vinced that I understand the motive lying behind this letter. 
 It is one of intense malignity and revenge ; and young Gra- 
 ham has been cunningly selected as the tool for carrying a 
 bad design into effect. I have no ill-feeling for the young man. 
 I care nothing for him, and am indifferent about his concerns. 
 I might even render him a service if it should come in 
 my way; and certainly he will be incidentally benefited if we 
 succeed in thwarting the designs that it is intended he shall 
 carry out. You understand my position. I am considered 
 a rich man, (though my wealth is greatly overrated) and as 
 a capitalist, owning a great deal of land in the San Joaquin 
 Valley; and as a man associated with many of the richest 
 corporations in the State, as manager of some of the ramifi- 
 cations of their business, it hardly becomes me to be iden- 
 tified with a matter of such comparative insignificance as 
 this uiatter seems to have. But on the other hand, as I 
 have already said, there is a deeper meaning to this letter 
 than at first appears. You know that there is in this State 
 a loud-mouthed, dangerous element in the lower strata of 
 society, and that it is composed of malcontents, discon- 
 tented vagabonds, drunkards, and other idle and vicious 
 6 
 
82 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 persons. Because, by energy and superior judgment, some 
 men, comparatively very few, have amassed fortunes, these 
 low classes of society are jealous and envious. They howl 
 about the aggressions of the rich, and shout themselves 
 hoarse over the imaginary hardships that the powerful rail- 
 road and other monopolies impose. As you well know, we 
 submit to persecutions without a murmur. These matters 
 are notorious. The vicious persons — outlaws, thieves, for- 
 eigners, and discontented and mischievous persons from 
 every quarter of the globe — these persons, composing the 
 lower classes of society— the ignorant, coarse, and brutal- 
 flock to California. This is the asylum for all the renegades 
 of creation. As proof of the fact, note the opposition there 
 is to wealth, and the power it wields. These men are or- 
 ganizing land leagues, secret societies, and a political party 
 opposed to the so-called monopolies. Shrewd and unscru- 
 pulous rascals are really the leaders of this rebellious move- 
 ment. 
 
 "Now this brings me to a direct consideration of the 
 case in hand. These vicious and idle men concoct all 
 kinds of schemes to annoy the capitalists and benefit them- 
 selves; and this mysterious letter emanates from such a 
 source. It makes no difference to me whether or not the 
 murder and robbery were committed. It is no concern of 
 mine that the treasure was buried and then taken away. 
 Covin, the writer of that letter hiew the treasure had been 
 removed. He was careful that it was not under Lone Tree 
 when he wrote' that letter. He reasoned in this manner: 
 Young Graham will search for the treasure, and will not find 
 
BLACKMAIL. 83 
 
 it ; he will feel great resentment toward some one, and will 
 seek to find the treasure; then will be the time to direct 
 his suspicions against some sympathizer with the railroad 
 monopolists, and who is suspected by his neighbors of be- 
 ing in league against them — some powerful man who has 
 incurred the enmity of others in Graham's neighborhood ; 
 and these will render him assistance in carrying out some 
 desperate design against the person or persons on whom the 
 suspicion will be cast. Do you follow me, Covill?" 
 
 The detective was completely absorbed in this recital, 
 listening with the closest interest. He nodded in reply to 
 the question. 
 
 "This will be all the more practicable, in view of the 
 bitter feeling that now exists among the people of Mussel 
 Slough — idle, vicious people, who have settled on land they 
 know does not belong to them, and who seek to rob a use- 
 ful corporation of it by exciting popular sympathy in their 
 favor, as against the rich corporation that has done the only 
 thing that could make that country desirable as a place of 
 residence. You understand, now, that when these people 
 of Mussel Slough are induced to believe that some such 
 man as I mentioned just now has robbed this boy, they will 
 be ready to rise up in arms and commit some terrible 
 outrage. This is all clear to you, is it not?" 
 
 "Perfectly, sir." 
 
 "But that is not all. You see the importance of meet- 
 ing this cunning movement with one equally as shrewd, and 
 of nipping it in the bud before it can develop, and hence of 
 finding the writer of this letter. As I said, however, that is 
 
84 BLOOD-MONE Y. 
 
 not all. Who wrote this letter? I think I know. But 
 another thing must be first considered. The name you 
 mentioned to me just now has no significance for me. I 
 know of no person bearing it. But don't you see that it 
 would be the simplest matter in the world to find some man 
 of that name who would swear that he was merely the tool 
 of a rich man— I mean of a man who has become rich 
 since the crime was committed?" 
 
 "I see." 
 
 "This would make the charge against the rich man the 
 more plausible, as it would place him in the position of be- 
 ing exposed unwillingly by another man anxious to save his 
 own neck." 
 
 Covin stared in open-mouthed admiration at the ingenuity 
 of this logic. 
 
 "As I said, however, Covill," continued the capitalist, 
 "the most interesting part of this matter remains to be told, 
 and I will proceed at once, as my lawyer will soon return. 
 The train of reasoning I have just followed up is based on 
 something surer than mere surmises. As proof of it, I want 
 you to read this letter, received by me several weeks ago : 
 
 "If you don't cease your persecutions, and allow me to earn an honest 
 living, I shall tell something that I know." 
 
 The letter bore neither date, address, nor signature. 
 "Why," explained Covill, in great surprise, "this is the 
 same handwriting as that of the letter to Graham!" 
 "Certainly." 
 "What does it mean?" 
 
BLACKMAIL. 85 
 
 "Blackmail." 
 
 "But how?" 
 
 " Let me tell you something, Covill," said the capitalist, 
 ■with an ugly glitter in his eyes: "that man is a fool who un- 
 dertakes to run against the power of money. He finds him- 
 self encountering silent obstacles that he cannot understand. 
 In California, a rich man is powerful, because as a rule his 
 interests are common with those of other rich men. The 
 community of great interests operates to the strengthening 
 of the power of capital. This is a condition existing every- 
 where; but nowhere is it so great as in California. The 
 reasons are quite plain, but it may be of service to you to 
 know a few of them"; and he gave Covill a significant look. 
 "The two great interests in this State are production and 
 transportation. The great productions are those of agricul- 
 ture and mining. Transportation is consolidated into one 
 set of men, and the other interests are scattered among in- 
 numerable individuals, who are not organized. But many 
 of these producers are extremely rich, and many of them, as 
 individual persons, are strong enough to embarrass the opera- 
 tions of the transportation monopoly. The poorer pro- 
 ducers are not. Hence it becomes necessary for certain 
 favors to be shown the rich producers, and certain other 
 favors are granted in return." 
 
 "In other words," interrupted Covill, with a sardonic 
 grin, "it is a combination of the rich against the poor." 
 
 "That is the language of the sand-lot mob," said the 
 capitalist, severely. Covill withered under the scornful look 
 that accompanied this speech. "No, Covill; it is merely a 
 
86 BLO OD-MONE Y. 
 
 measure for self-protection. Well, as I was going to say, 
 this communit}' of interests is strong enough to bring con- 
 siderable discomfort to a man whose only means of earning 
 a livelihood is that which capital offers to labor. Do you 
 understand, Covill?" 
 
 "I think I do, sir; but it seems to me that any consider- 
 able exercise of such a power might eventually have the 
 effect of accumulating a large number of men — large enough 
 to do some mischief" 
 
 "Bah!" exclaimed the Judge, with disgust. "You are a 
 fool, Covill. The remedy for such things is so simple that 
 a child can understand it. A mere request addressed to 
 the governor is all that would be necessary. He would call 
 out the militia, and the militia would shoot down the fools. 
 Why, Covill, I have even often wondered how the capitalists 
 of this State can be so patient and forbearing as to permit 
 abusive speeches and newspaper articles." 
 
 " I suppose the reason is," urged Covill, with much defer- 
 ence, "that these speeches and articles do no harm." 
 
 "That is it. Well, to continue the subject: not only is 
 there a community of interests between capital and capital, 
 but capital occupies a position in which it can extend minor 
 favors to thousands and thousands of poor people, ambitious 
 persons, politicians, and political leaders, and the many 
 hundreds of thousands who are natural sycophants, and 
 whom small favors will win. It is to such as the.se also that 
 the influence of the corporations can extend in advancing 
 or hindering the interests of others. Do you understand, 
 Covill?" 
 
BLACKMAIL. 87 
 
 Covin understood; and he at last also divined the true 
 purport of this extended harangue, which was principally to 
 make him appreciate his helplessness if he should in the 
 least prove unfaithful to his trust. From that moment, 
 Covin, being naturally weak, was a slave. The two men 
 remained silent for some tune, and then Covill asked: 
 
 "Do you know who wrote these two letters?" 
 
 "Yes: he is an idle, worthless fellow, whom I have 
 shown more favors than one." 
 
 "Do you know where he is?" 
 
 "No; he became, like other men of his class, a malcon- 
 tent, howling against rich men and the corporations. As a 
 consequence, he lost employment, and disappeared. No 
 doubt he is wandering over the country, trying to find peo- 
 ple to listen to his incendiary tales. Why, Covill, you may 
 judge the character of the man from the fact of his having 
 committed a murder and a robbery, to say nothing of his 
 having fooled this young man, and started him out to do 
 mischief." 
 
 "You hinted at some singular circumstances. Have you 
 told them all?" 
 
 "All that will be of any service to you; but as you are 
 going to look for this man, and no doubt will find him, per- 
 haps it will be better to inform you further. I know this 
 man. He has been to me. He is a desperate, half-crazy 
 man, and from his strange actions I judge that he must be 
 guilty of some startling crime, and that it has been tortur- 
 ing him for many years. He magnifies his grievances; and 
 there can no doubt that he is determined to leave nothing 
 undone to bring trouble upon me." 
 
88 BLOOD-MOJVEY. 
 
 The capitalist then furnished Covill with a minute de- 
 scription of the murderer; and then there followed a con- 
 versation, carried on a minute or two with bated breath. 
 Covill turned pale and shuddered, and seemed undecided. 
 
 "I will shield you from all unpleasant consequences, 
 Covill," said the elder man. "You know I am strong 
 enough to do it. But at the same time it is necessary that 
 you exercise the greatest care. Your disguise must be 
 complete, and you must have no confederates or assistants. 
 If you do the work carefully and thoroughl)^, I will give you 
 five thousand dollars." 
 
 "I will do it," said Covill. 
 
 "As to Graham, you must take good care of him, and 
 put him off from time to time ; and in the mean time I will 
 see that he is satisfied. Pretend to find a trace of the 
 priest, who, I have no doubt, is a genuine priest; but you 
 needn't waste any time looking for him. Covill," added 
 the older man, after a pause, "the contingent reward that 
 Graham offers you doesn't tempt you, does it? Even if you 
 should get that money, Covill, it would never do you any 
 good"; and the cold brown eyes of the old man looked the 
 poor detective through and through. "It would never do 
 you any good, Covill," he repeated. 
 
 Covill left, somewhat pale and nervous; and he was 
 hardly out of sight when a lawyer entered from the studio, 
 and said : 
 
 "Good morning, Judge Harriott." 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 covill's announcement. 
 
 ; HE days dragged slowly by, and still John Gra- 
 ham's new ally was unable to report any definite 
 progress. He complained of the heavy expense 
 entailed by frequent trips to various parts of the 
 country in following up blind trails that led nowhere. Gra- 
 ham did not become disheartened. It is true that the first 
 glowing ardor he felt gradually cooled under these discour- 
 aging reports; and by degrees he brought himself to reflect 
 calmly upon the magnitude of the enterprise. But his inten- 
 tion to search this mystery to its lowest depths and through 
 its darkest ramifications abated not in the least, but rather 
 came out in bolder relief as his excitement melted away. 
 Such was his disposition. It was not by any sudden and 
 violent change in his mind that this determination had framed 
 itself It had not burst upon him in a blaze of fire, the 
 fierce raging of which would soon consume the fuel. • It did 
 not take shape when the mysterious letter was received; and 
 it was only the discovery in the graveyard, and the calm re- 
 flection that followed it, that decided him upon the course 
 he had adopted. It is true that this determination was more 
 
9° 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 vivid and fierce while his excitement was high, but it was not 
 more firm. He beUeved he was right, and that was sufficient 
 for him. He beUeved that he and his had been wronged, 
 and that was foundation enough for his resolution. He be- 
 lieved that it lay within the bounds of possibility to right 
 these wrongs, and that was incentive enough to carry ouJ: 
 the intentions of his dogged and inflexible will. If he was 
 impatient before, he was calm and reasonable now. 
 
 It has been herein said concerning him, however, that 
 there was much of stubbornness in his nature; but this would 
 not unnecessarily obtrude itself, for it was counterbalanced 
 by a considerable amount of caution. Still, it might assert 
 itself under bitter and relentless persecution ; for he chafed 
 under restraint, scorned a power greater than that of his 
 strong right arm, and when driven to an extremity would be 
 capable of sacrificing his own interests, if by so doing he 
 might overwhelm his enemy in the general ruin. In addi- 
 tion to this, it was not impossible for him to be thrown into 
 a rage so terrible, so wild, so desperate, that nothing could 
 stand before it — not even his own life. He felt to the full 
 extent the sweet and wholesome restraints that his love for 
 Nellie and his good old grandmother imposed ; and the 
 thought never entered his mind that consideration for them 
 stood in his way in the least. 
 
 His slender stock of money was finally exhausted, and he 
 saw that he must return to his home in the valley. He did 
 not mentally complain at this. He charged nothing to fate. 
 He did not curse his poverty and his feebleness. He brave- 
 ly and without a murmur accepted whatever was. in store 
 
COVILUS ANNOUNCEMENT. 91 
 
 for him, and manfully believed that no blame should attach 
 to anybody for the obstacles that lay in his way. 
 
 "Covin," he said one day, as that worthy person came to 
 report. "I am going back home to-morrow. I can accom- 
 plish nothing here, and my money is exhausted. I shall 
 leave everything to you, and I want you to report to me by 
 letter every new aspect that the matter assumes." 
 
 It was a somewhat singular circumstance — although 
 Graham, not being a close and quick observer, had failed 
 to notice it — that whereas Covill had entered the room with 
 his usual discouraged look, his face brightened when he 
 learned Graham's intention, and he said briskly: 
 
 "Well, I think it's the best thing you can do; but before 
 you start I want you to take something that may be of 
 considerable comfort to you on the road." 
 
 "What is that?" asked Graham, interested at once. 
 
 "I have found a trail." 
 
 "Ah?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "A hot one?" 
 
 "No; but a plain one." 
 
 "Good!" 
 
 " I knew I would in time." 
 
 "And I felt convinced of it." 
 
 "But it will take time to follow it up." 
 
 " That is no matter." 
 
 "Certainly not." 
 
 "We must be patient and watchful, Covill." 
 
 "That's the idea." 
 
92 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 "Well, whose trail have yoo found?" 
 
 "The priest's." 
 
 "The priest's!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What is the clew?" 
 
 Covin pulled from his pocket a small note-book, and 
 carefully turned the pages. Then he found what he wanted, 
 cleared his throat with a manner conveying an idea of the 
 satisfaction he felt with himself, and after glancing over 
 some memoranda, said: 
 
 "On the 14th of December, 1876, Father Thomas, in 
 charge of a small parish in this city, left home, saying he 
 was in ill health and needed rest, and that he would take a 
 short vacation, and would improve the time by visiting some 
 former parishioners at Sacramento. But he had no intention 
 of visiting Sacramento. There is no evidence that he ever 
 bought a ticket. To make a long story short, I traced him 
 to Lathrop, where the railroad turns to the south and passes 
 through the San Joaquin Valley to Los Angeles and Fort 
 Yuma. There I lost the trail." 
 
 "Is that all?" 
 
 "Not quite. After an absence of eight days, he returned. 
 He then said that, after leaving San Francisco, he decided 
 not to visit his old parishioners, and then he took a trip into 
 the interior." 
 
 "Did he say where he went?" 
 
 "No. However, it will now be a simple matter to ascer- 
 tain whether or not he is the man who dug up the Lone 
 Tree treasure. All that I shall have to do is to make thor- 
 
COVILVS ANNOUNCEMENT. 
 
 93 
 
 ough inquiry in all the railroad towns of Fresno, Tulare, 
 and Kern counties, for a priest who hired a horse and buggy 
 on or about the 15th of December." 
 
 "That seems simple enough; but how will that lead you 
 to the treasure?" 
 
 "Because it will lead me to the priest. It is necessary to 
 be absolutely certain that Father Thomas is the man we 
 want, before we can do anything with him." 
 
 Graham shook his head dubiously. He had an idea of 
 his own. 
 
 "I think there is a better plan than that, Covill." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "I will go directly to the priest, surprise him with the 
 charge, and demand the money or his life. 
 
 Covill turned slightly pale. 
 
 "Suppose he refuses to divulge the secret?" 
 
 "I will compel him to." 
 
 "But he would cry out and raise the alarm." 
 
 "You are wrong. He would not cry out." This was 
 said with a certain gloomy fierceness. 
 
 "How would you prevent it?" 
 
 "You shall see." 
 
 "He may be stronger than you." 
 
 "No thief is a good fighter." 
 
 "Besides," urged Covill, whose wits had been very busy 
 during this conversation, "you can hardly have the pleasure 
 of an interview with this reverend gentleman." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "For the simple reason that on Christmas day, which was 
 
g^ BLO OD-MONE Y. 
 
 two days after his return, he conducted high mass in the 
 morning, and then left the city." 
 
 "What!" 
 
 " He has gone." 
 
 Graham, who had risen, now sat down, almost over- 
 whelmed by this new misfortune. 
 
 "Why didn't you tell me that at first?" he demanded 
 severely. 
 
 " You didn't give me a chance before you announced 
 your determination to pay him a visit ; and then I thought I 
 would wait and find out what you intended to do." 
 
 " Then you trifled with me, Covill ! " exclaimed Graham, 
 angrily, and with a look in his eyes that meant mischief. 
 "Be careful how you try that in future." 
 
 Covill feared the young man heartily, and often wished 
 that he had never seen Graham. It may be said in Covin's 
 favor, that the time had been when he was not a bad man 
 at heart. His downfall dated from the time when he was 
 picked up, a hungry and homeless emigrant from the East, 
 by certain men who saw in his poverty and need an oppor- 
 tunity to make him a faithful and useful tool, by giving him 
 employment and placing him under obligations. He had 
 been gradually and insensibly drawn into the performance of 
 a kind of unmanly and secret surveillance over persons in 
 the employment of one of the great railroad companies ; and 
 finally he had been led into nefarious detective work, such 
 as that in which he was engaged for the man called Judge 
 Harriott. 
 
 In this connection a curious phase of human nature. 
 
COVILUS ANNOUNCEMENT. 95 
 
 under the operation of the power that the seemingly invinci- 
 ble corporations — the greater ones— of California wield, 
 presents itself, and Covill is a fair illustration. It is based 
 on the peculiar system of rewards and inducements that are 
 tacitly understood between employer and servant, as being 
 held out to the latter for fidelity in the discharge of his 
 duties. This silently accepted contract is that the servant 
 is recognized as being under the influence of no obligations 
 that do not directly concern the interests of his employer. 
 The more faithful he is to the charge thus imposed and ac- 
 cepted, the more sure will be his promotion, and the more 
 rapid will be the advancement of his own private interests, 
 and the greater becomes his reflected influence and power. 
 Let him raise a finger against his employer's benefit, even if 
 it be in the protection of some private right, or the assertion 
 of independent manhood and citizenship, and he had as 
 well go and hang himself. He is made not only a slave, 
 but a coward also. 
 
 Covill found himself in such a predicament. 
 
 " But," he would gravely moralize, "they stand by a fel- 
 low, and pay him handsomely." 
 
 Covill announced to Graham strong hope of finding the 
 priest, but declared that his first duty was to become as- 
 sured of the identity; and on the following day Graham 
 mounted his horse and rode away. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 NEW DEVELOPMENTS. 
 
 ^ RAH AM was not too deeply absorbed in his 
 plans to overlook a change that had taken 
 
 place since he had left his quiet home in the 
 valley. They were all very glad to see him, to 
 be sure. The good old grandmother clung to his neck, 
 and covered his face with kisses. 
 
 And Nellie? She, too, was glad, but not in the old way. 
 She had returned from that enchanting trip to the lake, 
 which had afforded her such a round of pleasure and ex- 
 citement as she had longed for during her whole life. In 
 that short time she had learned more of the world than 
 ordinary girls would have learned in a life-time. Her quick 
 and .sharp perception had put her in possession of seem- 
 ingly an inexhaustible store of information concerning the 
 ways of people of the world. Those with whom she had 
 associated were persons of wide information, and belonged 
 to that social class that is one degree below the highest, 
 and that observes conventionalities more for the sake of the 
 benefit and pleasure it derives from them than for the sake 
 of being formal. In what is termed the highest social circle 
 
■NE W DE VEL OPMENTS. 
 
 97 
 
 individuality is impossible, because it is an infringement of 
 rules. It is purely mechanical and automatic. It can talk 
 of books, music, and ]5ainting; but it cannot produce them, 
 because it dare not, even if by some mischance it had 
 proper training and sufficient mental development. With 
 Nellie's new friends it was different. They were bold 
 enough to enjoy life. They were daring enough to assert 
 that there are beautiful and grand things in nature. Even 
 if God does work and they did not, they did not feel them- 
 selves superior to Him. They would even have felt them- 
 selves moved by curiosity to pay a visit of inspection to the 
 humble Nazarene, if He should appear in the world. They 
 vv^ere not, as are their social superiors, vapid, empty, and 
 weak. They laughed heartily when amused. They cried 
 out when in pain. They walked, if riding was less conven- 
 ient. They enjoyed life, and made the most of it; and such 
 were natures with which Nellie's could affiliate. She learned 
 a thousand pretty little tricks from Alice — perfectly natural 
 with Alice, by reason of habits hastened by a life-time of 
 practice, but new to Nellie. The country girl was chang- 
 ed; still she was too sensible to make herself appear silly 
 in the eyes of her plain friends, although ehe had a very 
 charming way of pretending to be unconscious of many 
 slyly taken little departures from habits that she had known 
 before. 
 
 It is not matter of surprise that noble, sturdy, big-hearted 
 
 John, whom she had always regarded as a latent hero, 
 
 appeared smaller in her eyes than formerly. He was not 
 
 witty and wise, as were the men with whom she had recently 
 
 7 
 
98 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 associated. His hair was not trimmed in conventional 
 style. His mustache was ragged and neglected. His hands 
 were not soft and white. His clothes, bought ready-made 
 at the village, were painfully unfashionable, and did not fit 
 him well. His cravat was obsolete and absolutely ugly. 
 His shoes were coarse, heavy, and rough. His hat pre- 
 sented a painful contrast to the natty ones of her friends 
 from the city. Besides all that, he did not eat soup from 
 the side of his spoon, and permitted the forefinger of his 
 right hand to extend too far on the blade of his knife while 
 eating. He did not think of the performance of a thousanc 
 of those trifling and delicate attentions that a well-bred man 
 shows a woman. He was very dull and stupid. He had 
 never heard an opera nor seen a drama. It never occurred 
 to him to ascertain the authorship of some book that pleased 
 him, for he was in that crude condition when effects are 
 seen and causes overlooked. 
 
 But Nellie knew (as she was in many respects a sensible 
 girl) that not one of her new male friends could ride as well 
 as John; that none were as strong and active as he; that 
 none could endure such hardships and brave such perils as 
 he could. But it was not in Nellie's nature (and therefore 
 she should not be blamed for it) to go deeper than this, and 
 place John's grander manhood on a higher pedestal in her 
 mind than that occupied by the polished and shallower men 
 she had come to know. 
 
 John did not see and understand all these things, 
 although he felt that a change had taken place in Nellie. 
 It is true that she did not seem to love him less ; but there 
 
NE W DE I 'EL OPMENTS. 
 
 99 
 
 was now a certain superiority in her manner toward liim, 
 that he felt rather than saw. If he had known more of the 
 world and human nature, and had been quicker of percep- 
 tion and understanding, and had possessed more natural 
 tactics, he could have seen, analyzed, and checked the dan- 
 gerous change that had taken place in the mind rather than 
 the heart of the girl he loved and hoped to make his wife. 
 If he had been such a man, he could have torn the painted 
 mask from the faces of his natural inferiors, and exposed to 
 her view the shallowness that lay concealed underneath. 
 
 But even if he could have done all this it might not have 
 availed to quiet the storm of unrest and dissatisfaction that 
 had arisen in Nellie's breast; for it was to such a one as she 
 that the serpent offered the apple in the Garden of Eden — 
 alight heart, and yet a loving and clinging one withal; a 
 longing for that which effort may obtain; a soul that must 
 have a brighter and more glittering idol than one bringing 
 only rest and peace and happiness. 
 
 She was not less happy and cheerful than before, even 
 though she knew her own plain clothing was inadequate for 
 all the purposes for which a woman's clothing is intended ; 
 even though the manners of those about her were coarse 
 and uncouth. The dainty and precise old grandmother, a 
 sworn enemy of dirt and disorder, no longer held sway over 
 Nellie as an autocrat of punctiliousness and good taste. 
 
 But for all that, she was none the less bright and cheerful; 
 and the reason of this lies in the fact that she hoped for a 
 brighter day, believing that her influence over John would 
 be sufficient as a means for her appearing, sooner or later, 
 
lOo BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 in that sphere that she felt she was made to adorn. Poor, 
 foolish Nellie! 
 
 Well, the grandmother and John returned to their home, 
 and the old quiet order of things was apparently restored. 
 The sweet old lady was glad that John never spoke of the 
 missing treasure. In the bottom of her heart — much as 
 she wished for his sake that he might be rich and prosper- 
 ous — she humbly thanked God that they were poor, as 
 thereby her boy was spared to her yet a while longer. He 
 was all she had, and all she prayed for, and all she loved, 
 and all the light and life she had in the world, and all that 
 kept her patient soul and her withered old body together. 
 She almost hoped that he had abandoned the undertaking, 
 and she carefully refrained from mentioning it. He went 
 about his duties as usual. A casual observer would have 
 noticed no change in him. 
 
 He had not abandoned his resolution; but it is true that 
 at times he analyzed his own motives with no lenient scrutiny. 
 At times he would ask himself: 
 
 "Is my motive a good one? Is it not true that my desire 
 to secure the fortune is really the only motive that actuates 
 me? Is it not possible that I am given over to avarice? 
 The murderer has made all the atonement in his power. It 
 would not have come too late if his wishes and intentions 
 had resulted as he wanted them to. Would it be fair and 
 manly to hunt him down ? Let me look this matter squarely 
 in the face. Is it seemly that I should suddenly develop a 
 determination to avenge my father's murder at this late day, 
 in view of my ability to have formed such a resolution some 
 
NEW DEVELOPMENTS. loi 
 
 years ago ? I must admit to myself that a desire to see jus- 
 tice dealt out is not at the bottom of my motives. I must 
 confess the truth, and admit that it is the money I want. 
 Why should I not want it? It is mine. Did I earn it? If 
 not, is it mine? It was my father's. I inherit all that was 
 my father's, including the wrong that was done. I inherit 
 his money, and it is mine. It cannot belong to the man 
 who stole it : then to whom can it belong ? To none but 
 me. Am I avaricious in claiming my own? Surely not. 
 Let me, then, fairly understand myself. It is the money I 
 should look for, and I will look for it. Not only my father 
 was robbed, but I also. Therefore I also have been sub- 
 jected to outrage. If my father had not been killed and 
 robbed, I would have that money to-day. Then certainly I 
 have been robbed, just as surely as if I had first come into 
 the possession of the money before the robbery was com- 
 mitted. Therefore I must not submit like a hound. I 
 must show my manhood and demand my rights. But the 
 robber has, so far as good intention goes, restored the money 
 to me. Can I punish him? No; but I must have the 
 money. He has made atonement, and I accept his act as 
 such. I forgive him the robbery, and hope that God can 
 pardon the murder. But I have been robbed a second time, 
 and this time by a priest ! Very well ; the priest must be- 
 ware. I will regard him as a highwayman, and will hunt 
 him as such, and will treat him as such when I find him. 
 He will be the object of my search. I will find him. I will 
 punish him. I will have my money." 
 
 Occasionally he received letters from Covill, which were 
 
I02 ■ BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 indefinite and unsatisfactory, although they were hopeful. 
 Graham remained quiet and patient, believing that the money, 
 being in the hands of a priest, was in no great danger of be- 
 ing squandered. He would give Covill ample opportunity 
 to do whatever he could do. There would be time to take 
 other steps when Covill failed. 
 
 In the mean time, Nellie had not been neglected by Mrs. 
 Harriott, who wrote kind letters to the county girl, and sent 
 her a book now and then, which Nellie eagerly read. 
 
 One fine day Nellie's heart violently bounded with joy 
 when she received an urgent invitation to visit Mrs. Harriott' 
 who had been so considerate as to inclose a railroad ticket. 
 Now did Nellie's cheeks glow, and now did her bright eyes 
 become brighter svill, and now was she triumphant. " Do 
 not be uneasy concerning your wardrobe," the letter said ; 
 "we shall arrange that all when you come. I need you now, 
 because in a few days Alice will formally enter the world. I 
 want you to be with her, for you have a clear head and a 
 good heart, and you can assist her a great deal. I shall 
 look for you very soon. Do not disappoint us. Of course 
 Alice joins me in this invitation, and Judge Harriott sends 
 you his kindest regards, and hopes you will come." 
 
 Was there ever a grander triumph? Was not Heaven 
 kind to grant her this great boon — the one that her heart 
 yearned for more than all else? The folks at home were 
 proud of the honors showered upon Nellie; and even John, 
 dearly as he loved the girl, told her it would be good for her 
 to go, and that for such a reason he would cheerfully give 
 her up for a time. Nellie's preparations were soon com- 
 
NEW DEVELOPMENTS. 103 
 
 pleted ; and before she had fully come to realize the sweet- 
 ness and brightness of the glorious light that had burst upon 
 her life, the cars were bearing her rapidly to San Francisco. 
 Poor, light-hearted Nellie ! 
 
 She must have received many flattering attentions at San 
 Francisco, for her letters were encyclopedias of news and 
 gossip. Mrs. Harriott had given her fine clothes, and a 
 piece of jewelry now and then ; and beyond a doubt, Nellie 
 was admired, and had at last come to enjoy a realization of 
 her fondest dreams. 
 
 John was pleased that Nellie was happy. 
 
 One day Nellie wrote him that he could secure a position 
 in the service of the railroad company, and urged him to 
 accept it. She explained that she had calked so much about 
 him to her new friends, that they had become interested in 
 him, and wished to do something for him. "To be sure," 
 said Nellie's letter, "the position is not a high one; but you 
 would soon be promoted, until finally you would come to 
 occupy one of the highest positions with the company. The 
 work will not require your absence all the time from home; 
 but you could be with us two or three days every week." 
 The position was that of a brakeman for a freight train — a 
 humble position, and one entailing very hard work ; but it 
 would throw him more upon the world, and would give him 
 a far better opportunity for carrying out his plans than he 
 possessed. Nevertheless, it was a subject deserving serious 
 consideration, for reasons that will presently appear. Under 
 other circumstances, Graham would not have considered it a 
 matter of extraordinary importance; but there were some 
 
I04 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 things to be taken into consideration, which John, careful 
 and farseeing, did not lose sight of. The thought had never 
 occurred to him that Nellie had been drawn into a plot against 
 him ; but he was shrewd enough to see some of the dangers 
 that lay ahead of him. He did not fear them, and consid- 
 ered only the proposition whethei or not it would be posbi- 
 ble to turn these dangers to account. 
 
 Although Graham was ignorant in experience of the world, 
 he had very good general information through reading ; and 
 he was acquainted with many of the particulars of a distress- 
 ing condition of affairs that had arisen in his own section of 
 country, and that affected him to no trifling extent. Matters 
 were taking a serious turn in affairs that concerned him 
 deeply, as well as they did many others who were similarly 
 situated. Violent disturbances were about to occur, and 
 their magnitude impressed him. They were apart from the 
 work he had in hand, but he saw that they would affect his 
 plans. It is no wonder that he seriously considered all the 
 bearings these new developments would have on his plans 
 and his prospects, and that he reflected carefully on the posi- 
 tion he would occupy as a servant of the railroad company. 
 He did not suspect any trap that was laid for him, and did 
 not dream of any plans, to which Nellie had become a 
 party, for overreaching him and crippling his operations. 
 He decided to wait a while. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 A TRAGEDY ON THE PLAINS. 
 
 ^^^/i^EANVVHILE, CoviU had not been idle. In 
 ' ■ place of courage, which he did not possess to 
 a remarkable degree, he had energy and per- 
 severance. Moreover, he was very shrewd, 
 and was by nature fitted to be a successful detective; and 
 he was animated by that zeal which is seen in all the ser- 
 vants, from the highest to the lowest, of those great cor- 
 porations of California that take possession of a man's con- 
 science as well as his hands; that fasten on him, sucking 
 his manhood dry ; that cling to him with the tenacity of a 
 nightmare which cannot be shaken off, and from which 
 there is no waking. In whose service did he show this 
 zeal? In Graham's? Surely not! Graham was poor, and 
 consequently weak. Being unable to grind down the pov- 
 erty of others to a deeper poverty still; to harass and ex- 
 terminate those who opposed him; to put a gag of gold in 
 the mouths of men who might otherwise publish to an ig- 
 norant and careless world horrible truths of injustice and 
 oppression; to buy legislators like sheep, and herd them 
 like cattle; to hold a high hand over the welfare and desti- 
 
1 o6 BLOOD-MONE Y. 
 
 ny of hundreds of thousands of human beings created in 
 the image of God; to hire judges and bribe juries; to send 
 a traitor wherever possible into every community, and put 
 one down at every fireside to set man against man, and 
 thus break the strength of the whole; — being unable to do 
 all this, or any part of it, and being too grand and honest 
 and charitable and human to do it had he the power, he 
 was not the one who first claimed Covin's attention. 
 The tentacles of the octopus were around Covill's soul as 
 well as his arms. As he was, he was merely a part 
 — a very small part — of the great weight that has been 
 chained to the necks of the people of this grand country of 
 gold and wheat and fruit and wine. He did his work 
 faithfully, as did all the others with whom and for whom 
 he worked. He was one of the cogs in this great wheel 
 that grinds men down to desperation, and that has at last 
 driven them to the wall; where, let it be hoped by every 
 man whose mind has not been clouded nor soul corrupted, 
 the wounded bear may show his teeth, and like the hound- 
 ed grizzly of the Sierra, tear with claw and rend with 
 teeth whatever seeks its death. 
 
 Covin had found a trail, but not that of the priest. He 
 cared nothing for the priest. His conscience felt no sting 
 that he had fooled and cheated Graham with the story of 
 Father Thomas, who, so far as Covill knew, had never been 
 in existence. The trail that he had found was that of the 
 man who had Vv'ritten the letter that told of the Lone Tree 
 treasure. This is the manner in which he made that impor- 
 tant discovery: Armed with the minute description that' 
 
A TRAGEDY ON THE PLAINS. 
 
 107 
 
 Judge Harriott had furnished, he had put himself in com- 
 munication with every leading ofiicer of the constabulary in 
 that stretch of country embracing and immediately sur- 
 rounding the valley of the Sacramento, and his efforts were 
 soon rewarded by a response that announced the discovery 
 of the man. Covill had not far to go to find him, for the 
 mysterious man, when discovered, was begging a living 
 among the comfortable homes that nestle cozily in the foot- 
 hills east of Berkeley and Temescal. 
 
 Covill found him easily, and paid a handsome reward to 
 the officer who had rendered such valuable service. And 
 the fact may here be noted that this was not the first time 
 that inferior officers of local civil government (it is a fore- 
 gone conclusion that superior civil officers have been gen- 
 erally the more useful in furthering the schemes of the 
 powerful corporations) — this was not the first time that an 
 inferior officer had exhibited a collateral zeal for a power 
 that has become greater than that mythical thing which, by 
 ignorant persons, is sometimes called a government by the 
 people. People ! Why, there are no people in California ! 
 There are no farmers, no miners, no merchants, no manu- 
 facturers, no wine-makers! If there are, where are they? 
 Search narrowly for them. Visit the State courts and the 
 Federal courts. Look on and under the cushioned seats in 
 the Capitol building. Are they there ? Surely not ! Now 
 and then one of the people is found raising his voice above 
 the sound of the clink of gold; but he had as well be, for all 
 that he can do without the help of others, a quiet sleeper 
 under the shadow of Loue Mountain, or a homeless spirit 
 in the other world. 
 
1 08 BLOOD-MONE Y. 
 
 Having found his man, Covill shadowed him. He was 
 an old man — nearly sixty years old. He belonged to that 
 great army of beggars known as "tramps" — wanderers from 
 house to house: who may be worthy objects of charity, but 
 who generally are able-bodied men, finding it easier to gain 
 a livelihood by imposing on the credulity of tender-hearted 
 people than by earning an honest and manly living; men 
 who invest in whisky all the money that misplaced benevo- 
 lence gives them, and the half of whose time is passed in 
 sleeping off, in some fence corner or deserted field, the 
 effects of intoxication ; petty thieves, who rob hen-roosts and 
 devastate potato patches: a worthless, lazy lot altogether, 
 undeserving of a morsel to eat ; yet among whom there may 
 now and then be one in dire need of whatever may keep 
 soul and body together, that he may not die on the highway 
 of hunger. These are very rare, but sometimes they are 
 found. Sometimes they, having angered a rich and power- 
 ful corporation, find themselves stranded in the search for 
 honest employment, and yet have not the courage and inde- 
 pendence to cross the Rocky Mountains, and commence the 
 battle beyond the reach of the terrible tentacles of the 
 devil-fish. • 
 
 Harris (for this was the name by which he was known) 
 was not withheld by lack of courage for seeking other parts 
 of the country. He had a mission to fill — an atonement 
 to make. The crime of eighteen years ago had haunted 
 him during all those dreary years — years crowded with the 
 bitter pangs of conscience — with poverty and hunger and 
 persecution, when he would have tried to become a better 
 
A TRAGEDY ON THE PLAINS. 
 
 109 
 
 man. By some he was called an incendiary — which in 
 California has come to mean a man who dares speak out 
 against the oppressions that are weighing the people to the 
 earth. He gathered crowds together, and told of his 
 wrongs, and the wrongs of hundreds and thousands of 
 others who had not yet been brought by persecution to the 
 depth in which he groveled. For this, and for the out- 
 spoken honesty of his utterances, he was a marked man, 
 and could easily be found. Petty civil officers, anxious to 
 obey the behests of a lordly power greater than the shadowy 
 democracy of the people's power, and fawning at the feet 
 of that corrupted life-center that sends poisoned blood 
 through every artery of the State's body, were on the alert 
 for such as Harris. It was to them small matter that he 
 had killed a man, and thereby offended the "peace and 
 dignity of the people of California"; but it was important 
 that, weak as he was, he had trodden on the corns of 
 money. There is greater reward in store for those who 
 serve the corporations than there is for those who carry out 
 the wishes of that nominal but feeble and imbecile master 
 called the law — a king who has been stripped of his crown 
 and his purple robe, and whose scepter is gone. 
 
 It was for such reasons that Covill found his man so 
 readily; and Covill had known, and so had Judge Harriott, 
 that the search need not be long and tedious. The strongest 
 master is first obeyed. 
 
 Covill shadowed his man ; but Covill v/as no longer the 
 Covill whose face was familiar to and who was so much 
 dreaded by some men who had already been crushed under 
 
no BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 the Juggernaut wheel of the golden idol — men whom he 
 had watched and hounded for petty shortcomings, or men 
 who had dared vote in an election contrary to the commands 
 of their master. Covill's disguise was complete. He had 
 shaved his mustache, and had allowed a short stubble to 
 grow all over his face. He had become a "tramp," and he 
 wore ragged clothes and dusty shoes. 
 
 He fell in with Harris, and bore him company. He 
 begged with Harris from door to door. He slept with Har- 
 ris in abandoned hay-ricks. He drank with Harris from 
 streams and ditches, and ate with Harris the crusts that were 
 given them, and traveled with Harris day and night. In a 
 burst of confidence he told Harris of imaginary crimes com- 
 mitted, which were not half so cowardly as the one he con- 
 templated — -and cowardice is at the bottom of every wrong 
 of omission or of commission that is done. He hoped that 
 Harris would reciprocate with similar confidences, but Har- 
 ris was discreetly still. Moreover, any confessions by Harris 
 were unnecessary, as Covill became assured beyond the pos- 
 sibility of error that Harris was the man he sought. Why 
 did he not deliver Harris up to the authorities or to Judge 
 Harriott? The reason will soon appear. 
 
 Harris was weary and disturbed. His sleep was broken 
 by incoherent utterings and frequent nightmares. His 
 right leg, on which he limped slightly, and which he said he 
 had broken when he was a boy, frequently ached under the 
 fatigue of a day's long wanderings, and he complained of it. 
 At other times he would say that he wished he was dead ; 
 but that he had one duty to perform in life; that already he 
 
A TRAGEDY ON THE PLAINS. IH 
 
 had made one attempt, but it had failed, he feared; and 
 that he would go in person and do that which he feared a 
 letter he had written had failed to do. 
 
 He hked Covill, and gladly accej^ted the companionship 
 that Covill offered. He was friendless and lonely, and he 
 hungered for a word of sympathy and kindness, and Covill 
 furnished these in abundance. They cost Covill nothing; 
 and Covill had by habit become a sycophant and a flatterer. 
 He cheered the homeless old man, and brought some com- 
 panionship and comfort into his life. 
 
 Led by Harris, the two men pushed their way slowly 
 southward, until one day they found themselves on the bank 
 of the San Joaquin River. The river was full of water from 
 the melting snows of the Sierra, and it was with some diffi- 
 culty that they finally succeeded in discovering a shelf in 
 the wall of the western bank, that they might be protected 
 from the cold night wind that came from the north. Hav- 
 ing found such a spot — and Harris, if he had had any 
 suspicions, might have noticed that it was Covill's desire to 
 be as far from any road as possible — they camped. It was 
 in the forenoon, and they decided to sleep that night in the 
 place they had selected. 
 
 If Harris had been suspicious, he might have noticed 
 that Covill did not relish the homely meal they prepared 
 with a fire made of drift-wood. He might also have seen 
 that, as the time passed slowly by, Covill became restless 
 and uneasy. He could not sit still, and he walked inces- 
 santly back and forth on the narrow shelf, now and then 
 throwing a pebble into the river. But Harris, worn, old, 
 
1 1 2 BLOOD-MONE Y. 
 
 and weighted down by something that oppressed his mind, 
 noticed none of these things, or, if he did, paid no 
 attention to them. The crime that haunted him had been 
 committed too long ago for him to fear sudden danger; and 
 the surreptitious look of suspicion that murderers are apt 
 frequently to throw around had long ago disappeared. 
 Furthermore, Harris was not naturally suspicious, and he 
 did not dream of the presence of danger. Yet danger there 
 was — dark and bloody danger — cold, cruel, and murderous 
 danger, that followed his every motion, and that awaited 
 only a good opportunity to perform its deadly work. 
 
 Harris found a sunny spot on the grass-grown shelf, and 
 stretched himself to sleep. In a few minutes he was slum- 
 bering soundly, and Covill's time had come. 
 
 He had been furtively watching the old man, and when 
 he saw by the heavy, regular breathing of his victim that he 
 was asleep, Covill drew a deep breath, and his heart bound- 
 ed wildly with terrible excitement. Then he arose and 
 stretched himself, and mincingly approached the sleeping 
 man. They were below the level of the plains, and were 
 invisible from any point of the surrounding country, and 
 were a long distance from any human habitation; but to 
 assure himself again of these facts, Covill ascended to the 
 top of the bank and looked around. No living thing was 
 visible, except here and there a gopher or an owl. 
 
 Covill silently descended to the niche on which they had 
 encamped. Harris still slept heavily, and but for the regu- 
 lar heaving of his breast in slumber he might have been 
 taken for a dead man. He lay on his back, with his arms 
 
A TRAGEDY ON THE PLAINS. 
 
 113 
 
 extended on the ground, his legs apart, and his face shaded 
 by his ragged old hat. Covill thanked his good fortune 
 that the face of his victim was concealed. 
 
 Covill pulled from a sheath concealed in his clothing a 
 long, bright, sharp hunting-knife — the most deadly weapon 
 that ever entered the vitals of a man. He held it in such a 
 manner that his arm concealed the blade, and then stealthi- 
 ly approached the sleeping man. 
 
 The terrible excitement of the moment unnerved Covill. 
 A cold perspiration broke out on his face. His teeth chat- 
 tered as though he had ague. He was cold to the marrow, 
 and his knees trembled under his weight. At the last 
 moment his heart failed, and he precipitately retreated, and 
 again clambered to the level of the plains. Then he sat 
 down, weak and almost fainting, and tried to collect his 
 thoughts, and nerve himself for the bloody work in hand. 
 He looked like a man who was hunted for his life. 
 
 A novel idea occurred to him. Surrounding him was a 
 quantity of drift-wood that some heavy flood had brought 
 down from the mountains and lodged upon the bank. 
 Among these pieces of wood was a large, heavy log, that 
 lay very near the brink of the bluff. If that log should be 
 rolled down upon the sleeping man below, it would crush 
 out his life before he could realize his situation. Covill 
 breathed a deep sigh of relief as this simpler plan presented 
 itself He looked over the bluff, and saw Harris still 
 quietly sleeping, and knew that the log, if rolled over the 
 bank, would fall directly upon the sleeper. He looked 
 around. Still no one was in sight. 
 
114 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 Then he sought and found a strong piece of wood, that 
 he could use as a lever with which to move the log. 
 
 Having found it, he proceeded silently to work. He 
 secured a thick piece of wood that served for a fulcrum, 
 and then he tried his lever. It was strong, sure, and un- 
 yielding. He inserted one end under the middle of the 
 log, placed the fulcrum in position, and gradually put his 
 weight on the lever. The log moved a few inches. With 
 his foot he pushed the fulcrum forward, and again threw his 
 weight on the lever. The log rolled silently. One more 
 turn would hurl it full upon the prostrate form of the 
 sleeper. 
 
 Covin drew a deep breath as he realized that in two or 
 three more seconds his work would be finished. Again he 
 placed the fulcrum and lever in position, peered over the 
 bank to see if Harris still slept, and then held his breath 
 and ground his teeth as he gave the lever another pull. 
 
 The heavy log reached the brink, toppled a moment, and 
 then fell with a heavy crash. 
 
 A short, sharp, smothered scream of agony was all that 
 Covin heard, and then all was still and silent; and, not 
 daring to look down on the ghastly scene that his imagina- 
 tion depicted, he bounded away and over the plains like a 
 frightened deer, heading for the Coast Range ; never sus- 
 pecting that his victim might be only half killed, nor that 
 he was caught as in a vise, to await a death more horrible 
 and torturing than any that Covill's ingenuity could have 
 conceived. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE "SAND-LAPPERS. 
 
 I HE considerations that deterred Graham from 
 immediately accepting the situation offered him 
 through Nellie were indeed of a grave character, 
 deserving careful thought. They pointed to 
 complications that would sooner or later, if the natural pro- 
 gress of human events should take the course that seemed 
 inevitable, involve him in a catastrophe of which he would 
 not be the only victim. 
 
 The change that had taken place in his disposition caused 
 no little concern on the part of those who were parties to 
 some of the impositions. It was reflected that he evinced 
 in one direction a disposition that would be dangerous in 
 another. He was soon to be assailed by perils independent 
 of those growing out of his search for the stolen treasure, yet 
 perils that would affect that search vitally. In order to un- 
 derstand these brewing difficulties and their subsequent 
 applications to Graham's affairs, it will be necessary to take 
 a cursory glance at a matter that had already become a part 
 of the history of the county and the State, and that was 
 destined to lead to red-handed violence. 
 
1 1 6 BLOOD-MONE Y. 
 
 Graham, in company with many other persons, and nota- 
 bly with the majority of those who had made their homes in 
 the Mussel Slough country, had settled upon land claimed 
 by the railroad company, or for which the railroad company 
 had been for some time awaiting patents from the United 
 States, the company having promised these settlers deeds 
 when the patents should be received. 
 
 This Mussel Slough country has, by reason of the troubles 
 that have grown out of its settlement and occupation, be- 
 come the most noted section of California. It stretches for 
 several miles north and north-east of Tulare Lake, and em- 
 braces parts of Tulare and Fresno counties, but lies princi- 
 pally in the former. It takes its name from a slough that 
 makes out from the lake. It produces, by reason of the vast 
 amount of work done by the settlers in improving it, the 
 finest crops of grain and fruit in the State, and its climate is 
 more inviting than that of any other portion of the great 
 stretch of country lying between the Coast Range and the 
 Sierra Nevada Mountains. 
 
 This much having been said, the purpose of an important 
 visit that Graham received will soon be apparent. His ex- 
 ploit at Lone Tree had been noised abroad, and had brought 
 him considerable notoriety, and great was the popular inter- 
 est taken in his affairs; and attention had been drawn more 
 especially to strange stories — nearly all of them unfounded 
 in fact — that had been circulated concerning him and his 
 movements, to such an extent that people had come to look 
 upon him as a young man possessing unusual nerve and 
 energy. Prior to that time he was almost unknown in the 
 
THE " SAND-LAPPERS:' 
 
 117 
 
 county, and had been regarded as simply one of the many 
 unfortunate persons who had fallen into the clutches of a 
 powerful monopoly. Be it said, in explanation, that at the 
 time of the opening of this story he had lived but a short 
 time upon the new home that he had bought from the rail- 
 road company. 
 
 His name had become familiar to all, and the eyes of the 
 troubled people of Mussel Slough were turned toward him 
 hopefully, as to a man whose clear head could assist them 
 in the difficulties that had overtaken them. 
 
 His visitor was a man of middle age, well bred, and a 
 farmer. His name was Newton. Graham welcomed him; 
 and after a desultory conversation, Newton asked: 
 
 "Have you seen a man who is said to be at work in 
 Mussel Slough affixing prices to these so-called railroad 
 lands that we settled upon?" 
 
 Graham had not seen him. 
 
 "Well," continued Newton, "there is no doubt that there 
 IS a man here on such a mission; and as you are in a posi- 
 tion similar to that of us who settled on these lands, I 
 thought I would come to put you on your guard, and to ask 
 you to go to Hanford with me to-day to attend a meeting of 
 the settlers." 
 
 "How long has this man been here?" 
 
 "They say he has been seen for some time, but his real 
 mission wasn't suspected until recently." 
 
 "I will go," said Graham. 
 
 They started without delay for Hanford; but they had 
 not proceeded far when they overtook a horseman. This 
 
1 1 8 BLOOD-MONE V. 
 
 man was a stranger, and his appearance at such a time nat- 
 urally aroused the curiosity of Newton and Graham. 
 
 "Good morning, sir," said Newton. 
 
 "Good morning," greeted he them in return. "I am 
 taking a look at the country," he added pleasantly. "I 
 understand that some of these lands will soon be offered 
 for sale, and I came to inspect them." 
 
 A quick look of intelligence passed between Graham and 
 his companion. 
 
 "Then you are not a 'sand-lapper,'" said Newton, quietly. 
 
 "A what?" asked the stranger, in surprise. 
 
 "A 'sand-lapper.'" 
 
 "And what in the world is a 'sand-lapper'?" 
 
 "You are evidently a stranger in this part of the country," 
 answered Newton, "or you would know the meaning of the 
 term." 
 
 "It is a very strange expression, and I should like to 
 know the meaning of it." 
 
 "The term," said Newton, "is one of derision that the 
 cattle lords applied to the first settlers on these sandy plains, 
 on account of the eagerness displayed by the settlers in tak- 
 ing up the seemingly barren lands. The cattle men said 
 that if the settlers lived at all they must eat sand." 
 
 "So far as I am able to judge," said the stranger, with a 
 smile, "the settlers seem to thrive exceedingly well on the 
 diet." 
 
 "It is because they succeeded in getting from the sand 
 wheat, fruit, and alfalfa." 
 
 "But why," persisted the stranger, as the three traveled 
 
THE '' SAND-LAPPERSr uq 
 
 along together, "did the cattle men, as you call them, think 
 the settlers would have to eat sand? Surely, I never saw a 
 more glorious country than this. Look at that wheat field 
 there. Was there ever a grander sight?" 
 
 " Well," said Newton, " this country was at one time called 
 sterile; and such a desolate appearance did it have, that the 
 cattle men said they would not pay fifty cents an acre for 
 it. Now, you see, it is one vast wheat field." 
 
 And indeed the prospect was glorious. None who have 
 been denied the pleasure of visiting Mussel Slough in the 
 spring-time can form any idea of the enchanting scene that 
 the entire face of the country presents. Here is a broad 
 stretch of wheat ; and a little farther on one finds a patch of 
 alfalfa — a darker and richer green ; and a little farther on 
 appears an orchard in full bloom. 
 
 "Before I give you the interesting piece of history that 
 explains this matter," said Newton, "may I ask you how you 
 learned that these lands are for sale, and who offers 
 them?" 
 
 "A friend wrote to me," replied the man, without hesita- 
 tion. "I have very little information on the subject, and 
 would be glad to have more. As I understand it — though 
 doubtless you are better informed than I — every odd section 
 of this land is owned by the railroad company, which has 
 been greatly annoyed by squatters who have taken possession 
 of the land." 
 
 "Ah, they have poisoned you too!" said Newton, bitterly 
 "The 'squatters,' sir," he added with some severity, "are 
 men who are betrayed ; who have earned what they have by 
 
I20 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 privations too bitter for you to even comprehend them ; who 
 are acting honestly and in good faith ; and who are struggling 
 to retain their own from the grasp of a robber." 
 
 The stranger gazed at Newton in astonishment. 
 
 "And it is such men as you," continued Newton, "who 
 are sent here to buy from under us the land we have earned 
 at the price of hunger and indescribable sufferings. I am 
 one of those terrible ' sand-lappers.' " 
 
 The stranger was aghast with amazement at these asser- 
 tions and at Newton's warmth, 
 
 "I assure you," he said, "that I will not be a party to 
 any wrong. Let us understand that at once. And now I 
 should like to hear the history of this whole matter." 
 
 Newton made no reply for some time, as the men rode 
 leisurely along; and finally he said: 
 
 "Well, I see that you have been imposed upon, and that 
 you are ready to listen to reason. It would take too long 
 to go into full details, and I can merely glance at the more 
 important particulars. In the first place, no reasonable 
 man having any knowledge of the facts believes that the 
 railroad company owns these lands." 
 
 "What!" exclaimed the stranger. "I understand the 
 Government has issued patents to the lands." 
 
 "Yes; but the conditions to be fulfilled by the company 
 never were complied with, and there is room for grave sus- 
 picion as to how the patents were obtained." 
 
 "What were those conditions?" 
 
 "Briefly stated, they were these: The company was to 
 secure the patents upon the completion of every twenty-five 
 
THE " SAND-LAPPERS:' 121 
 
 consecutive miles of the road running westward from 
 Goshen, through the heart of Mussel Slough, through the 
 Coast Range to the Santa Clara Valley. These patents 
 were issued after only twenty of the required twenty-five 
 miles were completed; and then the company, having 
 secured the lands, violated the contract with the Govern- 
 ment by refusing to make the road a through Une. Be- 
 sides all that, the twenty miles were not constructed within 
 the time required by the Act of Congress." 
 
 "Then why were the patents issued?" 
 
 "Why!" exclaimed Newton with great bitterness; "why 
 is it that land is given in unlimited quantities to rich men 
 and corporations, while we poor devils have to pay for it and 
 live on it? Why is it that money controls our Congress, 
 and carries corruption into every branch of the Govern- 
 ment — and always in favor of the rich and at the expense 
 of the poor? But let us assume that the company legally 
 holds the lands, and we can't deny that it has broken faith 
 with us, and that it now undoubtedly has on foot the most 
 stupendous scheme of blackmailing that was ever attempt- 
 ed in this country." 
 
 "That is a strong charge. What do you mean?' 
 
 "It invited settlers to come upon these lands, offering to 
 give them preference over any others when patents should 
 be received, and offering the lands at two dollars to five 
 dollars an acre, and declaring that the settlers would not be 
 charged for any improvements they might make when the 
 time should come for paying for the lands." 
 
 "That was fair," said the stranger. 
 
122 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 "Yes; but I hear that a man has just arrived in this 
 section to place prices on the lands for the railroad com- 
 pany, and he says that he is instructed to include in the 
 rates the added value that this great system of irrigating 
 ditches has given this country." 
 
 "Surely no men, and especially rich men, could be guilty 
 of so great a wrong ! " 
 
 "Ah, you don't know these men! And the world will 
 never know the terrible hardships that we of Mussel Slough 
 underwent on the strength of the promises held out to us." 
 
 "\Vhat kind of hardships?" 
 
 Newton looked around, and saw a comfortable cottage to 
 the right. 
 
 "Let us take the case of the people living in that house," 
 he said. "It is a history common to nearly all of us. In 
 1870 this family moved to Mussel Slough. At that time 
 the whole country was covered with live stock. It was the 
 range of the cattle men, who held possession of these vast 
 plains. The first efforts of this family were in the direction 
 of improvements, and they planted an orchard on a piece 
 of ground near the slough, hoping there would be sufficient 
 water for the growth of the trees." 
 
 "But it seems that anything can grow here," interposed 
 the stranger. 
 
 "That has been accomplished by irrigation," said New- 
 ton. "At that time Mussel Slough was an arid, sandy 
 desert, yielding only a meager supply of grass for the herds 
 of horses, cattle, sheep, and hogs that covered the plains. 
 Well, the stock devoured the fruit trees and vines. The 
 
THE " SAND-LAPPERS." 123 
 
 stock men looked upon the settlers as intruders, and did 
 everything possible to discourage them and drive them 
 away. I arrived here about that time, and lived near this 
 family. We traveled in a wagon a hundred miles and back 
 for seed-wheat, paying a heavy price. We planted it, and 
 had to dig a deep, broad ditch to protect our grain from the 
 stock, and this required incalculably hard work. Then 
 came the blackbirds and crows, which picked up the grain. 
 Mind you, this is not merely an individual experience. 
 There were hundreds of us who underwent these trials. 
 That year we cut the wheat for hay ; and by the time it was 
 cut and taken care of the overflowed lands around the lake 
 were drying ; and the settlers, many of them living several 
 miles away, secured little patches of this damp ground, and 
 planted corn. I and the family we have just passed were of 
 the number. Well, sir, we had to actually sleep beside our 
 corn to keep away the horses and cattle." 
 
 "That was a hardship indeed." 
 
 " But a very trifling one in comparison with others," said 
 Newton, smiling. "With all our work, day and night, the 
 stock would have well-beaten tracks through the fields. 
 We hauled away the corn stalks to feed to our horses; and 
 when we took them home we had to sleep on them to keep 
 away the stock that covered the plains; and even then the 
 hungry cattle would eat over our heads, while we slept from 
 exhaustion. The no-fence law, which had the effect of 
 requiring the stock men to keep their cattle off the farms, 
 was a godsend to the settlers, as the high price of lumber 
 rendered fencing an impossibility. The people were glad 
 
124 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 to get even cheap, thin boards, split by hand, with which to 
 build their cabins, some of which was made of the tules 
 that grow on the lake shore." 
 
 "That is almost incredible!" 
 
 "But none the less true; and you have not heard the 
 worst yet. These miserable hovels offered poor protection 
 against the terrible sand-storms that swept the plains." 
 
 "Did it not discourage you?" 
 
 "Some were so discouraged that they abandoned their 
 homes and left for better parts. Those who remained left 
 the lake; and as there was a little rain that year we decided 
 to plant a crop on the land we had originally settled. We 
 were kept busy driving off the stock. Two daughters in 
 the family I mentioned just now were in the saddle from 
 morning till night for that purpose; and they would drive a 
 band of horses to the owner, in Fresno County, only to find 
 them again in the grain when they returned. I have known 
 those brave girls to become so discouraged that they would 
 go into their poor house and sit down and cry; and then 
 get heart again, and return to the endless task. Our crop 
 was not more than a foot high when the drouth came 
 and killed it. The ditches that we now have render a 
 drouth comparatively harmless. We all turned out and 
 pulled up our grain by the roots, in order to not lose an 
 inch of the stalks by cutting them, and we stacked it for our 
 horses. All that we had to eat was the seed that had cost 
 us so much. The stock men took hope, and believed we 
 would be driven out by starvation. Provisions were so 
 expensive that we could not afford to buy any. The stock 
 
THE '' SAND-LAPPERSr 
 
 125 
 
 men would not even sell us meat. We found some beans, 
 and killed wild hogs in the tules. This flesh tasted so 
 strong of fish (on which the hogs lived) that it was nauseat- 
 ing, and a great many could not eat it. This mode of living 
 on salt pork, with no vegetables, brought on a strange 
 malady. I visited one of my neighbors who was very sick, 
 and then I discovered the nature of the complaint." 
 
 "What was it?" 
 
 " Scurvy." 
 
 "Scurvy!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Ah, that was terrible ! What was done for it?" 
 
 " One man who saw the case, and who had become famil- 
 iar with it in the army, recommended raw potatoes grated 
 in vinegar. But where were the potatoes to come from? 
 There were none in this section, and even if there had been, 
 there was no money to buy them with. It so happened 
 that one of the settlers, who was called to Visalia as a juror, 
 had invested two dollars of his jury-fees in early potatoes for 
 seed. They were from a second crop, and were about as 
 large as walnuts. This man's sister had planted them near 
 a well, where water could be used on them, (you know noth- 
 ing would grow here then without water) intending to raise 
 seed for the following year ; but they had been planted only 
 about two weeks, when the increase of scurvy compelled the 
 woman to take them up. She grated them in vinegar, and 
 gave this mixture as a medicine." 
 
 "Such things are inconceivable." 
 
 " Well, the experience of that year proved that nothing 
 
126 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 could be done without water. But how could water be 
 brought into this desert without money? To such straits 
 were we driven that many of us depended on our guns for 
 a living. We would shoot wild geese and ducks, and pick 
 them, and take the feathers to Visalia and exchange them 
 for provisions. Many others went away and worked through 
 the summer months. They would bring back seed, only to 
 see the drouth kill it. The third year there was some grain 
 raised in one of the settlements; and when it was threshed, 
 the farmers who had not gone away found employment as 
 threshers, and some of us were thus enabled to obtain seed 
 without crossing the mountains. I knew one woman who 
 cooked for the threshers at several farms, and she received 
 ten sacks of wheat in payment for her services ; but on taking 
 it home, she discovered that it was half barley. She and her 
 children worked at night and picked out the wheat from the 
 barley, grain by grain, until they had one sack of clean wheat. 
 She planted this, and the drouth killed it. Such was the 
 experience of all of us for five consecutive years. We tried 
 to induce others to settle on the lands with us, thinking this 
 would increase the chances of constructing a ditch in which 
 Avater for irrigating the lands could be brought from King's 
 River; but nobody would come." 
 
 "Why didn't you leave?" 
 
 "Because we had faith in the country, which we believed 
 needed only irrigation. Besides, a highway to market was 
 about to be opened, and we wanted to be the pioneers in 
 the prosperity we believed awaited us. P'urther than that, 
 we were too poor to go elsewhere. If we could have fore- 
 
THE '' SAND-LAPPERS: 
 
 127 
 
 seen the robbery and false dealing to which we would be 
 subjected, we should have gone in any event. After great 
 privations, we succeeded in having a ditch surveyed, and 
 then we commenced work; and then, when there was a 
 prospect of water, people settled both public and so- 
 called railroad lands, preferring the latter on account of the 
 longer time for settlement proposed by the railroad com- 
 pany. The majority of those who settled on public land 
 were compelled to borrow money with which to meet pay- 
 ments, and had to pay a heavy interest — from three to five 
 per cent, a month." 
 
 "Is it possible?" 
 
 "This kept many so poor that by the time water was pro- 
 cured their lands had passed into the hands of others." 
 
 "How could men who were so poor afford to spend their 
 time in digging ditches?" 
 
 "Many of us had nothing to eat but beans, coarse bread 
 made of cracked corn, roasted barley in place of coffee, and 
 wild honey that we found in the timber; and I have known 
 these men to work all day in the main ditch, and build 
 their own side-ditches by moonlight, so anxious were they 
 to get water as soon as it could be had. Look at this vast 
 network of canals and ditches. They bear eloquent witness 
 to the suffering that was borne in digging them." 
 
 "You were all right after you got the water?" 
 
 "By no means. The first season the water came down 
 there was hard work to make the ditches carry it, as they 
 were continually breaking. Repairing these damages kept 
 the men busy all the time, and consequently the women 
 
128 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 and children had to work in the fields from morning till 
 night. That woman you see in the house to the left culti- 
 vated thirty acres of corn with one man's assistance. My 
 daughter and I dug a fence-ditch around our hundred and 
 sixty acres of land, my daughter working as hard as I. I 
 know another girl who helped her father in a similar man- 
 ner; and you must consider that these were girls who had 
 never been accustomed to such work." 
 
 "Noble women !" exclaimed the stranger, with enthusiasm. 
 
 "Noble women, did you say? Ah, my dear sir! I can 
 give you but a feeble idea of how noble these women of 
 Mussel Slough are. I have mentioned only a few instances, 
 and I could name hundreds. The sun never shone on 
 nobler women; and in the darkest days, when men, worn 
 and hungry, entered their cabins to eat the coarse food that 
 was all the women had to offer them, there were the bright 
 faces and cheering words of women to nerve the men against 
 the despair and hunger that threatened to take the strength 
 from their arms. You may well say, 'Noble women.'" 
 
 The stranger bowed his head reverently, and pretended 
 not to see the tears that glistened in Newton's eyes. 
 
 " Men," continued Newton, "could not have been hired 
 to undergo the privations and hardships that these people 
 suffered. They were working for cheap homes. They knew 
 that, in order to secure them, they must go a long way ahead 
 of the market; but we never dreamed of being robbed of 
 what we had honestly earned and suffered for." 
 
 " I don't fully understand your allusions to robbery." 
 
 " I shall explain that presently. I know there has been 
 
THE '' SAND-LAPPERSy 
 
 129 
 
 a great deal of scoffing at what is termed these 'starve-to- 
 death stories'; but we who have suffered know too well what 
 hunger is. Well, other ditches were constructed, the desert 
 was changed into a garden, and people flocked to the coun- 
 try. It would be hard for you to believe that this country 
 has ever been a desert, and that only a handful of men, with 
 muscle and energy and hope, brought about such a change. 
 It is now the garden spot of California." 
 
 "It certainly is," said the stranger. 
 
 "But what encouragement have we to improve the lands 
 further, and set out trees and vines, when we must pay for 
 transportation, to this same company that is going to rob us 
 of our homes, two-thirds of what we make?" 
 
 "Is it possible?" 
 
 "Why, we in Mussel Slough are not alone in that. It is 
 the curse of the entire San Joaquin Valley. Even if this 
 company should make a gift of this land to the people, the 
 land still would have been earned a hundred times over by 
 hardships and unknown sufferings, to say nothing of the 
 vast tracts of surrounding land that these hardships and 
 sufferings have rendered valuable to the railroad company, 
 and that will soon be offered at enormous prices." 
 
 "And what about the robbery?" 
 
 "The railroad company issued circulars, offering the 
 lands at vague prices. The offer was accepted, and acted 
 upon in good faith. We could not pay for the land then, 
 as the company could not give us titles, the patents not 
 having been received. Subsequently it issued a circular to us, 
 informing us that we would not be charged for the improve- 
 9 
 
I30 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 ments we had made. And now that we have rendered the 
 land very valuable, the company is taking steps to make us 
 pay a greatly increased price." 
 
 "Impossible!" 
 
 "And that is not all: it knows well enough that many 
 or all of us will refuse to pay the increased price, and so it 
 is seeking men who will buy the land from the company, 
 and then commence suits in ejectment. You are one of 
 the men selected for that purpose." 
 
 The stranger's face perceptibly flushed with indignation 
 and shame, and he hastened to say: 
 
 "You may depend upon it, gentlemen, that I will not be 
 a party to any such outrage." 
 
 "A meeting will be held at Hanford to-day, when the 
 settlers will organize for self-protection. We are determined 
 not to submit to the outrage, if there is any justice in the 
 courts. Still, the corporations have become so powerful 
 that we can hope for little. If this company had not felt 
 pretty sure of its hold on the courts, this high-handed 
 outrage would not have been attempted." 
 
 The stranger was enraptured at the scene that lay around 
 him as the three pursued their way. 
 
 Graham was thoughtful and reserved, having taken no 
 part in the conversation. He knew that every word that 
 Newton had spoken was the truth, and that all that could be 
 said had not been spoken. He determined to place himself 
 between the weak and the strong, and he did not for a 
 moment quail before the dangerous undertaking of opposing 
 a power that overshadowed even the law. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A DUEL WITH DEATH. 
 
 HE log, pushed over the bluff by Covill, did not 
 perform its deadly work as thoroughly as Covill 
 had intended; but it would have been infinitely 
 more merciful if it had killed its victim out- 
 right. Instead of that, it merely pinned him to the ground, 
 having failed to fall directly upon his body. He was awak- 
 ened from his heavy sleep by something that came down 
 upon him and caught him in a terrible trap. He gave a 
 short, sharp scream of agony, and then became unconscious. 
 The log had merely fallen across his right leg, between the 
 knee and the foot, crushing the two bones, and holding him 
 firmly as a vise. All his other members were free. Both 
 of the bones of his lower right leg were broken trans- 
 versely in three places — at the point directly between the 
 log and the ground, and also at points a few inches on 
 either side of the first fracture. In this manner the two 
 broken sections of each bone formed two obtuse angles, 
 the ends being driven down at the vertex through the thick 
 muscles of the calf, and forced upward at the other extrem- 
 ities through the skin. This was less noticeable on that 
 
132 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 side of the log on which was his foot, which was sUghtly 
 raised above the ground. 
 
 In other words, that part of his leg beneath the heavy 
 mass was curved downward, and crushed flat upon the hard 
 ground. In addition to the transverse fractures already 
 mentioned, the bones were split longitudinally into innumer- 
 able splinters, the sharp ends of which protruded through 
 the badly lacerated flesh. 
 
 The blood spurted freely. 
 
 Harris soon recovered consciousness, and he instinctively 
 made a mad effort to push the log away, as a wounded bear 
 will bite the spot where the bullet strikes. This attempt 
 developed an unexpected and disheartening fact. He found 
 that he could barely reach the log with the tips of his fingers, 
 and that he could throw no force against it. Any one who 
 has tried the experiment knows that it is painful even to sit 
 upright if the knees are not bent, as the muscles on the 
 under side of the legs are thus brought into unnatural ten- 
 sion. Even if Harris could have reached the log, its im- 
 mense weight precluded the possibility of moving it. Thus 
 was he inexorably held a prisoner, to die alone on the plains, 
 in a boundless solitude of silence — a terrible death ! 
 
 Having made the discovery that he could not move the 
 log, he looked wildly around for Covill, who was nowhere to 
 be seen. Then he called in a loud and despairing voice for 
 his companion. There was no response but a mocking 
 echo from the other bank of the river. Then the terrible 
 truth burst upon his mind. He knew that Covill had 
 intended to murder him in his sleep; and when he realized 
 
A DUEL WITH DEATH. 
 
 133 
 
 this, and reflected on the awful fate that awaited him, he 
 rent the air with frightful curses, and invoked upon his mur- 
 derer's head the deepest damnation that Heaven can send. 
 
 Next, he placed his hands firmly on the ground a little 
 forward of his shoulders, and gave a strong, steady pull 
 backward for liberty; for he was determined not thus to die 
 if there was the least chance of escape ; and even at that 
 moment, maddened though he was with pain, he thought of 
 the great work that he had marked out* before him. 
 
 The torture arising from the vain effort increased his suf- 
 fering. The protruding bones, forced back by the straight- 
 ening, cut still longer gashes in the flesh, and divided the 
 muscles into shreds. His sufferings were indescribable. 
 Every one of the hundreds of lacerated nerves cried out in 
 anguish. He fortified his will to bear the pain with all the 
 grim determination of a strong man in a desperate extremi- 
 ty. He shouted aloud for help. There was no human 
 being except Covill within twenty miles. His face was 
 ghastly pale. Every nerve quivered and vibrated. The 
 muscles of the arms and breast twitched and writhed. His 
 face underwent horrible contortions, and took on strange 
 grimaces. His fingers grappled the hard ground, tearing 
 his nails and starting the blood. He groaned in a half- 
 audible way, but the groan was, more than anything else, a 
 rasping, hissing whisper, the burden of which was : 
 
 "OGod! OGod!" 
 
 With a powerful mastery of self that is possessed by few 
 natures, he put forth every stupendous effort of a strong 
 will, and brought his reasoning faculties under control. 
 
134 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 This effort was combated by involuntary movements of 
 his muscular system in rebellion. There was a spasmodic 
 action in the throat, much like that produced by sobbing. 
 There was a violent and painful throbbing in the region of 
 the stomach. There was a sudden jerking in the muscles 
 of the spine, extending upward, and drawing his head 
 forcibly back. There was a contraction of the muscles of 
 the injured leg, drawing him toward the log, bending his 
 knee, and causing the bones to grate and grind. 
 
 His will was first directed to the quelling of these dis- 
 turbances, and he partially succeeded. Then he directed 
 his mind to a contemplation of the possibility of escaping 
 from this terrible prison. In the mean time, it was necessary 
 to stanch the flow of blood, which was filling his trousers 
 leg like a bag. He had a crude knowledge of elementary 
 surgery, and this came to his assistance. 
 
 With his pocket-knife he cut away the trousers leg, and 
 then the blood streamed from the wound to the ground. 
 He knew that the crimson blood, which came in spurts at 
 intervals of less than a second, was from the ruptured 
 arteries, and that the hemorrhage could be checked by 
 tightly binding the leg above the wound. The odor of this 
 warm blood produced nausea. He cut off his pantaloons, 
 and made the left leg into a kind of rope. He passed this 
 rope under the injured leg a short distance above the knee, 
 brought it around, formed a slip-knot, held one end against 
 the log with his left foot, while he pulled upon the other end 
 with his hands, and thus compressed the leg. He watched 
 the effect. The flow was less copious, but it was not 
 
A DUEL WITH DEATH. 13^ 
 
 checked. It still was dangerous. Then he firmly secured 
 the rope around his left foot, brought the other end around 
 his neck, and then slowly straightened himself. Thus all 
 his strength was thrown upon the rope, which sank into the 
 muscles, wrinkling the skin, and causing the flesh to purse 
 up on either side. Then with his right hand he held the 
 knot, and with the left removed the rope from his neck and 
 foot, passed the rope around two or three times, and secured 
 the knot. This improvised rope, being made of stout 
 cotton cloth, was very strong. 
 
 He again looked at the bleeding. The blood, which now 
 meagerly flowed in small, regular streams, was dark and 
 thick, and unlike the former crimson flow. He knew the 
 hemorrhage was not dangerous, as it came from veins below 
 the cord, and not from arteries. 
 
 This accomplished, the gloomy fact confronted him that 
 he was merely delaying the end, and arranging for a longer 
 period of maddening torture — a selection between a quick 
 death by hemorrhage, and hours upon hours of pain, fever, 
 thirst, inflammation, gangrene, putrefaction — an appalling 
 death ! He realized this, and reflected upon it. Death 
 held him a living prisoner. What was to be done? Mean- 
 while, that portion of his leg below the cord was rapidly 
 enlarging, and was taking on a dark color. 
 
 A thought occurred to him. He might burrow under 
 the log with his knife, and thus release his mangled leg. 
 He found he could make a commencement, and that was 
 all, the difficulty lying in his inability to reach far enough. 
 Besides, every movement intensified the torture, and every 
 
136 BLO OD-MONE Y. 
 
 pang sapped so much of his strength. The pain was 
 devouring him alive. Suddenly he was stunned by a 
 powerful and unexpected blow. His heart sank, and then 
 bounded. His eyelids quivered, and his eyes rolled upward. 
 His fmgers clutched the ground more desperately. It was 
 not an external blow, but an internal; not a blow to the 
 body, but to the mind. It was a thought, sudden, ghastly, 
 and revolting, that stole upon him, and stabbed him un- 
 awares. 
 
 It was the idea of self-amputation. At first he avoided 
 it, for it weakened him, performing the relaxing and sicken^ 
 ing office of an emetic; then he Hstened to it; and finally 
 he looked it squarely in the face. He possessed remark- 
 able nerve. He decided upon this plan as his only recourse, 
 and as an inevitability. To accept an inevitability is to 
 become resigned ; and absolute resignation centers in but 
 one thing — death. When resignation thus comes about, it 
 is through a painless operation of the mind, involving an 
 expenditure of no considerable vital force, and calling for 
 the exercise of no grander resources than such as are found 
 in any mediocre mental organization. To choose between 
 death and its temporary alternative, however, requires the 
 existence of some of the grandest traits of human nature. 
 The suicide lacks them, because he lacks courage. Two of 
 these traits are unconquerable will and unflinching fearless- 
 ness. 
 
 The sufferer had no anaesthetic, no drug for producing 
 coagulation, no amputating knife, no saw, no threads with 
 which to tie up the arteries, no appliances for stitching, no 
 
A DUEL WITH DEATH. 137 
 
 lint, no bandages. He had only his pocket-knife. It was 
 very old. The solitary blade was dull, worn narrow, and 
 with rounded and blunt edge. The cheeks (that part through 
 which the rivet passed) were slightly sprung apart, causing 
 the blade to be loose in the handle. The rivet was nearly 
 worn through. The spring was weak, .so that the weight of 
 the blade was almost sufficient to cause the knife to close. 
 Nevertheless, he believed the knife would be serviceable 
 enough to cut the leg at the upper end of the fracture, where 
 the bone was already broken. 
 
 Having accepted the situation, he proceeded. A grave 
 difficulty then presented itself. While he could, with his 
 left hand on the ground, support himself in a half-recum- 
 bent position, there was, without this support, a painful strain 
 on the muscles of the neck, chest, abdomen, and legs; and 
 he required the assistance of his left hand in the operation. 
 Furthermore, the unsteady, jerky motion of his body in this 
 strain increased the pain to an unbearable degree. And 
 still further, he found it impossible to reach, for a sufficient 
 length of time, that part of his leg on which he intended to 
 perform the operation. This was a serious and dishearten- 
 ing obstacle ; for without a saw he could not hope to cut 
 through the sound bone within easy reach. 
 
 He studied the problem, and solved it. He reflected 
 that a surgeon never amputates at a joint if he can possibly 
 avoid it, for obvious reasons: there is no muscular tissue to 
 which the "flap" may adhere; the circulation of the blood 
 is meager; the absorbents act slowly and insufficiently; 
 suppuration may become gangrene; there is no fleshy cushion 
 
138 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 to protect the overlapping skin from contact with the un- 
 yielding bone; there is greater exposure of the end of the 
 bone to variations of heat and cold ; there is great difficulty 
 in stopping the mouths of the arteries; the severed tendons 
 are drawn up by the contraction of the muscles, leaving a still 
 greater exposure of bone, straining the skin drawn over the 
 end, and tending to tear open the healing wound. 
 
 Harris knew these things in an imperfect way. He par- 
 leyed with death, and dallied with eternity — gaining time, 
 and yet consuming it ; for time, though it led to death, was 
 none the less thought, and thought might be life. Having 
 calculated his own resources and those of the enemy, he 
 saw his way to possible victory, and opened an aggressive 
 fight. But the patience of death is its strongest tactics. 
 It must be combated with boldness as well as cunning; 
 taken unawares, flanked, harassed, attacked in the rear, 
 charged in front. The skillful physician is daring as well 
 as cautious. 
 
 Bracing every nerve against the dread assault, Harris 
 made a bold, strong stroke with the edge of the knife across 
 the leg, about three inches below the knee-joint. The skin 
 squirmed, and then slipped from under the blade uninjured. 
 The knife was too dull. He whetted it on the sole of his 
 left shoe as best he could, thus making the edge at the 
 point rather sharp. He felt the edge with his thumb, and 
 was satisfied. Then he caught the handle firmly, prevented 
 the possible closing of the knife on his fingers by including 
 a portion of the blade in his grasp, compressed his lips, half 
 closed his eyes, and with the point of the blade made a 
 
A DUEL WITH DEATH. 13^ 
 
 quick, glancing stroke downward on the right side of his 
 leg below the knee. The skin parted smoothly. He 
 ground his teeth with the pain. 
 
 After resting a moment, and calling out an extra reserve 
 of fortitude, he inserted the blade at the lower end of the 
 incision, took a firm hold, steadied the knife, gave it the 
 proper direction, and ripped the skin around his leg as far 
 as he could reach. 
 
 His face became more pinched, his nostrils expanded, 
 and his upper lip twitched convulsively. After resting a 
 moment, he inserted the blade in the upper end of the incis- 
 ion, pushed it under the skin a short distance in order to 
 give it a better start, and proceeded to cut around toward 
 the left. In this position he found the cutting awkward, and 
 his arm had less leverage. The knife was dull, considerable 
 force being necessary to propel it. It tore as much as it 
 cut. 
 
 During all this time he had borne the weight of his body 
 on his left arm, employing the right in cutting. Not a groan 
 escaped him; but his breathing was short and quick and 
 spasmodic. It was merely strangled groans. 
 
 When with his right hand he had cut with accuracy as 
 far as he could reach, he lay down, shifted the knife to his 
 left hand, raised himself upon his right arm, and with his 
 left hand completed the incision around the leg. 
 
 Then he lay down again, and rested; having done which, 
 he again raised himself on his right arm, and with the knife 
 in his left hand cut the skin in a straight line on the inner 
 side of the leg from the first incision to the knee-joint, hav- 
 
I40 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY 
 
 1 
 
 ing first ascertained by careful examination the exact locality 
 of the joint. With his right hand he made a similar incision 
 on the opposite side, in this way shaping the "flap" of skin 
 that was to cover the end of the bone. 
 
 The next step was to separate from the flesh that portion 
 of the skin between the joint and the circumscribing incis- 
 ion. He commenced at the outer corner of the upper flap, 
 by slipping the blade between the skin and the flesh ; but 
 the pain therefrom was excruciating, and the process was 
 slow. He arrested his hand, and reflected. The knife was 
 slippery with blood. 
 
 A ghastly idea occurred to him, and he proceeded to put 
 it into execution. At the same moment he hit on a timely 
 invention. 
 
 He required both hands in doing the thing he contem- 
 plated; and so he made his rope longer, being compelled 
 to use one shirt sleeve for the purpose, tied the ends of the 
 rope together, put his head through one end of the loop 
 and his left foot through the other, and by pushing his foot 
 against the tree, the rope was made to raise him by the 
 neck to nearly a sitting posture. In this way the lacerated 
 muscles were relieved of strain; and both hands being 
 free, he could work with greater ease and rapidity. 
 
 With his knife he performed the painful operation of 
 loosening the skin above the incision for a distance of nearly 
 an inch all around. Having completed this, he laid the 
 knife aside. 
 
 He then with both hands firmly grasped the loose edge 
 of the upper flap, and allowed the rope to slip from the toes 
 
A DUEL WITH DEATH. 141 
 
 of his left foot, being thus enabled to throw the weight of 
 his body upon his arms. 
 
 He drew a deep inspiration, ground his teeth, gave his 
 head a sullen shake, like an angered bull in a fight, and with 
 a pull that was quick, sure, and strong, he tore up the 
 skin from the circumscribing incision to the knee. In this 
 horrible operation a hundred nerves were torn asunder, and 
 each cried out in dire agony. 
 
 The suffering exhausted him, and for a time he lay prone 
 on the ground. 
 
 Then he returned to the bloody assault, in a similar man- 
 ner tearing up the under flap. The two flaps were thus 
 folded back upon his leg above the knee. To protect the 
 lower flap from the dirt, he cut off the remaining sleeve, 
 and spread it on the ground underneath his knee. 
 
 The most painful part of the operation was over, but the 
 most difficult remained to be done. The sufferer found 
 himself sick, and growing weak every moment. An intense 
 thirst consumed him. He must hasten. 
 
 He readjusted the rope around his left foot, and again 
 held himself in a sitting posture. The difficulty that then 
 presented itself was indeed serious, and perhaps insurmount- 
 able. If he had been so situated that he could bend the 
 knee freely, and thus effect advantageous openings for the 
 insertion of the knife, the amputation would not have been 
 so difficult. Selecting the spot just below the patella, or 
 knee-cap, in order thus to secure a greater length to the 
 tendon, as an allowance for muscular contraction, he pro- 
 ceeded to cut. The knife struck the large, strong tendon, 
 
142 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 and glanced aside. He could not cut it. Again did he 
 whet the knife on his shoe, and again did he attack the 
 tendon. By pressing down the blade with all the strength 
 he could command, and drawing it back and forth like a 
 saw, he caused the thick tendon gradually to part. It was 
 a painful operation ; for, although the tendon was not trav- 
 ersed nor accompanied by appreciable nerves, the jarring 
 and straining caused by the pressure of the knife caused 
 great pain to the injured parts. 
 
 On the parting of the tendon, he experienced a strange 
 sensation. His knee endeavored to bend of its own accord. 
 This was caused by the tension on the tendons underneath, 
 there no longer being a counteracting force above. Harris 
 saw that he had committed a blunder by not severing the 
 latter first, as the bending of the knee wrenched the mangled 
 part. He hastily repaired this damage by cutting the lower 
 tendons, severing them about an inch below the joint. 
 This relieved him greatly. 
 
 He then commenced to cut the intricate network of 
 ligaments that formed a powerful guard around the joint. 
 In this mass were concentrated a large number of the 
 nerves that ran to the foot, after the manner of wires in the 
 main wire-box of a bell annunciator. Any violation to 
 them was consequently a concentration of nearly all the 
 pain that the foot could suffer. He severed them all, 
 though with suppressed groans and gasps. 
 
 It was a tedious process, but he was becoming expert 
 with the knife. As he had expected, the tendons drew up 
 as he cut them, and the gap widened as he deepened it. 
 
A DUEL WITH DEATH. 
 
 143 
 
 With little trouble he removed the patella, and laid it aside. 
 . Underneath it he found a bed of ligaments, and he pene- 
 trated these to the bone. 
 
 The joint was then visible. The articulation (as a joint 
 is called) of the knee is what is termed a hinge, to distin- 
 guish it from ball-and-socket joints. The ends of the 
 bones coming together to form the joint are packed with 
 tough cartilage. Harris ran the point of his knife along 
 the crevice in the hinge, below and above; but the bones 
 were still inseparable. 
 
 He tried to force the straight blade into the tough 
 cartilage intervening; but, as this cartilage rounded with 
 the curve of the joint, the blade was forced to bend. 
 
 Suddenly a great calamity befell him. The rivet snapped, 
 and the handle and blade fell apart. 
 
 He dropped the useless handle in dismay. His heart 
 sank. His sword broken, the enemy could now run him 
 through. He was now defenseless, and death was hard 
 pressing him. 
 
 After this momentary depression came a strange reaction. 
 A terrible, desperate fury sprung up in his breast. His 
 face had a wild, haggard, demoniacal look. A kind of mad 
 delirium seized him — dark, unfathomable, and furious. He 
 was brought to bay. Instead of any longer having an intel- 
 ligent plan, he gave up to the most desperate exasperation. 
 He began to concentrate his remaining strength in one 
 grand onslaught, that would crush and tear and lacerate, 
 and scatter to the winds, regardless of everything, fearful of 
 nothing. He lurched violently and frantically, and tugged 
 
144 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 madly at the mangled limb. Still the joint refused to 
 yield. 
 
 But he made a strange discovery. It no longer pained 
 him to disturb the fracture. To make sure of this, he 
 turned about and mangled it worse. It did not increase 
 the dull and constant pain. At first it alarmed him, for he 
 thought he was past sensibility; but he soon dispelled this 
 fear by experiments on other parts of his body. 
 
 It gave him a new idea and calmed him. He put this 
 idea into operation. He arose, and stood as nearly upright 
 as possible, his bended left leg sustaining his weight. 
 
 There was a terrible determination in his face. Concen- 
 trating all his strength in one supreme effort, he straight- 
 ened himself, and violently wrenched the joint asunder. 
 
 Three hours later a sheep-herder found him sitting on 
 the bank of the river, nearly naked, and covered from head 
 to foot with blood. His eyes rolled wildly, and he grinned 
 and gibbered and chattered — hoplessly insane. 
 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A RUPTURE. 
 
 ^wHE years dragged slowly by, and the spring of 
 ~" 1880 was at hand. Graham had not accepted 
 the proffered situation; for, after mature con- 
 sideration, he had decided that it would be 
 better for him to continue in the old life. 
 
 Meanwhile, what had become of poor Nellie, whose 
 pretty head was turned a few years ago by the dazzling view 
 of life that the money and influence of her rich friends had 
 opened to her gaze and enjoyment? She was not yet mar- 
 ried to John, for John had not recovered the treasure, and 
 was a poor man still. Indeed, there were other sufficient 
 reasons why she had not married John. The old sympathy 
 that had existed between them was gone. Nellie was no 
 longer the Nellie that John had known. She no longer 
 talked over his plans with him, nor gave him bright words 
 of encouragement through the trials that had beset him, and 
 that still rendered his future dark. On the contrary, she 
 added to his sorrows with her upbraidings and complaints. 
 The poison had entered her life. Dark shadows had crept 
 in, and driven out the sunshine and the bright hopefulness. 
 
146 BLO OD-MONE Y. 
 
 She was discontented with her humble lot, and longed to 
 be in reality one of those who go to make up that society of 
 California whose standing is on a basis of money. No rup- 
 ture had taken place between her and John, but it was sure 
 to come. A gulf had been created between them. John, 
 with his patient, charitable disposition, had often tried to 
 convince her of the hollowness of the life she longed for; 
 but even at that late day he had never suspected the true 
 motives that led to Nellie's temporary adoption by her new 
 friends. She had never ceased reproaching him for refusing 
 the situation that had been offered him, and that she had 
 urged him to accept with all her winning eloquence. But 
 he would not, and that was the end of it. 
 
 Nor was that all. He had warmly espoused the cause of 
 the Mussel Slough settlers, which had taken a more serious 
 turn during the past few years. Nellie's sympathies were 
 not with them. 
 
 "Why, John," she once said petulantly, "those people 
 are not worth getting into trouble for. You ought to hear 
 Judge Harriott and those great men who sometimes go to 
 his house talk about those poor fools in Mussel Slough. 
 They make all manner of fun of them. Judge Harriott — 
 you know he is a manager or something — said that it is really 
 amusing to see those ignorant creatures in Mussel Slough 
 trying to fight the railroad company, which can tie them all 
 in a bundle, and throw them into the fire. What do you 
 trouble yourself about them for, John ? " 
 
 " Nellie," John replied earnestly, " those people in Mussel 
 Slough have been shamefully wronged, and I am in a posi- 
 
A RUPTURE. 
 
 147 
 
 tion similar to theirs. Do you suppose we will be such 
 cowards as to sit down and see our homes taken from us, 
 even if the power that is attempting the outrage is rich 
 enough to buy the courts, the legislature, and the congres- 
 sional committees that assisted to rob the people of these 
 lands ? Why, Nellie, it would be difficult for a disinterested 
 spectator to believe that such things are done in a country 
 where every man is supposed to be free. If we quietly sub- 
 mit to these wrongs, what, in the name of God, is to become 
 of us?" 
 
 " But, John, you don't understand. The men you speak 
 of in that harsh way are good, charitable, honest men; and 
 they have done so much for the country!" 
 
 " Because it paid them to do it, Nellie." 
 
 "It is not right to talk in that way, John." 
 
 " Nellie, Nellie ! have they so far poisoned your mind that 
 you are blind to the truth? You think they are good men; 
 yet how could good men make promises and offer induce- 
 ments to poor people, and then, when these poor people have 
 rendered a piece of property immensely valuable, they are 
 called upon to give it up, or pay in money what they have 
 paid already a hundred times over in sufferings that you can't 
 imagine?" 
 
 "They have been very kind to me, John; and surely they 
 don't expect me to be of any service to them?" 
 
 "How do you know, Nellie? Don't you know that 
 placing people under obligations is one of the regular 
 departments of their business, as well as employing lobby- 
 ists, lawyers, and political managers who corrupt conven- 
 
148 BLO OD-MONE Y. 
 
 tions and buy the votes of needy and unscrupulous men? 
 Don't you know why I refused to accept the situation they 
 offered me?" 
 
 "No: I know only that it would have been a great thing 
 for you, and that some day you would be a rich man." 
 
 John paced the floor in considerable agitation, and thus 
 expostulated : 
 
 "Nelhe, there was a motive in that offer. Do you 
 imagine for a moment that they care anything for me, or 
 would give me a crust of bread if I were starving? No, 
 Nellie ! They naturally reasoned that the situation would, 
 if I accepted it, have put a gag in my mouth. Why, Nellie, 
 see how successfully they have practiced that very ruse right 
 here in our section ! There are a great many men here who 
 sympathize with the railroad company and curse the poor 
 settlers. How did it come about? Through some favor 
 that the railroad company granted. I admit, Nellie, that it 
 is a very difficult matter for a man to withstand many of 
 the temptations that are offered; but, Nellie, what is money 
 when manhood is gone? Here we are, a mere handful of 
 men, opposed to the strongest power in the country — the 
 power of money; the power that lies behind the law and 
 courts ; the power whose sole object is the accumulation of 
 greater wealth and greater power; a power that is deter- 
 mined, with the aid of the machinery of the law, to crush 
 out all semblance of opposition, and that directs its most 
 powerful shafts against those who are least able to with- 
 stand them. 
 
 " I say we are a mere handful of men, because the time 
 
A RUPTURE. 
 
 149 
 
 has not yet come when wrongs have become so great and so 
 general that a larger and more united band of the oppressed 
 feel the crushing weight of the heel that grinds them ; but 
 that we are few is no reason that we should be cowards. 
 We have God and right on our side, Nellie. We have on 
 our side the prayers of the widow and the cries of the chil- 
 dren for bread. We have on our side right against might, 
 justice against infamous wrongs, honesty against theft, indus- 
 try against robbery, hunger against a feast ; and before God, 
 Nellie, we will fight for our rights to the bitter end; and 
 other people, seeing our brave little band standing up and 
 defiantly opposing a power that is great enough to buy a na- 
 tion, will flock to our standard, and maintain their rights as 
 secured by the Constitution of the United States — the right 
 of all men to acquire property and enjoy life. If no stand 
 is ever made against these outrages practiced by the rich on 
 the poor, what will become of this country? Even now, 
 Nellie, money is the great power in this country; and with a 
 single stroke of the pen, a few rich men can stop every rail- 
 road and factory in the country, and send millions of people 
 out upon the highways clamoring for bread." 
 
 "Then why don't they do it?" 
 
 "Because they dare not. Because hungry, red-handed 
 violence would take them by the throat, and make them dis- 
 gorge the fortunes they have made out of the miseries of 
 poor men ! Because the sun would rise some morning and 
 discover them dangling between heaven and earth, with a 
 rope around their necks !" 
 
 John was pale with excitement, and Nellie quaked under 
 
15° 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 the ferocity that appeared in his face. Nevertheless, she 
 said: 
 
 "John, Judge Harriott says that the corporations are very 
 lenient that they don't send to the penitentiary men who 
 talk like that." 
 
 John was calmer in a moment. 
 
 "I know it, Nellie. I know they laugh at us in our weak- 
 ness, and have great fun at our writhings under the misfor- 
 tunes that are thrust upon us. But the day is coming, 
 Nellie, when these wrongs will be righted. I hope it will 
 not be through blood, though I fear that blood will be 
 spilled. I fear that it must be spilled before the people are 
 sufficiently aroused to the danger that assails them — the 
 danger of cold, cruel, grasping money. There is good 
 ground for hope that the people will soon be awakened. 
 We are not all who suffer. There are the thousands of cor- 
 poration laborers who are compelled to renounce their 
 manhood; there are those who have angered the corpora- 
 tions, and who are hounded out of the country; there are 
 those who must pay as a tribute to the corporations all they 
 can earn by hard labor; there are the merchants who are 
 bound under contracts to ship all their goods by rail, to the 
 end that ocean transportation may be driven from the sea- 
 coast of California; there are the outspoken newspapers 
 from which the corporations compel merchants to withhold 
 advertising patronage ; there are the great masses of voters 
 who are cheated and cajoled into voting for men whom 
 their respective parties nominate in the interest of the cor- 
 porations. Why, Nellie, there is hardly a man, woman, or 
 
A RUPTURE. I^I 
 
 child in all this country who does not feel, directly or indi- 
 rectly, the weight of this curse. A reaction is bound to 
 come. People must, in simple self-protection, organize to 
 defeat this monster." 
 
 "It seems to me, John," said Nellie, somewhat overawed, 
 "that if the corporations are driving people to such an 
 extremity, the rich men would, for the sake of their own 
 interests, change their policy." 
 
 "Nellie, that which makes a man a robber will cause him 
 to continue a thief. These rich men are following the dic- 
 tates of their natures. Furthermore, they are so inflated 
 with power that they no longer deem it necessary to be 
 conciliatory and just. What have they to fear? Surely 
 not the government, which their money can control; and 
 surely not the people, for the people are not organized; and 
 besides, they are cowardly. But mark my words, Nellie, 
 the time is coming when the people will rise up in their 
 majesty, and crush this power that is stronger than the law. 
 It may be through blood, but I hope not. Still, history 
 shows that such wrongs are righted only through blood, or 
 through some local catastrophe that may be sufficient to 
 arouse the whole people." 
 
 Nellie sat stubborn and offended. She could not believe 
 that John was right, but attributed his remarks to the in- 
 fluence of the men with whom he had associated so much 
 recently. She knew not, poor, simple Nellie, that she was 
 among those who had been marked for the slaughter. 
 
 "Nellie," continued John, "I would not be a servant for 
 the railroad company for all the money it would pay me. 
 
152 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 Don't you remember that shameful case the other day, 
 when poor Simpson's young widow sued the railroad com- 
 pany for damages? Her husband was a brakeman, and he 
 was killed by reason of a defect in the brake-wheel. Well, 
 the railroad company had a great crowd of railroad men as 
 witnesses, who all swore that Simpson came to his death 
 through his own carelessness, although the brake-wheel itself 
 showed that it was fatally defective. Those witnesses per- 
 jured themselves — as they always do in such cases — to 
 retain their positions. One man, who had the courage and 
 honor to tell the truth, was soon afterwards discharged; 
 and you know that as a result of his testimony he couldn't 
 find employment on any railroad in this country, and was 
 finally compelled to cross the Rocky Mountains. In spite 
 of all that testimony, the jury brought in a verdict for the 
 widow; and it is such things as these that give us hope in 
 the people. Did you ever reflect upon what that verdict 
 meant? It meant this: We know that these witnesses 
 swore untruths, and the law of every country declares that 
 we shall make due allowance for the testimony of the ser- 
 vants of corporations, for the reason that corporations have 
 great power, and can injure a servant who testifies against 
 them. We do not blame these witnesses, but we pity them 
 from the bottom of our hearts. We pity rather than blame 
 any condition to which humanity can be brought, in which 
 manhood and honor are sold for the bread that keeps the 
 wolf from the door; but we do blame — and this verdict 
 bears us testimony — the power that is so abused in that it 
 enslaves the soul of a man, and blackmails his conscience 
 with threats of hunger." 
 
A RUPTURE. 
 
 153 
 
 "But, John, I have heard these gentlemen say that many 
 things are done wrong in their name without their knowl- 
 edge or consent. How can you blame them for that?" 
 
 "When a knowledge of these wrongs comes to them, do 
 they discharge the servants who committed them? By no 
 means ! These are notorious facts, Nellie. We do not 
 blame the servants so much, because the system that con- 
 trols them compels them to do wrong; and having become 
 once ensnared, they cannot shake off the yoke." 
 
 John and Nellie frequently had such conversations; but 
 only harm came out of them. The breach between John 
 and Nellie was steadily widening, for a little kindness and 
 much frippery had won Nellie's heart from the people. 
 
 Matters were in this condition when Nellie was again 
 invited to San Francisco. She told John. For the first 
 time he gently but firmly opposed her; and Nellie, high- 
 spirited and brave, resented the interference, and a rupture 
 ensued. 
 
 "Nellie," said John, pale and earnest, "since you wish 
 and declare that all is over between us, so be it; but I hope 
 and believe that your heart is not changed, and that you 
 will come back to me. You choose between me and these 
 people who are seeking to crush me. Very well. You are 
 no longer my friend." 
 
 Flushed and angry, Nellie left him. As she was leaving, 
 John added: 
 
 "This is another wrong, Nellie — and the greatest of all — 
 that I will lay up against my enemies — your friends." 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 AN APPARITION. 
 
 ^^T had been a long time since Graham heard 
 from Covin. The new dangers that assailed 
 Graham eclipsed his individual and private 
 interests, the welfare of others being concerned. 
 The complications that had arisen in land matters were of 
 greater urgency than was Graham's quest for the stolen 
 treasure. In the latter matter he had not progressed a step. 
 Although he knew who committed the murder, he was still 
 in ignorance of the whereabouts of the murderers ; and as 
 yet had no inkling of the priest or the location of the Lone 
 Tree fortune. But this did not cause him great distress. 
 He was young, and could bide his time. The whole man, 
 however, had undergone a change. He had now become 
 sullen and almost despondent. The loss of Nellie, which 
 he believed was irrevocable and irretrievable, had taken the 
 heart and spirit out of him, and left him morose and 
 rebellious. It is a man in such a condition who is prepared 
 for any desperate deed that may present itself. 
 
 Besides, a terrible uneasiness had taken possession of 
 him on Nellie's account. She had been gone a month, and 
 
AN APPARITION. 
 
 155 
 
 yet none of her friends had heard from her. Her uncle 
 had written to her several times, and still no answer came. 
 He had appealed to her friends, and they had paid no 
 attention to his letters. 
 
 At last came Monday, the loth of May, and still there 
 was no news from Nellie; but in looking over the list of 
 letters advertised in a San Francisco newspaper, Graham 
 saw that uncalled-for letters awaited Nellie. This was an 
 extraordinary circumstance, and he immediately went to 
 Nellie's uncle with the information. Mr. Foster was no 
 less surprised than Graham. Naturally he was anything 
 but suspicious ; but the fact that NeUie's letters were adver- 
 tised, coupled with the other fact of her long and unusual 
 silence, alarmed the old man so greatly that he decided to 
 visit San Francisco at once and look for his niece. 
 
 He and Graham were walking slowly toward Graham's 
 house, when they met an apparition on the road. It was 
 an old, old man, with long white hair and beard, and dressed 
 in ragged and dirty clothes. He looked ill and emaciated. 
 So pitable was his plight as he sat by the roadside, and such 
 a wild and hungry look he had through the dusty, shaggy 
 white hair that fell over his shoulders, that the two men in- 
 stinctively halted. 
 
 "Good morning, sir," said Graham, kindly. 
 
 The wretched old man flared up in a moment; and 
 grasping a primitive crutch that lay at his side, he raised it 
 aloft with a threatening and defiant air, and shouted : 
 
 "Stand back, there!" 
 
 He looked like a wild animal brought to bay. 
 
156 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 "Stand back," he shouted, with a terrible oath. "I'm an 
 old man, and have but one leg; but I'm a match for you 
 both, if you don't sneak on me while I'm asleep. Stand 
 back, I tell you, or, by God, I'll make you ! " 
 
 The two men gazed at him in astonishment, and then 
 Graham whispered: 
 
 "He's insane." 
 
 "It's a lie ! " shouted the old man, as he scrambled to an 
 upright position on his one leg. "They all say that, but I 
 tell you it's a lie. They poke their heads at one another, 
 and whisper, 'He's crazy'; but I tell you, it's a lie. I was 
 buried twenty years ago, and have just got up out of the 
 grave. Because an old man is starving to death, and gets 
 so weak he can't hobble along the road, they say he's crazy. 
 Vm. nof crazy ; and, what's more, you can't take me alive. 
 Ah, you've hunted for me for twenty years, have you? 
 Well, what of it? I was dead for eighteen years. You've 
 found me, haven't you? Then take me, if you dare. Take 
 me! Ha, ha, ha! Take me, I say. You can't do it, be- 
 cause you are brave men. I'm afraid of cowards, but I'm 
 not afraid of brave men. A coward murders you while you 
 
 sleep. Ha, ha ! But I ain't asleep now, d n you, nor 
 
 dead either; I'm wide awake. Do you hear that? Wide 
 awake and alive, I say; both eyes open, and a good stout 
 crutch in my hands. Stand back, there, or I'll knock your 
 brains out"; and with that, he dashed at them with uplifted 
 crutch ; but, being ill-used to his infirmity, he fell flat in the 
 dirt. 
 
 Graham picked him up and sat him upright, and sooth- 
 ingly said: 
 
AN- APPARITION. i^j 
 
 "There, now, be quiet. We are friends, and wouldn't hurt 
 you for all the world. You wouldn't strike your friends, you 
 know." 
 
 "Friends !" shrieked the old man — "friends ! You are not 
 my friends. I haven't any friends. I never had but one 
 friend, and he tried to murder me in my sleep. Ah, if I 
 could find him, wouldn't I cut out his heart ! Ah ! ah ! 
 wouldn't I drink his blood, and gouge out his eyes by the 
 roots, and strew his entrails on the ground ! Friends ! You 
 are no friends of mine ! " 
 
 "Yes, we are. Now, be calm, and let me tell you some- 
 thing. There are some men down the road, and they are 
 looking for you." 
 
 "What!" screamed the old man, in an agony of terror. 
 "Where are they?" 
 
 "They will soon be along; and unless you come with us 
 they will catch you and put you in jail." 
 
 "In jail !" shouted the old man, whiter than ever with fear. 
 "Don't let them take me," he begged piteously; and then 
 he seized Graham's hand, and while the tears streamed down 
 his face, he begged : 
 
 "Oh, don't let them take me! They've been hunting me 
 for twenty years, and haven't caught me yet, because I was 
 dead so long! And they have a ghost to help them — a 
 ghost that knows me, that has known me for twenty long 
 years — long years, don't you hear? In the name of God, 
 don't let them take me ! But they wouldn't harm a poor old 
 man like me, would they?" 
 
 "I think they would," urged Graham. "You had better 
 come to my house now, before they find you." 
 
158 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 The old man lost no time in getting meekly upon his foot 
 and crutch, and following Graham. He muttered to him- 
 self, and frequently cast a fearful look behind him, and shook 
 his head continually. 
 
 When they arrived at Graham's house, John bade him 
 enter. The demented old man — for he was more dem.ented 
 than insane — peered cautiously into the room before he en- 
 tered it, and then he hobbled through the door-way, and 
 dropped wearily into a chair that Graham placed for him. 
 
 Graham's grandmother was attending to some duties in 
 the yard, and John brought the poor old cripple something 
 to eat, and placed it on a table before him. The old man 
 looked hungrily at the tempting dinner, and was about to 
 commence devouring it, when he started back in dismay 
 
 "You are going to poison me!" he said piteously. 
 
 In order to assure him that there was no such intention, 
 Graham ate some of the food, and convinced the old man 
 that it had not been poisoned. Somewhat reassured, the 
 stranger, mumbling incoherently meanwhile, attacked the 
 food mincingly; and then, forgetting his fear, he ate raven- 
 ously — ate like a dog that had been starved for a week; ate 
 as only a human being driven almost to death by hunger can 
 eat when food is offered; ate voraciously, cramming his 
 mouth with food faster than he could swallow it, tearing the 
 meat to pieces with his bony fingers, and almost choking him^ 
 self Graham talked kindly to him, and brought him this 
 and that to eat and drink, and urged him to be patient, as 
 he was with friends. As his hunger was gradually appeased, 
 the old man became more moderate, and finally he ceased, 
 
AN APPARITION. 
 
 159 
 
 having gorged to his utmost capacity. Then he looked 
 vacantly around, and suddenly an insupportable drowsiness 
 overcame him, and he fell asleep on the table. Fearing to 
 disturb him, and knowing that sleep would calm his disor- 
 dered mind, Graham allowed him to slumber. 
 
 The old grandmother entered the room, and Graham ex- 
 plained to her the presence of the stranger. They were 
 engaged for an hour or more in a half- whispered conversa- 
 tion, when suddenly they were startled by a hoarse scream 
 from the old man. They looked at him, and found him 
 staring wildly and terror-stricken at Mrs. Graham, as if she 
 were the Avenging Angel that had been hunting him through 
 all the dreary years; that had followed him during the 
 eighteen years that he passed in the other world; and that 
 had taken human shape and followed him back to life, to 
 hound him still. 
 
1 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 RETURNED TO LIFE. 
 
 I HE fear depicted in the old man's face was 
 terrible. He sat, aghast and speechless, gaz- 
 ing at Graham's grandmother; and then, with- 
 out for a moment taking his gaze from the old 
 lady's face, he felt about for his crutch, but failed to find it. 
 Then, with his foot he felt around upon the floor, and still 
 failed to find his crutch. Abandoning this attempt, he 
 slowly and noiselessly arose, by placing one hand on the table 
 and the other on the back of the chair, and attempted to 
 gain the door without making any noise. Divining his 
 intention, Graham stepped forward, touched him gently on 
 the arm, and kindly said: 
 
 "Be seated, and rest yourself; we are all your friends. 
 That lady is my grandmother, and she is glad to see you, 
 and wouldn't harm a hair of your head." 
 
 "Wouldn't she?" whispered the old man, still gazing with 
 terror at Mrs. Graham. 
 
 "No; she likes you, and she'll help us to keep away those 
 men who are hunting you." 
 
 The old man started slightly as this new terror was 
 brought to his memory, and then he whispered: 
 
RETURNED TO LIFE. i6i 
 
 "Is she dead?' 
 
 "No; she's alive, thank God, and she wants you to sit 
 down and rest. Don't you, grandmother?" 
 
 "Yes, John; of course I do. I wouldn't let any one harm 
 the gentleman for anything in the world." 
 
 Her kind, sweet, soothing voice had a strange effect on 
 the poor old cripple, in whose eyes tears commenced to 
 gather. Then he drew John close to him, and again whis- 
 pered : 
 
 "Has she forgiven me?" 
 
 "He wants to know if you have forgiven him, grand- 
 mother. You have, haven't you?" 
 
 The old lady knew of nothing that she might forgive him, 
 but in the same sweet voice, she answered : 
 
 "O yes, John — long ago. I had even forgotten all about 
 it. I am nothing now but a friend." 
 
 These tender words, in the good old lady's sweet, soft 
 voice, affected the stranger so deeply that he crouched 
 down upon the chair, and buried his face in his hands, 
 which rested on his knees; and then he sobbed like a child. 
 
 "God knows," he stammered between his sobs, "that I 
 shouldn't have done it for all the world if I hadn't been led 
 into it. But I don't take any blame off my own shoulders 
 for that. I helped him do it, and that was enough; and 
 to-day he is a great, rich man, while I'm a poor beggar, with 
 some people trying to murder me in my sleep, and others 
 bunting me and driving me from pillar to post. And God 
 knows that if I had my life to live over again I would put a 
 knife into my own heart before I would harm a single hair 
 II 
 
1 62 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 of n'ly old neighbor's head. O dear, good madam, if 
 you'll forgive me, I'll be your slave the balance of my old 
 life ; and I'll make them give up the money that they took 
 from him, and you shall have it for his boy. Where is 
 his boy?" asked the old man, looking wildly around. 
 
 A light was slowly dawning upon Graham, and he asked: 
 
 "Where is that money?" 
 
 "Eh!" shouted the old man, in a terrible fury. "You 
 want it, do you? It would curse you if you had it"j and 
 he glared angrily at Graham. 
 
 Slowly and surely the light was breaking upon Graham. 
 Carefully he put this and that together, and the result 
 startled him. 
 
 "What is your name?" he asked. 
 
 "My name, sir?" screamed the old man, boiling with 
 rage. "My name is Harris. Look out. sir! If you speak 
 that other name I'll kill you!" 
 
 Graham walked over to the old man; and taking a 
 position directly in front of him, and eyeing him steadily, 
 he said : 
 
 "Twenty years ago two men lived in this part of the 
 country. They were brothers, and their name was Webster." 
 
 "It's a lie!" shouted the old man, in a desperate fury; 
 but Graham's calm, commanding look overawed him, and 
 made him subside. 
 
 "These brothers," continued Graham, "were killed in the 
 mountains by Indians, about twenty years ago." 
 
 "Yes, yes! they were killed! Ha, ha, ha! and they 
 were buried — buried deep!" laughed the old man eagerly, 
 
RETURNED TO LIFE. i6-' 
 
 and rubbing his hands together. "Yes, yes! they were 
 killed by the Indians, I say! Ha, ha, ha! killed by the 
 Indians! Had their throats cut! Ha, ha, ha! and 
 buried!" 
 
 "They were buried on King's River," continued Graham, 
 calmly. 
 
 "Yes, yes, yes! Buried on King's River! Ha, ha, ha! 
 Buried on the bank of King's River! Buried deep, deep, 
 deep!" 
 
 "They were not buried on King's River," said Graham, 
 sternly. 
 
 "Eh!" 
 
 "They were not buried on King's River. The coffins 
 were filled with wood and stones, and the wood and the 
 stones were buried on King's River." 
 
 The old cripple sat pale and speechless with terror. 
 
 "And that is not all," continued Graham, in a loud voice 
 and with a threatening manner. "These two brothers killed a 
 man, and robbed him, and buried the money under Lone 
 Tree." 
 
 The old man was helpless and unresisting. 
 
 "And that is not all yet," said Graham. "Those two 
 murderers are alive to-day, and you are one of them !" 
 
 The poor cripple, forgetting that he had himself betrayed 
 the secret, and who had been sitting motionless, and with 
 a look of intense anxiety and fear in his face, sank under 
 this terrible and crushing accusation, and trembled like a 
 beef that has received the blow of the butcher's knife. 
 
 Meanwhile, the old lady had been looking from her 
 
164 BLO OD-MONE V. 
 
 grandson to the stranger with a look of indescribable won- 
 der. Her palsied hands trembled more violently than 
 usual, with intense excitement, as the strange revelation 
 dawned upon her. Then a look of great horror came into 
 her eyes as she regarded the decrepit stranger with intense 
 loathing. She rose to her feet and tottered to John; and 
 taking him by the arm, said: 
 
 "Don't kill him, John. God has already punished him 
 with an affliction more awful than death." 
 
 It was well that she did this, for all the pent-up fury that 
 had been slumbering and accumulating in John's breast for 
 two years was nigh bursting forth in a bloody vengeance. 
 He had guessed but half the truth. The full sequel to his 
 midnight visit to the graveyard had not presented itself to his 
 slow-working mind. His grandmother's words soothed him, 
 and with an effort he calmed himself. And then he was 
 ashamed that any thought of taking revenge upon this help- 
 less old man had entered his mind. 
 
 With these reflections came others. This man might, 
 after all, be the one who wrote the anonymous letter two 
 years ago, and a visit or a word from whom John had been 
 patiently expecting for so long. 
 
 But he had gone too far. The old man, rendered twenty 
 years older by the tragedy through which he passed on the 
 bank of the San Joaquin, was so completely crushed by the 
 accusation with which John overwhelmed him that he could 
 only sit and mumble unintelligible words. The last spark 
 of reason was gone, and nothing but a helpless animal 
 remained. He took the old man's hand, and talked kindly 
 
RETURNED TO LIFE . 165 
 
 to him, endeavoring by all means in his power to recall to 
 light the shattered senses of the cripple; but the old man 
 looked at him with vacant eyes, and cried piteously as a child, 
 the tears streaming down his haggard, wrinkled face, and min- 
 gling with the dust that grimed his whiskers. Bitterly did 
 John accuse himself of his own rashness, and vainly did he 
 strive to recover the only hope that had come in his way. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE WARNING. 
 
 OR did Graham's efforts to bring the old man 
 back to consciousness cease with kindly and re- 
 assuring words. Graham's anxiety increased in 
 proportion to the extension of time in which he 
 was unsuccessful. The old man was very feeble. His life 
 hung by a thread, which perhaps Graham had already so 
 strained that it might snap at any moment, and carry with 
 its destruction every hope of discovering all the mysterious 
 circumstances attending the murder and the secretion of the 
 treasure. The day was wearing away, and still the old man 
 sat in helpless imbecility. The change in Graham's feelings 
 toward him, that ensued after this collapse of all semblance 
 of intelligence, was perfectly natural to one of Graham's dis- 
 position, and consisted in profound pity for the old man, 
 and a desire to do anything for him that could be done to 
 ameliorate the distress of his condition; and this desire was 
 apart from and in addition to his wish to utilize any knowl- 
 edge of which the old man might be in possession. The 
 conclusion forced itself upon Graham's mind, that it was his 
 own precipitate conduct that had brought on the present 
 
THE WARNING. 
 
 167 
 
 condition of affairs; that beyond a doubt the old man had 
 been led to that very sjiot by an intelligence which some 
 great calamity of the mind had reduced to an instinct; that 
 if the helpless old cripple had been treated with greater kind- 
 ness, and had not been anticipated, but had been led gradu- 
 ally on to a full statement and confession, he would have 
 told all that he knew, and would thus have put Graham in 
 possession of the facts for which he had been vainly hunting 
 for years. 
 
 Was there any way under heaven by which the lost ground 
 could be retrieved ? Was it possible that time, which softens 
 the hardships that every blow inflicts, could come to a par- 
 tial rescue of the old man's mind? 
 
 Old Webster — for such was his true name — stared blankly 
 from one to another of the three persons who sat watching 
 him in silence; and when Mr. Foster left, the imbecile 
 looked longingly after him, as if a friend were deserting him 
 in an extremity. Soon, however, he forgot that circum- 
 stance, and confined his absorbed attention to Graham and 
 Graham's grandmother. He would glance quickly at the 
 one who addressed him, but his face showed an utter ab- 
 sence of understanding. He spoke not a word, and betrayed 
 no desire to take his departure; but it was easy to see that 
 he was chained to his seat by fear, and that he regarded 
 himself as a prisoner. 
 
 Insanity is of various kinds, and as regards causes is 
 always difficult of diagnosis, though it is customary to 
 reason backward from symptoms. In general terms, it may 
 be said to consist in a morbid nervous excitation. It not 
 
1 68 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 infrequently happens that this excitation consumes the 
 mind to such an extent that imbecility follows insanity; 
 and such seemed to be the condition of Webster. Graham 
 had a partial knowledge of these matters, and had always 
 felt keen interest in reading books relating to pathological 
 phenomena. With the information that he possessed, he 
 determined to make an experiment. 
 
 Whisky produces a kind of temporary insanity; and in 
 any event, it seldom fails in effecting mental or nervous 
 excitement. Graham had read of curious experiments that 
 had been tried upon imbecile persons with whisky; and 
 among them he had noticed cases in which there was a 
 temporary restoration of the mental faculties, where the 
 destruction of the mind had not gone to the extent of a 
 serious disarrangement of the cellular construction of the 
 brain. He would try this experiment on the imbecile who 
 sat staring and grinning at him. 
 
 He poured into a glass a quantity of whisky that his 
 grandmother kept for medicinal purposes, and handing it to 
 the old man, peremptorily ordered him to drink it. Web- 
 ster took the glass with the most abject meekness, held it 
 in his trembling hand, and while the look of fear in his 
 face became more intense, he muttered one word: 
 
 "Poison." 
 
 "No, it is not poison. It is medicine. Drink it." 
 
 Graham's tone was not without a shade of kindness, 
 although it was stern and emphatic. Webster drank the 
 liquor without a moment's hesitation, placed the glass on 
 the table, and again fixed his vacant eyes on Graham 
 
THE WARNING. 169 
 
 with a look of profound resignation and martyrdom. 
 Graham anxiously watched the effect of the liquor. 
 
 He was soon rewarded. The old man's face flushed and 
 his eyes became brighter. He sighed, turned uneasily 
 about in his chair, and his look became wilder but less 
 vacant. 
 
 Presently he took the glass from the table and held it 
 toward Graham, saying: 
 
 "More." 
 
 Graham poured out a small quantity, and the old man 
 eagerly drank it. In a few minutes more Graham's heart 
 bounded joyfully to discover that old Webster's tongue was 
 loosened at last. 
 
 " He tried to murder me ! " said the partially intoxicated 
 imbecile, with great excitement. "He climbed upon the 
 bank, and threw a log down upon me while I slept." 
 
 "Who did?" asked Graham, as the old man suddenly 
 checked himself and looked cautiously around. But he 
 withdrew into himself, and Graham saw that some other 
 plan than asking direct questions must be resorted to. He 
 must encourage a statement rather than lead it. 
 
 "If I find him I will kill him," said Graham. 
 
 "Will you?" cried Webster, eagerly. "Ah, I'll help you! 
 I'll help you cut out his heart." 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 "Sh — h," whispered the old man mysteriously, again 
 looking cautiously around. Then he leaned far forward 
 and whispered, " They are coming to-morrow." 
 
 "Are they?" 
 
lyo 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 "Yes. I saw 'ein last night. I watched 'em, ha ha! 
 They didn't think a crazy old man could hear anything. 
 Ah, ha, ha ! They are going to turn 'em all out of house and 
 home. Hey ! They are going to turn 'em out, do you hear 
 that? Turn 'em out like cattle." 
 
 "You heard them say that?" asked Graham, feeling his 
 way, and not divining the meaning of these rambling words. 
 
 "Yes, yes, yes! Heard 'em say it. I was lying on some 
 straw behind the house, and I heard 'em talking. O, I 
 wasn't asleep. I never sleep." 
 
 Still Graham was unable to fathom the meaning of the 
 old man's words. 
 
 "What are they going to turn them out for?" he asked. 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 "What are they going to turn them out for?" 
 
 "Why, to put others in. Ha, ha, ha! To put others in." 
 
 "To put others in?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 "Why do they want to put others in?" 
 
 The question puzzled the old man so much that he 
 could merely shake his head. 
 
 "To put others in," he repeated. 
 
 Leaving this subject for future thought, and realizing the 
 fact that the old man would soon relapse into imbecility, 
 Graham, desiring to learn as much as possible while old 
 Webster was in a condition to talk, asked, as he pointed to 
 his grandmother: 
 
THE V/ARNING. 171 
 
 "Are you afraid of this woman?" 
 
 AVebster had become excited to such a degree in relating 
 the conversation between the strangers, that he had for the 
 moment forgotten the old lady. When his attention was 
 again called to her by Graham, his intense fear returned, 
 and he trembled in every limb. 
 
 "Are you afraid of her?" persisted Graham. "You need 
 not be, for she is your friend." 
 
 "I am your friend," gently said the old lady. 
 
 This kindness touched the old man's heart at once, and 
 he sobbed pitifully. 
 
 "You wouldn't lay it up against a poor old man, would 
 you, ma'am?" he pleaded, between his sobs. "I wouldn't 
 'a' done it for all the world. And then I had to die, and they 
 buried me deep, deep. Why, ma'am, I was buried eighteen 
 years ! I wish they hadn't brought me back. But it seems 
 to me," he added, as though he were trying to remember 
 something that endeavored to elude him— "it seems to me 
 that even while I was dead I had a very hard time— a very, 
 very hard time." 
 
 "Where is your brother?" asked Graham, bluntly. 
 
 "Dead." 
 
 "When did he die?" 
 
 "Killed by the Indians." 
 
 "And he was buried at the time you were?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well," said Graham, "he, too, has come to life." 
 
 "Eh? What is that?" eagerly asked Webster. 
 
 "Your brother has come to life." 
 
172 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 "To life?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "My brother?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The old man shook his head in gloomy doubt. 
 
 "He is a priest," said Graham. 
 
 This remark seemed unintelligible to old Webster, much 
 to Graham's disappointment. But the thoughts of the old 
 man were evidently very busy, for his brows were knitted, 
 and his lips moved as though he were talking to himself. 
 
 "My brother?" he presently asked. 
 
 "Yes: he is alive." 
 
 But the old man merely shook his head and said 
 nothing. 
 
 Graham entertained but one theory regarding the remov- 
 al of the treasure from Lone Tree — the theory that Covill 
 had advanced — that a priest had betrayed the secret of the 
 confessional, and had taken the money. Having failed to 
 arouse in old Webster's mind any thought of his brother, 
 Graham resorted to an expedient for learning of the priest. 
 
 But how should he proceed? The task was the mos» 
 dangerous and delicate that he had undertaken, as even a 
 bare reference to the subject might unnerve the old man, 
 and render him incapable of making further revelations. 
 Furthermore, Graham had given the old man a larger quan 
 tity of whisky than he could bear in his weak condition, 
 and drowsiness was rapidly approaching. 
 
 "Are you a Catholic?" asked Graham. 
 
 The old man simply stared at him, and made no reply. 
 
THE WARNING. 
 
 173 
 
 Graham decided to come to the point at once, as time was 
 precious. 
 
 " Did you confess to a priest that you buried the money 
 under Lone Tree?" 
 
 The question had a magical effect. The old man's eyes 
 brightened at once. 
 
 "Lone Tree!" he exclaimed. 
 
 "Yes; Lone Tree, with the iron pot buried under it." 
 
 "Filled with gold— bright, yellow gold — twenty-two thou- 
 sand dollars in gold ! " he gasped. His excitement was in- 
 tense. 
 
 "Where is the money?" asked Graham, pressing the old 
 man hard. 
 
 "The money?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Lone Tree?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Twenty-two thousand dollars. Ah !" and he rubbed his 
 hands and smacked his lips. 
 
 Graham laid his hand firmly on old Webster's shoulder, 
 and again demanded : 
 
 "Where is the money?" 
 
 "The twenty-two thousand dollars?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Lone Tree?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Buried eighteen years." 
 
 This was all the answer the old man could make. Never- 
 theless, it was apparent that a great struggle was going on in 
 
174 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY 
 
 his feeble mind, but the temporary light was fast fading. His 
 eyes rolled in their sockets, and with an effort that was 
 almost ludicrous he shrugged his shoulders and assumed an 
 air of profound mystery. 
 
 "Lone Tree?" he asked interrogatively, looking Graham 
 steadily in the face. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "They will all be turned out to-morrow." 
 
 So great was Graham's anxiety that it was with difficulty 
 he retained his presence of mind. Still holding his grasp on 
 Webster's shoulder, he gave the old man a shake, and 
 threateningly said : 
 
 " If you don't tell where that money is, I'll hang you for 
 murder." 
 
 If it was possible for the old man to become paler than 
 he was, his face became as white as that of a corpse; then 
 he again broke down and cried. 
 
 " Tell me where the money is," demanded Graham, "and 
 I will let you go." 
 
 "The money?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Lone Tree?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Twenty-two thousand dollars?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Iron pot?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Buried eighteen years." 
 
 This threw Graham into the last stage of exasperation. 
 
THE WARNING. 175 
 
 With flushed face and with eyes glittering with anger, he 
 dragged the helpless old man to his feet, and violently- 
 thrust him against the wall. Then he picked up a carv- 
 ing-knife, and brandishing it in a threatening manner, 
 said: 
 
 "Speak, or I'll cut your throat! Where is that mon- 
 ey?" 
 
 The spectacle that then presented itself was pitiful in the 
 extreme. Old Webster, fully expecting the knife to be 
 thrust into his vitals, closed his eyes, and faintly mur- 
 mured : 
 
 "God, have mercy on me !" 
 
 The appeal touched Graham's heart instantly, and he 
 relaxed his grasp, and tenderly seated the old man on the 
 chair. 
 
 Some other plan must be adopted. Graham, eyeing 
 Webster narrowly, and endeavoring to impress strongly 
 upon him every word that he uttered, said : 
 
 "Listen to me, old man: you wanted to give that money 
 to Graham's son. Well, a priest stole the money, and Gra- 
 ham's son never got it." 
 
 "Never got it.?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Lone Tree?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Twenty-two thousand dollars?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "My brother stole it." 
 
 "Your brother?" 
 
1 7 6 BLOOD-MONE V. 
 
 "Yes." 
 "Henry?" 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 "Eh?" 
 
 "Where is Henry?" 
 "Henry?" 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I.one Tree?" 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Twenty-two thousand dollars?" 
 "Yes; where is Henry?" 
 "Henry?" 
 "Yes." 
 "Brother?" 
 "Yes." 
 
 "O, he's a rich man." 
 "A rich man?" 
 "Eh?" 
 
 "Is Henry a rich man?" 
 "Henry?" 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Lone Tree?" 
 "Yes. Where is Henry?" 
 "O, San Francisco." 
 "What's his name?" 
 "O, he's a rich man." 
 
 In another minute the old man would completely suc- 
 cumb to intoxication. With a violent effort he roused him- 
 
THE WARNING. 
 
 177 
 
 self, desperately trying to shake off the lethargy that was 
 overpowering him. A moment of half-lucid thought came 
 to his relief, and with it a faint realization of all that he 
 had suffered by persecution. His chest expanded and 
 heaved, and his eyes flashed with anger. 
 
 " My brother stole the money!" he shouted. "He knew 
 I wanted to restore it to Graham's boy. He has hounded 
 and hunted me all these years, and wouldn't let me earn an 
 honest living. Ah, the coward ! He's a rich man — a very 
 rich man. I'm a poor old beggar. Where's Graham's 
 son?" he asked, looking eagerly around. 
 
 "I am Graham's son," answered John. 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 "I am Graham's son." 
 
 "Graham's son?" 
 
 "Yes. What does your brother do? What is his 
 name?" 
 
 "My brother?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Henry?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Lone Tree?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Twenty-two thousand dollars?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Iron pot?" 
 
 "Yes. What is Henry's name?" 
 
 "They will all be turned out to-morrow." 
 
 The last effort in the struggle against unconsciounsess had 
 12 
 
I y 8 BLO OD-MONE V. 
 
 been made, and the collapse had come. The temporary 
 life infused by the liquor had gone. The transitory excite- 
 ment had passed away, and the weak mind succumbed to 
 intoxication. With a heavy lurch, the old man fell forward 
 upon the floor, and in another moment he was sound 
 asleep. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE ELEVENTH OF MAY. 
 
 ^}HE eleventh of May, in the year of our Lord 
 one thousand eight hundred and eighty — the 
 most remarkable day in the strange history 
 of California, dawned bright and beautiful. 
 When the rising sun peeped over the snow-covered Sierra, it 
 looked down upon an enchanting scene in the valley — upon 
 Visalia, half slumbering in its grand bower of oaks ; upon 
 the level plain that lay beyond it to the westward; upon 
 Cross Creek, lined with willows, and bearing its swollen 
 burden to the lake ; upon lovely fields of bright young 
 grain that carpeted the whole face of Mussel Slough with a 
 tapestry of tender green; upon tall poplars, standing in 
 stately guard over the less pretentious but more inviting wil- 
 lows ; upon the placid lake and the thrifty towns ; upon the 
 broad bosom of tree-lined King's River; upon the plains 
 beyond the lake; upon the undulating eastern slope of the 
 Coast Range. 
 
 Mussel Slough is more than a garden; it is a hot-house: 
 for no garden could yield such wealth of grain and fruit, 
 such trees of marvelous growth, such busy towns which 
 
1 80 BLOOD-MONE Y. 
 
 enlarge with wonderful rapidity. There are three of these 
 towns in the heart of Mussel Slough. Hanford and Le- 
 moore lie some eleven miles north of the lake, and five 
 miles apart, on a line running east and west. Some three 
 or four miles north of nearly the middle point of this line is 
 Grangeville. Hanford and Lemoore are on the line of a 
 branch railroad that taps the juncture of the Central Pacific 
 and the Southern Pacific railroads at Goshen, which is 
 nearly half-way between Hanford on the west and Visalia 
 on the east. This branch road terminates at Huron, a 
 small station a few miles west of Lemoore. Hanford is the 
 largest and most important of the three towns. It has 
 great warehouses for grain raised in Mussel Slough, and 
 broad streets lined with large houses of brick and smaller 
 houses of wood. It is new, fresh, and clean. Its suburbs 
 are strewn with bright cottages, painted white, and provided 
 with green window blinds, and many with dainty flower 
 gardens in front. It is thus with the other towns ; and on 
 this memorable eleventh of May there was on all an im- 
 pressive aspect of prosperity and contentment. 
 
 There had been a favorable season, and the grain was 
 unusually luxuriant. Even the more modest alfalfa claimed 
 its share of attention, and had a deeper and richer green 
 than ever before, and added its quota to the beauty of the 
 scene. 
 
 And yet it was only a few years ago that this vast garden 
 was a desert wilderness, scoured by bands of cattle, horses, 
 and hogs; and the land was of little value to any one. 
 Every stalk of the bright green wheat that grew there on the 
 
THE ELEVENTH OF MAY. i8i 
 
 eleventh of May; every tender spray of alfalfa; every fruit 
 tree, loaded with its perfumed burden of flowers; every 
 thrifty home and happy household — everything of life, 
 where death had been before — was a monument and a 
 breathing witness to the struggles, hardships, and dire 
 sufferings of those pioneers in Mussel Slough who dug the 
 ditches that carried water into the desert, transforming it 
 into a garden whose loveliness is not surpassed on all the 
 broad face of the earth; dug the ditches in poverty, 
 hunger, and rags, while rich men jibed them and men less 
 brave derided them; dug the ditches to make a home and 
 shelter for their wives and children, who had not enough to 
 eat; worked through burning heat and freezing cold, 
 through water and through choking dust, with the mocking 
 world at their backs and the hope of a peaceful future 
 before them. 
 
 They performed prodigious feats of labor, digging miles 
 and miles of broad, deep ditches, that brought down the 
 liquid treasure from the mountain streams. 
 
 Let it be remembered, that of the almost countless thou- 
 sands of acres of land owned by the railroad company, the 
 settlers in those days of hardships had only a {^v,' — a patch 
 here and there in the desert. The open, sandy soil drank 
 the water on all sides from the ditches; so that all the 
 country, as well as the small tracts taken here and there by 
 the settlers, was in due time rendered wonderfully produc- 
 tive. The peculiar nature of the soil permitted the water to 
 be carried from the various ditches by percolation through- 
 out all the Mussel Slough country. The land that was 
 
1 8 2 BLO OD-MONE Y. 
 
 heretofore utterly valueless — land held by the railroad com- 
 pany — became so productive, and the demand for it became 
 so great, that the enhanced value consequent upon the toil 
 of the early settlers would have been sufficient to make one 
 man fabulously rich. In all justice, honesty, and decency; 
 in the light of a knowledge of that ground-work of fair deal- 
 ing on which the safety and the peace of society are founded ; 
 in the name of common humanity, and that which is due 
 from one man to another — would not an upright mind have 
 suggested that these first settles be given the small tracts of 
 land they occupied, upon payment by them of prices agreed 
 upon between them and the railroad claimants before these 
 great improvements were made? This a question for honest 
 men to answer and for brave men to act upon. The 
 eleventh of May stands as the answer of the railroad com- 
 pany backed by the law. The nature of that reply will soon 
 appear. 
 
 Let us understand the causes that led to this bloody day. 
 The settlers did not recognize as valid the claim of the rail- 
 road company to the lands, believing that the patents from* 
 the Government had been issued on false representations; 
 that the road had not been constructed through those parts 
 of the State designated in the articles of incorporation, 
 which articles were the legal basis of the appropriation of 
 lands by the Congress ; that the terms of even the appropri- 
 ation had been violated in three ways : by a failure to make 
 the railroad through Mussel Slough a continuous highway 
 through the State; and by a further failure to construct the 
 entire section of twenty-five miles through Mussel Slough 
 
THE ELEVENTH OF MAY. 
 
 183 
 
 before the land could be legally patented; and by a still 
 further failure to construct in the required time even the 
 twenty miles that were laid. Upon this basis the settlers 
 contested the legality of the patent issued to the railroad 
 company, and laid before the courts their claims as actual 
 settlers. The question had first been opened by the officers 
 of the Government themselves, and this it was that had 
 called the attention of the settlers to the matter. This con- 
 troversy was one purely of law, and not of feeling. It was 
 founded on the desire of honest and poor men to secure 
 their rights under the law, and carried with it the common 
 rights of all poor men as against the grasping policy of the 
 rich. The railroad company, in accordance with its policy, 
 set about to carry its point by whatever means were availa- 
 ble. It was this policy that caused the blood to flow that 
 was spilled on the eleventh of May. 
 
 A mere glance is all that can be given at some important 
 features of this history. The settlers had organized them- 
 selves into what they termed a "Settlers' League,"the principle 
 object of which was that the settlers should share in just pro- 
 portion among themselves the expenses of pending litigation ; 
 and here let it be pubHshed for the first time to the world, 
 that if the secret records of that league could be found, there 
 might be seen running entirely through them, written in a 
 plain hand and with black ink, an expUcit understanding and 
 pledge, formulated in more shapes than one, to respect the 
 law, to cheerfully abide by its decisions, and to raise not so 
 much as a finger against its operation; for it was to law and 
 justice that these down-trodden men looked for relief. And 
 
184 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 not only was it written in the record, but it was the deter- 
 mination of clear-headed and law-abiding men. 
 
 They had faith in their cause, believing that right was on 
 their side. 
 
 Acting upon the expressed promise made by the railroad 
 company, in printed circulars, that the settlers would not be 
 required to pay the additional value that their improvements 
 gave the lands, the settlers had cause to feel safe, even if so 
 improbable a thing as a decision against them should be ren- 
 dered by the courts. 
 
 An understanding, recent, explicit, well understood, and 
 binding among honorable men, had been entered into be- 
 tween the settlers and the railroad company, that the latter 
 would not bring against the settlers suits for eviction until 
 the then pending questions of legal ownership and of equit- 
 able values should be determined. On the 12th of Septem- 
 ber, 1878, the settlers were astounded at receiving from the 
 railroad company notifications in which the full value of the 
 land was demanded, after all the improvements had been 
 made — a price many times in excess of that asked in the 
 original proposition. It was then that the confidence of the 
 people was shaken. They refused to pay the price. 
 
 There was to be a great meeting at Hanford that day. 
 The opinion of an able jurist concerning the status of the land 
 troubles was to be read, and the people made it a holiday. 
 Families left their homes, and flocked into the town by 
 hundreds. It was an occasion for pleasure and rejoicing; 
 for it was understood that the opinion was favorable to the 
 settlers. The men and women wore their holiday clothes, 
 
THE ELEVENTH OF MAY. 185 
 
 and brought their lunches in ample baskets. Even at an 
 early hour the roads were thronged with merry parties, 
 laughing and chatting as they went to Hanford. Grange- 
 ville and Lemoore were depopulated, and farm-houses left 
 without occupants. 
 
 The bright warm light that the sun poured down from 
 over the Sierra, the boundless fields of young grain that 
 waved in the passing breeze, causing it to show alternately 
 lighter and darker shades of green, the few late wild-flowers 
 that lined the roads on either side, the birds that chattered 
 in the willows — all contributed to the glory of the day, a day 
 of enchanting loveliness. 
 
 Graham arrived early at Hanford. It might have been 
 seen at once that some great anxiety weighed heavily upon 
 him. And good cause there was. He had slept little the 
 night before, for the old man's incoherent words troubled 
 him sorely. He had learned two important things from 
 Webster : that Webster's brother was alive and a rich man 
 in San Francisco, and that "they will all be turned out to- 
 morrow." Who will be turned out? Graham could not 
 rid himself of the idea that the people of Mussel Slough 
 were threatened with a dire calamity; but unwilling to trust 
 his own judgment, he went early the next morning to Han- 
 ford, and there sought his friend Newton. He told New- 
 ton what the old man had said. 
 
 "Impossible!" exclaimed Newton. Then he reflected a 
 moment, and said : "I was told before I saw you that the 
 United States Marshal slept here last night, and that he and 
 two or three other men left early this morning in buggies; 
 but nobody knew where they were going." 
 
1 86 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 Graham and Newton left Hanford to see the marshal, 
 and endeavor to make with him some arrangement that 
 would not render immediate eviction necessary. 
 
 It was a pleasant reunion of friends at Hanford — a meet- 
 ing of neighbors who were bound to one another by stronger 
 ties than ordinary friendship. Nevertheless, there came 
 upon this vast concourse of people, by imperceptible de- 
 grees, a feeling of uneasiness. The news concerning the 
 Marshal slowly but surely found its way to all, and brought 
 with it an indescribable feeling of gloom and depression. 
 Sturdy young men became less attentive to the rosy-cheeked 
 girls; a slight shade of pallor crossed the face of many a 
 mother; and men of mature years gathered in little groups 
 apart from the women, and asked one another : 
 
 "What does it mean?" 
 
 Some said it meant eviction. 
 
 "Surely," exclaimed others, "they would not violate their 
 promise to let us alone until our cases are decided!" 
 
 There is something grand in a man who refuses to believe 
 ill of his neighbor. 
 
 About ten o'clock a man mounted on a horse dashed 
 into Hanford at a furious pace. He was pale with excite- 
 ment, and his horse was covered with foam. 
 
 "Great God, men!" he shouted, as he reined in his 
 horse and crowds flocked around him. 
 
 "What is the matter?" cried a hundred voices. 
 
 "On Storer's ranch they are butchering the settlers like 
 hogs!" 
 
 That great throng of men and women staggered and 
 
THE ELEVENTH OF MAY. 187 
 
 gasped. Some had not heard the news, but it flew from 
 mouth to mouth with wonderful rapidity, and became 
 greatly exaggerated, many crying out in despair that a 
 hundred men had been killed. 
 
 It would require a stronger pen than this to convey even 
 a faint idea of the remarkable scene that then transpired. 
 Every man, woman, and child felt that the bloody hand of 
 this terrible eleventh of May had seized him by the throat, 
 and sought to strangle him with that fierce strength that 
 brooks no opposition, and that cares as little for the life 
 of a human being as does the mad hurricane for the reed 
 that stands in its way. 
 
 After the first shock of depression, came a terrible 
 reaction. Persons rushed hither and thither in wild dismay, 
 and brave men stared at one another in helpless consterna- 
 tion. The despairing screams of women rent the air — 
 women who learned from the messenger that their husbands 
 lay dead upon the field, with their brains blown out. Oh, 
 the frightful anguish of that moment 1 Oh, the hearts that 
 were broken, and the children that were rendered fatherless ! 
 
 With breathless haste, and with fingers trembling with 
 fear, and with sinking hearts, and in dire dread of learning 
 the names of others who possibly had been sacrificed, the 
 people hurriedly secured their teams and pushed on to the 
 scene of the tragedy. 
 
w^t^ 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE BAPTISM OP' BLOOD. 
 
 'EAVING Hanford, Graham and Newton rode 
 I away in the direction the Marshal and the three 
 men with him had taken. As they went, they 
 met many persons going to Hanford. 
 
 "Have you seen the Marshal and his party?" Newton 
 asked some of them. 
 
 "The Marshal? Is he here?" 
 
 This was depressing news, but it had been expected for 
 some time, and his mission was known at once. 
 
 "He is on the road," replied Newton, "and we are going 
 to see what he will do. Of course he will eject some 
 settlers." 
 
 Some of the men they thus met joined them and turned 
 about. 
 
 "I heard something just as I was leaving town," said 
 Graham, "that does not sound encouraging." 
 
 "What is that?" eagerly asked Newton. 
 
 "That the two men who drove to Hanford this morning, 
 and went out with the Marshal and the land grader for the 
 railroad company, had two shotguns and a rifle in their 
 buggy, and that each had a pair of revolvers." 
 
THE BAPTISM OF BLOOD. 189 
 
 "What is that for?" asked one of the party. 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 Newton looked downcast. 
 
 "Surely," he said, "they don't expect a fight. Why, we 
 are unarmed, and we never thought of a fight." 
 
 "No," said one; "there mustn't be anything of the kind." 
 
 Thus they rode along, increasing their pace; for an inde- 
 finable dread took possession of them. One man, who was 
 incredulous, said: 
 
 "Why, the railroad company promised us only the other 
 day that it would not prosecute any ejectment suits until 
 our cases should be decided. How can it do such a thing?" 
 
 Newton smiled with some bitterness. 
 
 "I am not surprised at what has happened," he said. 
 
 They had gone four or five miles when they were joined 
 by a man who was considerably excited. 
 
 "What has happened?" asked Newton. 
 
 "They have thrown Braden's goods into the road," re- 
 plied the man. "And that isn't all: they left four loaded 
 cartridges on the door-sill." 
 
 This was indeed discouraging news. 
 
 "Did Braden make any objection?" asked Graham. 
 
 "He expostulated with them; but the Marshal told him 
 that, although it was an unpleasant duty, it had to be done." 
 
 "What do those cartridges mean?" asked Graham of the 
 man. 
 
 "I don't know. Perhaps they were put there as a warn- 
 ing to the settlers of what they may expect if they offer any 
 resistance." 
 
igo 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY 
 
 "But we don't want to fight!" exclaimed Newton, with 
 some impatience. "We want merely to see if this thing 
 can't be delayed. Why, it would be a terrible thing to turn 
 us out now, after we have done all the work and spent all 
 the money that is required until harvest. What in the 
 world will become us? We must reason with the Marshal. 
 They say he is a good man; and I think we can get him to 
 defer the service of these writs of ejectment until after har- 
 vest, or until our cases have been decided." 
 
 The eviction was the sole topic of conversation. The 
 men discussed it from every point of view, and felt dispirited 
 and crushed. 
 
 By this time the number of settlers had increased to fif- 
 teen, and it was learned that the Marshal and his party had 
 gone northward after dispossessing Braden. The fifteen 
 men were not far behind the Marshal, as they learned from 
 persons they met on the road. A feeling of gloom de- 
 pressed them, and they rode in silence. Soon they arrived 
 at a turn in the road, and looking before them, across the 
 field that intervened, they saw the Marshal and the three 
 men who were with him. These had just emerged into the 
 field from the yard surrounding the farm-house belonging 
 to Storer and Brewer. 
 
 "There they are," said Graham. 
 
 Instead of following the turn in the road to the eastward, 
 the settlers removed a panel of the fence, and rode straight 
 across the field toward the Marshal. That officer sat in one 
 buggy with the railroad land grader, and the other was oc- 
 cupied by the two men who were to be placed in possession 
 
THE BAPTISM OF BLOOD. 
 
 191 
 
 of the land from which the Marshal was evicting the settlers, 
 and who had bought the land from the railroad company. 
 
 Seeing them coming, the Marshal advanced on foot to- 
 ward them, and met them about sixty yards from where the 
 buggies were. x\ short parley ensued, in which the settlers 
 endeavored to make some arrangement with the Marshal, 
 whereby the service of the writs of ejectment might be de- 
 layed. The meeting was a friendly one, and the Marshal 
 deplored the unfortunate position in which he was placed, 
 
 "It is an unpleasant duty," he said, "but I have to do it," 
 
 Some of the men were becoming excited ; and as an out- 
 break seemed possible, on account of the exasperation to 
 which the settlers were driven at seeing themselves betrayed, 
 a guard was placed over the Marshal. 
 
 While this was transpiring, two or three settlers rode to- 
 ward the three men who still sat in the buggies, and they 
 were somewhat more than half-way, when a terrible thing 
 occurred. The sight made Graham's heart stand still. 
 
 One of the men in the buggy, seeing the settlers approach 
 near, reached for a gun that leaned against the seat, when 
 the other said : 
 
 "Don't shoot yet: it isn't time." 
 
 A moment afterward a shot was fired, and one of the 
 advancing settlers fell from his horse, with twelve buckshot 
 in his breast. 
 
 The battle had opened. Shot followed shot in rapid 
 succession between the settlers and the two men who oc- 
 cupied the buggy in which were the guns. 
 
 Graham and Newton stood apart from the others, and 
 
I f) 2 BLO OD-MONE V. 
 
 saw this sickening spectacle : saw man set against man, and 
 neighbor against neighbor, and dragged into the jaws of 
 death by that far-reaching thing that saw fit on this occasion 
 to masquerade in the sacred vestments of the law : saw 
 brave men slaughter one another as though heaven instead 
 of hell had brought them to such bloody work. 
 
 It was a terrible sight ! One of the men in the wagon re- 
 ceived a pistol-ball in the abdomen. The other sprung to 
 the ground ; and with a shotgun in one hand and a revolv- 
 er in the other, boldly advanced upon one of the two men 
 who were guarding the Marshal. Between this guard and 
 the advancing man an old feud existed. The guard, seeing 
 the fate that awaited him, endeavored to get behind his 
 horse, which he was holding. The pursuing man went 
 around, and sent a bullet full into the breast of the guard. 
 The wounded man dropped to his knees, clasped his breast, 
 and exclaimed : 
 
 "My God 1 I'm shot!" 
 
 Then he staggered to his feet, and received another bullet 
 in the breast. He reeled away, mortally wounded, in the 
 direction of a pool of water. This man was unarmed; and 
 it may here be said that of the fifteen men only seven had 
 pistols, arid they were nearly all inefficient weapons. 
 
 As this man staggered to his feet and started for the pool, 
 the other guard, who carried a small revolver which was so 
 inferior that the thumb was required to revolve the chamber, 
 advanced and opened fire on the assailant. He emj^tied 
 his pistol, but none of the shots took effect. The other man 
 fired twice, missing both times. The third shot made a hole 
 
THE BAPTISM OF BLOOD. 
 
 193 
 
 in the guard's breast. He staggered backward three or four 
 steps, stopped, straightened himself, and then fell backward. 
 
 The scene was becoming more exciting. Riderless horses 
 dashed about. 
 
 !'For God's sake, bring me my rifle!" cried the man who 
 had finished the two guards, addressing his companion. 
 This man, suffering from a terrible wound, had descended 
 from the buggy, and was lying on the ground. Besides, the 
 horses, becoming frightened, had -run away with the buggy 
 containing the rifle. 
 
 The frightful details of that affair are apart from the re- 
 quirements of this tale. Let it be hoped that at some time 
 they will be written by an abler pen than the one which 
 indites this simple tale. Suffice it to say, that as Graham sat 
 there on his horse, he saw a rapid hurrying of men hither 
 and thither ; shouts of the excited, and groans of the wounded 
 and dying; a rapid and deadly discharge of firearms; and 
 then all was still. 
 
 The fight had lasted but a moment — perhaps less than 
 three minutes — but it seemed an age. One of the men who 
 had come to be placed in possession of the settler's land by 
 the marshal lay writhing in agony, with a bullet in his vitals. 
 The other, a bold, fearless man, was walking away. He 
 walked down the road, turned out into a field, and two hours 
 later he was found lying on his face, a blackened corpse. 
 
 It was immediately after the fight that the messenger 
 started for Hanford with the news that changed the holiday 
 into a day of mourning. 
 
 Men and women drove rapidly to the spot; and when 
 
194 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 they arrived, an awful scene greeted them. Three settlers 
 lay dead upon the porch of the farm-house; and one of the 
 two men who had been in the wagon lay alongside them, in 
 the throes of death. Two wounded settlers lay inside the 
 house. They afterward died. So strange was the fatality 
 of that day, that another settler, who had received merely a 
 scalp wound, and who walked about all day, afterward died 
 from the injury. 
 
 No man who was wounded came out of it alive; and 
 eight brave men were slaughtered that day. All of these 
 were married but two; and when their wives and children 
 arrived, the cries of anguish that went up to heaven might 
 have melted to pity even the hearts of stone that had per- 
 mitted such a scene to be possible. Women fell upon the 
 prostrate forms of their husbands, and begged them to 
 speak but a single word. Little children, brightly arrayed 
 in holiday attire, fondled the cold hands, and wondered at 
 it all. 
 
 One by one the bodies were taken away ; and toward 
 evening a storm of wind arose, and howled and groaned, 
 tearing over the plains as though the very elements were 
 outraged and driven to furious anger; and then, adding to 
 its groans the cries of the widow and the orphan, it passed 
 furiously on, howling with rage and screaming in agony— 
 on it madly flew, passing over the lake, and lashing its 
 broad bosom, and then on and on, over the plains, over the 
 fields, over the mountains and far away, until it was lost in 
 the night. 
 
 The eleventh of May has passed into the history of Cali- 
 
THE BAPTISM OF BLOOD. 
 
 195 
 
 fornia. The widows and the orphans that then were made 
 are the fittest monument to commemorate that day. As 
 the years roll by, crowding one upon another until they 
 seem small in the perspective, the eleventh of May will yet 
 stand out alone and ever conspicuous, broad and bloody, 
 raising its red hand in suppliance to the throne in heaven. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A DISCOVERY, 
 
 EW troubles now assailed Graham. He soon 
 discovered that his visit to the scene of the 
 tragedy had drawn him into complications 
 that might result in the overthrow of his 
 cherished plans. The law, or, more strictly, the power 
 behind the law, felt itself outraged in its mad ride over 
 human rights, and looked around for victims. It made 
 little difference that men who were in no way involved in 
 the catastrophe were selected to receive chastisement. 
 
 It is true that the tragedy of the eleventh of May was a 
 terrible calamity to the settlers of Mussel Slough ; but they 
 constituted a very small fraction of the people at large. 
 It was not they alone whose vitals had received the thrust 
 that the power of money sent home, but the dearest rights 
 of the people had been assailed. Still it was necessary to 
 complete the work that had been begun; and to that end, 
 suitable men were found who would serve as examples in 
 the undertaking of terrorizing men who believed that the 
 rich and the poor had equal rights before God and man. 
 Warrants were issued for the arrest of men charged with 
 
A DISCOVERY. 
 
 197 
 
 the crime of resisting a United States officer in the dis- 
 charge of his duties. What a grim pleasantry was that! 
 How penetrating the fine sarcasm of it ! 
 
 When the settlers learned that warrants for their arrest 
 had been issued, those on whom the writs had not been 
 served before general knowledge of the fact was had 
 voluntarily surrendered themselves to the United States 
 authorities at San Francisco, cheerfully paying from their 
 own pockets the expenses of that long journey._ 
 
 However, there was one exception, and he was Graham. 
 It is true that very few of the men believed that this 
 grim joke perpetrated by the law would be received by a 
 jury as done in earnest; but Graham, for whom also a 
 warrant had been issued, had now one overshadowing duty 
 to perform ; and not wishing to delay it by the tedious time 
 he knew would be consumed in the trial, he decided to 
 discharge that duty first, and then to surrender himself. 
 This was to discover Nellie and restore her to her home. 
 The search for the Lone Tree treasure was secondary to 
 that. 
 
 Graham was as innocent of participation in that tragedy 
 as he would have been w^ere he a thousand miles away ; but 
 that made little difference: for others that were arrested 
 were as innocent as he. He believed he could establish 
 that fact at the trial ; but a great uneasiness pursued him on 
 Nellie's account. He would first find Nellie, and then he 
 would surrender himself. 
 
 Several days had elapsed before he learned of the 
 issuance of the warrant; and on becoming aware of the fact, 
 
1 98 BLOOD-MONE Y. 
 
 he lost no time in proceeding on the mission that had now 
 become the most important of his life. 
 
 He had not heard from Covill in a long time, and as yet 
 he did not suspect the treachery of which Covill was gpilty. 
 He did not dream that Covill had attempted to take the 
 life of old James Webster, or he would have lost no time in 
 calling the detective to account. Strange as it may seem — 
 and yet it but showed Graham's true nature — he was now 
 the friend and champion of the helpless old man who com- 
 mitted the murder twenty years ago. The atonement that 
 Webster had made fully satisfied Graham so far as the old 
 man was concerned, and the imbecile's sorrows and his help- 
 less condition appealed strongly to Graham's heart. 
 
 But where was Webster? He disappeared on the morn- 
 ing of the tragedy in Mussel Slough, and Graham's most 
 earnest endeavors to find him had proved futile. This was 
 a discouraging misfortune, as Graham was still in the dark as 
 to the whereabouts of the treasure. But he was convinced 
 that Covin's theory of the betrayed confessional was wrong — 
 never, however, suspecting that Covill had a bad design in 
 formulating that theory. Graham was convinced that James 
 Webster's brother, learning by some means that James was 
 endeavoring to restore the treasure to its rightful owner, re- 
 moved it from its resting place under Lone Tree. Next to 
 finding Nellie came the importance of discovering Henry 
 Webster. Graham had already searched a directory to San 
 Francisco, but he could not find that name. It was clear, 
 then, that Henry Webster was living under an assumed 
 name. Indeed, Graham already was morally certain from 
 the outset that both the men had changed their names. 
 
A DISCOVERY. I^p 
 
 As soon as possible after the occurrence of the tragedy in 
 Mussel Slough, Graham wrote to Covill, informing him of all 
 that James Webster had said, and adding a carefully pre- 
 pared description of Henry Webster, as he was twenty years 
 before. 
 
 Mr. Foster had gone to San Francisco to seek Nellie, but 
 Graham had heard nothing from it. It was only the hope 
 that Foster would make some discovery that prevented 
 Graham's departure on the same mission immediately after 
 the tragedy. But another obstacle had detained Graham: 
 Nellie had, of her own free will, chosen between him and 
 her friends at San Francisco; and John was proud and sen- 
 sitive. He was not yet prepared to make overtures to Nellie 
 for a reconciliation ; and his pride had held him in check. 
 Still, if misfortune had befallen her, John would be the first 
 to show himself a friend in need. There was not the least 
 desire in his heart to see Nellie humbled and brought back 
 to him as a last resort. Indeed, he knew well enough that 
 Nellie's spirit was too proud for such humiliation as that to 
 bring her back to her old friends on the plains. He knew 
 that rather would she cast herself into the bay than return to 
 her home after being cast out by her rich friends. It was 
 such thorough knowledge of her nature that made John all 
 the more uneasy; and it was the possible danger in which 
 her disposition placed her that caused his anxiety to find 
 and rescue her. 
 
 "Grandmother," he said one day, "I am going away. I 
 shall be back in a few days." 
 
 He did not tell her whither he was going, and she did 
 
200 BLOOD-MONE Y. 
 
 not know that a warrant for his arrest had been issued. He 
 thought it better not to inform her. 
 
 He mounted his horse and started across the plains; 
 and in due time he arrived at San Francisco. His thoughts 
 had been very busy. He decided that he would exercise 
 great care in preventing a knowledge of his whereabouts 
 being learned by those who sought to arrest him. Nothing 
 was farther from his mind than a desire to avoid the con- 
 sequences of his presence at the Mussel Slough tragedy, 
 although he took no part in that affair. In good time he 
 would surrender himself, but not until he should discover 
 Nellie. 
 
 How could Nellie be found? Without delay John sought 
 the chief of police. That gentleman was not in his ofifice; 
 but as Graham was leaving he met a familiar face. The 
 man looked straight at him, as though endeavoring to re- 
 member where he had seen him. 
 
 "If I am not mistaken," said Graham, "you are the de- 
 tective who visited me some time ago, when I was looking 
 for a man to hunt up a case." 
 
 "Ah, I remember! By the way," said the detective, 
 "something occurred that day that I was never able tc 
 understand." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "Well, if I remember correctly, you applied to the chief 
 for a detective." 
 
 "Yes; and he sent me one." 
 
 "He did, and I am the man; but you had employed 
 another." 
 
A DISCOVERY. 20 1 
 
 "Didn't the chief send the other man?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 "I am the only man he sent to you. I spoke to the 
 chief about it afterward, and he came to the conclusion that 
 you had picked up some man. I was half inclined to go to 
 you and warn you against picking up any stranger who 
 came along ; but you had acted as if you knew your own 
 business, and certainly it wasn't any affair of mine. What 
 man did you get, anyhow?" 
 
 "A man named Covill." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Covill." 
 
 "Covill — Covill — let me see; I am pretty sure he is the 
 fellow that works for the railroad company. It is very 
 strange that he should be permitted to take an outside case 
 — a very unusual thing. Well, what business are you on 
 now?" 
 
 Graham explained his mission. 
 
 "I think she must be all right," said the detective, "as 
 no floaters answering to her description have been picked 
 up. The tide generally brings 'em in, you know — that is, 
 what's left of 'em after the crabs get through. Her uncle 
 has been here several days, but he left yesterday. He 
 asked me to look out for the girl, but as yet I haven't found 
 any trace of her." 
 
 Graham walked away in a very thoughtful mood. The 
 information that Covill was a detective for the railroad 
 company was perplexing, and he understood the matter no 
 
202 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 better than did the detective. He knew not which way to 
 turn. If the detective had failed in securing any informa- 
 tion from Mrs. Harriott, how could he hope to succeed? 
 
 The following afternoon his attention was attracted by a 
 singular figure he saw on the street. It was that of an old 
 man, slowly hobbling along on a crutch (for he had but one 
 leg). In a moment Graham recognized James Webster, 
 one of the murderers of his father. Graham's heart bounded 
 with excitement. What strange fatality led that old man 
 again across his path? 
 
 His first impulse was to overtake and hail the old man ; 
 but then he feared that such an unexpected meeting might 
 again render the cripple helpless. With great difficulty re- 
 straining his impatience, he followed the old man as the 
 latter carefully picked his way along the street, stopping now 
 and then to glance over his shoulder, seeming to fear tiiat 
 he was followed. Graham pretended indifference, but kept 
 a close watch on the old man's movements. Webster pro- 
 ceeded laboriously; and finally he arrived at a stairway and 
 halted. He read the signs at the door, and then he com- 
 menced to climb, slowly and painfully. 
 
 He had gone but a few steps when he paused to rest, for 
 the climbing was a difficult undertaking for the feeble old 
 man. He turned his face toward the street', and Graham 
 saw that a somewhat stronger light of intelligence shone in 
 his face than there did when Graham last saw him. 
 
 After resting a moment, the old man proceeded. He ar- 
 rived at the first floor, and then looked around for a 
 certain door. Having found it, he entered without cere- 
 
A DISCOVERY. 203 
 
 mony, throwing the door wide open, so that Graham could 
 see all that occurred within. 
 
 A dignified, gray-haired man sat at a table, and he looked 
 up to see the intruder. For a moment he did not seem to 
 recognize the strange man who stared at him; but his 
 memory was soon refreshed. 
 
 " I've found you, Henry," said old Webster. 
 
 The voice was enough. The gray-haired man at the 
 table started, and then became deathly pale, and then mut- 
 tered a curse. 
 
 "What do you want?" he demanded, vainly endeavoring 
 to regain his self-possession. 
 
 "Twenty-two thousand dollars," said old Webster, in a 
 half-idiotic, half-insolent tone. 
 
 " Get out, now, or I'll have you arrested," said the other 
 man, sternly. 
 
 At that moment Covill entered from an adjoining room. 
 He and old Webster saw each other at the same moment. 
 Covill staggered backward, as if he beheld an apparition 
 from the other world. His pallor and fright were distress- 
 ing. At the same instant, old Webster, recognizing the 
 man who had attempted his life, threw up his hands, and 
 exclaimed : 
 
 "God save me!" 
 
 It was a strange and painful scene. The old man, who, 
 having dropped his ci^utch, leaned against the table for 
 support, stared pitifully at one of the men and then at the 
 other. 
 
 A curious problem had presented itself to Graham's 
 
204 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 mind, called up by the remarkable scene on which he 
 looked. Without hesitation, he stepped boldly into the 
 room ; and without saying a word, he took the old man by 
 the arm, and seated him on a chair. 
 
 "Covin," he then demanded, "what does this mean?" 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 A VERY LONG JOURNEY. 
 
 ELLIE'S uncle had returned from San Francisco 
 without tidings of the missing girl, and her friends 
 there had treated Mr. Foster with lofty disdain, 
 pretending to know nothing of Nellie's where- 
 abouts, nor the causes that led to her disappearance. Mr. 
 Foster, having no means with which to further prosecute 
 the search, and being a weak and undecided man, had left 
 the matter in the hands of the local authorities. 
 
 "I shall be back in a few days," John had told his grand- 
 mother when he left, and the hope of seeing him soon again 
 sustained her; but one day she learned that she was to be 
 ejected from her home. Where was her grandson? She 
 did not know. It was then that she felt more than ever the 
 need of his assistance. But time was pressing, and some- 
 thing must be done. 
 
 The good old woman resolved to do a noble thing. 
 Without telling any one her intention, she quietly gathered 
 together what money she could, and then suddenly 
 disappeared. 
 
 An idler at San Francisco might have seen, if he had 
 
2o6 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 noticed, a feeble, tottering old woman, covered with dust 
 from a long journey, and nearly falling with weakness at every 
 step, slowly picking her way along the noisy streets. The 
 idler might have seen at a glance that she was frightened 
 and shy, and not in the least accustomed to the bustling 
 crowds that hurried past her, scarce noticing her feebleness 
 and confusion. He might have seen her timidly inquiring 
 the way to a certain rich man's house, and continually going 
 astray from the directions that were kindly though roughly 
 given her. He might have noticed the infinite pains that 
 she took to follow the directions closely, and the repeated 
 failures that she made, and the many apologies that she 
 offered for troubling people so often. 
 
 But at last her old heart bounded with joy as she found 
 herself ascending the broad stone stairs that led to the 
 door — so feeble and weary with long walking and hunger 
 that the climbing was hard work for her : so hard, indeed, 
 that she was forced to crawl on her hands and knees. 
 
 A lackey answered her timid summons; and when he 
 saw the dusty, decrepit old woman at the door, he brusquely 
 demanded : 
 
 "Why didn't you go around to the kitchen?" 
 
 "I didn't think of that, sir," she said humbly. 
 
 "Well, clear out, then!" he commanded, as he was 
 shutting the great door. 
 
 "O, but, sir !" she cried, in such agony that his hand was 
 stayed, and he looked at her with considerable curiosity. 
 "O, sir, please tell the master that I want to see him on 
 a very important matter." 
 
A VERY LONG JOURNEY. 207 
 
 " Bah ! " ejaculated the servant, as he shut the door with 
 a bang. 
 
 The poor old woman sat down and cried like a child; 
 and how long she sat there she did not know; but presently 
 the lackey again appeared, and his indignation and aston- 
 ishment at seeing the poor old woman at the door "were so 
 great that it was with difficulty he repressed a desire to kick 
 her. 
 
 "What! you here still?" he demanded. 
 
 "I couldn't help it, sir. I couldn't leave without seeing 
 the gentleman." 
 
 "Do you want money?" 
 
 "Money!" exclaimed the old lady, proudly drawing her- 
 self up to her full height. " Money ! No; I want to see him 
 about a very important matter." 
 
 The servant — -not a bad fellow at heart — became inter- 
 ested, and he said: 
 
 "If you'll tell me what it is, I'll let him know." 
 
 "O, I want so much to speak to him myself I musl 
 speak to him. You couldn't make him understand." 
 
 "Now, look here, old woman," said the man, "it's no use 
 cutting up like that. You needn't think you can run this 
 house, you know. The boss won't come down unless he 
 wants to. Say your say, and I can tell him what it is; and 
 then if he wants to waste any of his valuable time on you, 
 why, it's none of 7iiy lookout, you know." 
 
 "Well, then, tell him," said the old lady, "that I have 
 come to beg for my home. They are going to turn me out " 
 
 "What has he to do with that?" 
 
2o8 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 "O, they say that he has a great deal to do with it. 
 You know my grandson bought the place, and it will be so 
 hard for us to give it up." 
 
 "O, ^^did?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Well, I'll tell the boss; but you needn't think it's going 
 to do you any good." 
 
 In a short while the servant returned, with a message to 
 the effect that the master was too busy to see her, and that 
 in any event it would be impossible for him to do anything, 
 as the law had taken its course, and interference was simply 
 out of the question. What irony was that ! 
 
 This crushed out the last hope that the timid, feeble old 
 woman had. She picked her way down the broad stairs, 
 hardly knowing whither she went, so benumbed with griet 
 was she. She tottered down the sidewalk. Then she could 
 not keep her wits about her very well. After a long time 
 she found herself on a railroad train; and then she remem- 
 bered that some men had been talking to her, and that one 
 of them had brought her something to eat, and that they 
 asked her a great many questions which she could not un- 
 derstand, and that then they placed her in a carriage, which 
 seemed to roll along the street for days and days, and that 
 soon it halted, and a man helped her out very kindly and 
 gently, and told her not to be afraid, as nobody would hurt 
 her, and that then he assisted her upon the train, and spoke 
 concerning her to a man wearing a cap with a gold band 
 around it, and dark blue clothes trimmed with brass buttons. 
 All these things flitted Uke shadows through her faihng mem- 
 
A VERY LONG JOURNEY. 2og 
 
 ory, and she half beUeved that it had all been a dream. 
 And then the dull pain that came upon her at the rich man's 
 house returned, and seemed to be gnawing her heart-strings 
 loose. 
 
 Poor, simple old woman ! The only brave thing she had 
 ever attempted in all her life to do brought her only bitter- 
 ness and despair : and it brought more than that, for her 
 mind was shaken. 
 
 For hours and hours — and perhaps for days and months 
 and years, for all she knew — the train bore her over the 
 dusty plains — on and on, she thought— always on and on, 
 stopping now and then to take breath for further effort — on 
 and on, puffing and groaning and rattling and grinding — 
 always, and it seemed eternally, carrying her away and 
 away, on the dreary road that leads from time to eternity. 
 
 But at last the man with a cap having a gold band came 
 to her and told her he would help her off the train. She 
 thought it was about time; for in a vague sort of way she 
 had been dying all that time — all those hours and perhaps 
 days and months — dying a slow and painless death, and that 
 at last she had reached the haven of rest. And then the 
 dream seemed more real than ever; for when she alighted, 
 she recognized the broad plains and some houses she knew. 
 She felt sure that she was dead, and that her spirit had 
 returned to get John and take him to heaven. 
 
 Where was John? She asked that question of a familiar 
 spirit-face that she saw, and the voice that belonged to the 
 spirit — it was such a tender, pitying, manly voice — told her 
 that John had gone far away. 
 14 
 
210 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 Ah, John ! you should not have disappointed her thus. 
 She was sure that you would be there to meet her with your 
 grave smile of welcome, and your strong grasp of her trem- 
 bling old hand. Ah, John ! it was very, very cruel of you to 
 go so far away, and not be there to welcome your old grand- 
 mother, who had always loved you with the deepest affec- 
 tion, John. 
 
 The kind spirit whom she had addressed offered to take 
 her out in his wagon to her home. At first she thought she 
 could walk the distance, as it was only a few miles away, 
 especially as she was a spirit, and would not be fatigued by 
 the walk; but perhaps her spirit was old and feeble, as well 
 as the body she had left at the rich man's door; for her 
 spirit tottered, and could not walk a dozen steps. But the 
 other spirit — the one with the kind, manly voice, and whom 
 she had known when she was alive — picked her up with 
 perfect ease — for she was merely a spirit, weighing nothing 
 — and placed her in the wagon, and drove away. 
 
 It was a sweet and' restful ride for a spirit to take. 
 There was very little noise and very little dust, and spirits 
 were not continually coming and going, and slamming 
 doors. It is true that the sun was hot and the plains were 
 barren ; but for all that they were very beautiful, for every- 
 thing is beautiful to a spirit. Sometimes she tried to speak, 
 although she knew that spirits could not talk in in audible 
 voice; and when she did, her voice sounded to her as if it 
 were a long, long way off, and talking from the body that 
 she had left behind. And then she would not talk again, 
 because it was wrong for a spirit to put a voice into the 
 body that it had left. 
 
A VERY LONG JOURNEY. 211 
 
 The spirit in whose wagon her spirit rode told her that 
 he would take her on to his house, but she said she wanted 
 to go home, as John might be there, and he would want to 
 see her. It was a kind spirit that talked to her and tried to 
 cheer her; but although she tried hard to be cheerful, she 
 failed, and could only cry a little now and then. 
 
 Soon they came to her house. A great change had 
 taken place there. She saw all her household goods in the 
 road, where they had been recently put. And they were 
 all covered with dust. In particular, one famous quilt, 
 which she had made with her own hands, a great, great 
 many years ago, and which she had treasured from year to 
 year — a many-colored quilt of the finest silk^lay all in a 
 shapeless bundle in the dirt. If she had not been a spirit 
 she would have felt aggrieved at this; but of what use were 
 all those cherished things now? 
 
 The spirit with whom she rode begged her not to get out, 
 telling her that her house had been taken from her in her 
 absence, as were those other homes on the day when they 
 had that great fight; but she did not think that any one 
 could rob a poor old woman of her home; and she begged 
 so piteously that he tenderly lifted her from the wagon. 
 
 She hobbled to the door, and there she was met by a man 
 whom she had never seen. If John had been there he 
 would have recognized in the intruder the man who discov- 
 ered him digging for the treasure at the foot of Lone Tree. 
 
 "Oh!" he said, in his whining, nasal voice, "you're the 
 old 'un thet was a-holding this place, ain't yer? Well, I 
 guess you'll have to clear out and take yer duds vv'ith yer, as 
 
2 1 2 BLOOD-MONE Y. 
 
 the rightful owners of this here house has throwed yer things 
 out and placed me in possession." 
 
 "That's an infernal shame!" growled the man in the 
 wagon. 
 
 "Well, what could a feller do? Yer see, I wanted a place, 
 and I've got as much right to a home as any of yer; and I 
 paid 'em ther price for this place. The old 'un here wouldn't 
 have a place that doesn't belong to her, would she?" 
 
 "I'm not complaining," meekly said the old lady. "I 
 haven't any use for a house now; but I thought maybe John 
 was in there." 
 
 "Ha! ha! There's no John in here, I can tell yer, old 
 critter. Yer'U have to go somewhere else if yer want to see 
 yer John. Likely as not he'll be in prison soon." 
 
 The man in the wagon jumped to the ground, and 
 grasped his whip in such a manner that the stock could be 
 used to dangerous advantage, and then threateningly 
 advanced on the man in the door. But that discreet 
 person suddenly closed the door and securely bolted it on 
 the inside, while the old lady's angry champion hurled these 
 insults at him: 
 
 "You low-lived coward! You 7uould %\.2^\^ in with them 
 robbers to drive a poor old woman out on the plains, when 
 her mind is already shaken with trouble!" And then he 
 turned toward Mrs. Graham just in time to see her fall 
 unconscious to the ground. He raised her head, and 
 anxiously spoke to her, but no answer came. She was at 
 the end of her long and dreary journey at last. 
 
 "Do you think Jolm will come?" she presently asked in 
 a whisper. 
 
A VERY LONG JOURNEY. _ 213 
 
 "He will meet you in heaven," said the man, as the 
 tears streamed down his rough but kindly face, and silently 
 fell upon the ground. 
 
 Then he placed the gaudy old quilt in the bottom of the 
 wagon, and tenderly picked her up in his great strong arms 
 and laid her thereon. 
 
 She smiled sweetly; and then, witn the name of John 
 upon her lips, her sweet spirit took its flight to heaven, and 
 the journey was at an end. 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE END OF THE SEARCH. 
 
 iHEN Graham stepped into the room and con- 
 fronted the three men, the scene was ahuost 
 tragic. He had heard old Webster address 
 the white-haired man at the table as "Henry," 
 and the thought flashed across his mind that at last he had 
 found the two brothers face to face. 
 
 The shock of meeting Covill proved too great for the 
 old cripple. When Graham seated him upon the chair, 
 he looked up into the young man's face with a piteous 
 appeal for protection; but the light of intelligence that 
 shone in his face while he stood on the stair had faded out, 
 and only helpless imbecility appeared ; yet in that look was 
 a pathetic appeal for the help of a friend. He seemed to 
 recognize in Graham such a friend, but it was more an 
 instinpt than anything else. 
 
 Graham was deeply impressed by the look of indescrib- 
 able terror with which old Webster regarded Covill; and it 
 was this that caused him to ask : 
 
 "Covill, what does this mean?" 
 
 It was with the greatest difiaculty that Covill recovered 
 
THE END OF THE SEARCH. 
 
 215 
 
 sufficient strength to speak; and even when he did, his face 
 was livid, and he w^as compelled to support his trenjbling 
 form by leaning upon the back of a chair: 
 
 "What did you ask, Mr. Graham?" he stammered. 
 
 At the mention of that name by Covill, the white-haired 
 man who sat at the table suddenly sank, as though a thun- 
 derbolt had struck him. The surprise was complete and 
 the result extraordinary. But the man, possessed of remark- 
 able nerve, succeeded so well in partially concealing his 
 emotions, that only Graham noticed the effect his name 
 produced. This removed all doubt from his mind. At 
 last the long hunt for the stolen treasure was at an end, he 
 thought. 
 
 But what meant CoviU's perturbation? By what myste- 
 rious link was he bound to those two men ! A\'hile gazing 
 intently at the detective, Graham's mind was busily at work. 
 In a moment he resolved upon a course • but for the present 
 he decided not to charge the white-haired man with the 
 crime. He would first work upon the detective. 
 
 "Gentlemen," he said, with a respectful air, "you must 
 pardon my intrusion into this room. I happened to pass 
 in time to see this old man come in, and then I discovered 
 you, Covill. I thought I would come in and ask you how 
 our case is getting along." 
 
 Covin's heart bounded joyfully. 
 
 "Evidently," he thought, "Graham doesn't suspect any- 
 thing." 
 
 With remarkable presence of mind he recovered his self- 
 possession, and hastily said: 
 
2 1 6 BLOOD-MONE Y. 
 
 "Getting along all right, sir." 
 
 "That's good news. I was about to become discouraged." 
 
 The white-haired man had also recovered from his sur- 
 prise ; and during these remarks between Covill and Graham 
 he opened a drawer, and quietly looked at a piece of paper. 
 Then he closed the drawer, and with a hand that trembled 
 slightly he wrote a short note, and handed it to Covill. 
 The detective glanced at the direction, and started to leave. 
 
 Graham, who had been standing between him and the 
 outer door, quietly .said : 
 
 "Covill, I want to speak to you before you leave." 
 
 "I'll be back in a moment, Mr. Graham. This is an 
 important message concerning some stocks, and has to be 
 attended to at once. I'll be back immediately." 
 
 But this smooth speech did not deceive Graham. He 
 did not divine the meaning of the note, but he was deter- 
 mined that no advantage should be taken of him. 
 
 It was while he was in this strange situation that he be- 
 gan to feel within him a dangerous uprising of all that was 
 ferocious in his nature. It somewhat alarmed him, as he 
 had never before experienced such a sensation. It was a 
 rising desire to murder these two men on the spot. As yet 
 he had perfect control over himself, but he feared that un- 
 less he could keep himself calm and collected, serious con- 
 sequences would come about; and the strongest factor in 
 this effort at self-control was his love for Nellie and his 
 grandmother. 
 
 It was with cool determination and firmness that he 
 quietly said to Covill: 
 
THE END OF THE SEARCH. 
 
 217 
 
 "Wait a while, Covill. My business is too pressing to 
 spare you now." 
 
 "But I must go," urged Covill, attempting to pass the 
 young man. 
 
 "You must not go, Covill," said Graham, firmly grasping 
 the lapel of Covill's coat, and unceremoniously seating him 
 upon a chair. 
 
 Covill saw danger, and quietly submitted; but the white- 
 haired man, who sat at the farther end of the table, arose to 
 his feet, and with an imperious voice and gesture, said: 
 
 " Young man, this is my ofiice, and I am not accustomed 
 to seeing strangers come here and take charge of my affairs 
 in any such way. This man Covill is employed by me, and 
 has no authority to listen to the orders of others. Covill, 
 deliver that note." 
 
 Graham, still standing, folded his arms, and looking 
 steadily at the white-haired man, said : 
 
 "I know that I may appear officious, but I have impor- 
 tant business with this man. I desire that he remain where 
 he is. Not only that, but I shall, with your permission, 
 take a slight precaution against interference." 
 
 Almost as soon as he had ceased speaking he had locked 
 the two doors, and placed the keys in his pocket. 
 
 The vv^hite-haired man knew little of the character of 
 Graham, or he never would have pursued the course that he 
 then adopted. He decided to carry off the scene with 
 bravado. 
 
 "This is an outrage !" he exclaimed. "Open those doors, 
 sir, or I shall call a policeman from the window." 
 
2i8 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 "You — had — better — not," said Graham, with the utmost 
 dehberation. " Keep quiet, sir. I would have treated you 
 with some deference if you had acted differently ; I have 
 business with you as well as Covill." 
 
 "Business with me? I desire to have no business with 
 you, sir." 
 
 " Keep quiet ; it will be better for you," said Graham, iu 
 a low voice ; but his face was becoming white, and his 
 fmgers opened and closed in an ominous manner. 
 
 The white-haired man, seeing that his plan had failed, 
 resumed his seat. He saw that the moment was a critical 
 one, and that a word too much might send him without 
 ceremony to the other world. 
 
 Graham then turned his attention to Covill. 
 
 "Covill," he said, " give me that note. I can deliver it 
 as I go down the street." 
 
 Covill started, and turned pale, and then glanced ap- 
 pealingly at the white-haired man, who was aghast at the 
 daring impudence of Graham's demand. 
 
 "Give me that note, Covill," said Graham, his voice be- 
 coming louder, and his face changing from* pallor to a flush. 
 
 As he made this second demand, he strode threateningly 
 toward the cowering detective, as though he would choke 
 him. In order to save himself from violence — for Covill 
 believed that the impetuous young man would stop at 
 nothing — he produced the note, and mincingly extended it 
 toward the furious young man. 
 
 Graham took the note, and immediately opened and read 
 it. The note was as follows: 
 
THE END OF THE SEARCH. 
 
 219 
 
 "U. S. Marshal : You have a warrant for Graham. He is at my 
 office. Hurry. "H." 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed Graham. "That was neatly done, 
 wasn't it, Covill ? Why, you needn't be uneasy on that 
 score. I intend to surrender myself in good time." 
 
 His manner was more pleasant, but none the less deter- 
 mined. Then it occurred to him that it was an extraordinary 
 thing for the white-haired man to be cognizant of the war- 
 rant. A moment's reflection, however, convinced him that 
 it was perfectly natural in the white-haired man to desire 
 Graham's imprisonment, and that he would doubtless keep 
 himself fully informed of all matters that concerned Graham. 
 
 "It was very neatly done," Graham repeated; "it's a pity 
 that it failed. Well, as I said, I'll deliver the note very 
 soon. In the mean time, Covill, there are one or two little 
 matters that I want you to explain. You may remember 
 that, as I entered this room a few minutes ago, I discovered 
 you in profound astonishment at seeing this old cripple, and 
 I asked you what it meant. What did it mean, Covill ? " 
 
 The detective could only stare at Graham in helpless 
 dismay ; but presently he said, recovering himself quickly : 
 
 "Why, don't you suspect who that old man is?" 
 
 "Who is he, Covill?" 
 
 "He is the man who murdered your father, and buried 
 his money under Lone Tree." 
 
 Catching these words, old Webster, who had been staring 
 vacantly at the three men, straightened himself, and looked 
 around— an old habit when his clouded mind was grappling 
 with some problem. 
 
2 2 o BLO OD-MONE Y. 
 
 "Lone Tree?" he asked, looking up into Graham's face. 
 
 "Yes," answered Graham. 
 
 "Twenty-two thousand dollars?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Iron pot?" 
 
 "Yes. Do you know this man?" asked Graham, pointing 
 to Covin. 
 
 A strange look of horror came into the old man's face as 
 he turned his glance upon Covill. 
 
 "Poor old fellow!" hastily interposed Covill. "He's 
 crazy, and evidently thinks I am some one he knows." 
 
 "Do you know him?" asked Graham. 
 
 Covin's assertion that the old man was insane had a 
 strange effect. Old Webster's eyes flashed with anger and 
 indignation, and he scrambled to his foot and vehemently 
 said: 
 
 "They say I'm crazy. I'm not crazy! You want to 
 murder me, do you? Murder me while I sleep!" 
 
 Covill sprung to his feet and advanced toward the old 
 man, but Graham's strong arm thrust him back. 
 
 "I know the old man's mind is wrong," said Graham; 
 "but that doesn't prevent his telling the truth. Sit down, 
 Covill. If you interrupt him again I'll strangle you ! " 
 
 The white-haired man, who all this time sat silent at the 
 other end of the table, was placed in an undignified 
 position. Again did he attempt to put an end to the 
 scene. 
 
 "This is outrageous!" he exclaimed. "I demand that 
 this farce come to a close." 
 
THE END OF THE SEARCH. 221 
 
 "Be quiet," calmly said Graham, who, feeling himself 
 master of the situation, was cool and determined. "It 
 seems to me," sternly added Graham, "that you must by 
 this time suspect that some great wrong has been done, and 
 that if you are a man and a gentleman you will do all you 
 can to assist me." 
 
 "I am not an officer of the law." 
 
 "That's very true; but it would look rather bad if you 
 should appear anxious to let crime escape unpunished." 
 
 This ingenious speech had the desired effect, for it led 
 the man to believe that Graham had no suspicions concern- 
 ing him. Indeed, he decided at once to appear Graham's 
 friend. 
 
 "Crime!" he exclaimed, looking from one to the another; 
 "I don't understand. Who has committed a crime?" 
 
 Covin, alarmed at this apparent desertion by his friend 
 and fellow-conspirator, hastily protested. 
 
 " Why," he said, " this young man is listening to the old 
 imbecile's stories. I don't know of any crime that has been 
 committed." 
 
 " Not so fast, Covin," interrupted Graham. " Let us first 
 hear what this old man has to say. Do you know this 
 man?" he asked Webster, pointing again to Covill. 
 
 "Yes, yes; I know him. He tried to murder me on the 
 San Joaquin. I was asleep, and — " 
 
 " It's all a lie ! " shouted Covill. 
 
 " Ah, you coward ! This is my friend, and he won't let 
 you murder me now." 
 
 "What did he want to murder you for?" 
 
2 2 2 BLOOD-MONE Y. 
 
 "Murder me?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Lone Tree?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Twenty-two thousand dollars?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Ah, the coward! He tried to murder me in my sleep." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 " What did he want to murder you for?" 
 
 "Murder me?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Lone Tree? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I know ! I know ! Ah, I know ! Ha, ha, ha ! Tried 
 to murder me, so that I couldn't give the money to Graham's 
 boy." 
 
 This was an astounding revelation to Graham. 
 
 " Don't say a word, Covill. I don't pay much attention 
 to the old man's stories. Still you must know that I am 
 greatly interested in this matter." 
 
 "It's all a lie!" protested Covill. "I never saw him be- 
 fore." 
 
 " That is all right, Covill. Don't let that trouble you. 
 Now I want you to pay close attention to a question that I am 
 going to ask you. You received my letter giving you a de- 
 scription of this old man's brother, didn't you?" 
 
 " Yes," answered the detective, helpless and crushed. 
 
 "Have you that letter with you, Covill?" 
 
THE END OF THE SEARCH. 
 
 223 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I wish you would read it again. " 
 
 Covin meekly complied. 
 
 "You have never found the original of that description, 
 have you, Covill?" 
 
 "No," answered Covill; and this time he was honest. 
 
 The heart of the white-haired man beat violently, but by 
 a powerful effort he maintained outward composure. 
 
 " It says he had rather a thin face, and his eyes were 
 brown, and he was tall and straight, doesn't it, Covill?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And you have never seen such a man?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "About what age ought he to be now, Covill?" 
 
 " Between sixty and seventy years." 
 
 " Very good. Do you think there is anybody in this room 
 that answers to that description, Covill?" 
 
 The detective stared at him in blank amazement. 
 
 " Anybody in this room ?" he asked, looking quickly 
 around. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Vv^hy, certainly not." 
 
 "Look again, Covill." 
 
 A broad ray of light suddenly illuminated the darkness of 
 the detective's mind, and with a gasp he sank back in his 
 chair as he recognized the murderer — the white-haired man 
 who sat at the table. It was a genuine surprise, and a ter- 
 rible one to Covill. 
 
 And he was not the only one who sat aghast. Henry 
 
2 24 BLOOD-MONE V. 
 
 Webster — for the white-haired man indeed was he — could 
 not have received a more terrible shock if a knife had been 
 put between his ribs. 
 
 "What do you mean?" he hoarsely demanded, as he 
 sprung to his feet in the wildest excitement. 
 
 Graham deliberately walked around the table, and stood 
 before him. 
 
 "It means that you are Henry Webster, and that some 
 twenty years ago you and your brother — that helpless old 
 imbecile sitting there — murdered my father in the San Joa- 
 quin Valley, and buried his money under Lone Tree. Ah, 
 you didn't know that I was so well informed! But I haven't 
 told you half that I know, you cowardly villain 1 You were 
 too great a coward to return to Lone Tree and dig up the 
 treasure until you heard that your brother was determined 
 to restore it; and then you disguised yourself in the sacred 
 garments of a priest, and went to Lone Tree and dug up the 
 money, and took it away like a thief. You didn't have one 
 thousandth part of the honesty and manhood of your poor 
 old brother. You were a rich man already, but that didn't 
 satisfy you. You must rob a poor young man and a help- 
 less old woman of what belonged to them by right. O, 
 you never knew how I discovered that shrewd trick of get- 
 ting yourself killed by the Indians ! You never knew that 
 I went down to the bottom of your grave and found your 
 coffin filled with sticks and stones instead of your worthless 
 carcass. O, you may well turn white and tremble! But 
 I haven't yet told all that I know. Your spies were watch- 
 ing me, and they soon informed you that I had come to San 
 
THE END OF THE SEARCH. 
 
 225 
 
 Francisco and applied for a detective. It was then that you 
 sent this miserable fellow to me, to throw me off the track, 
 and beguile me with false theories of betrayed confessionals, 
 and the like. You did it well, Covill, but Heaven and right 
 were against you. You may well sit there and gaze at me 
 in that stupid way; but you needn't think that I have fin- 
 ished. The worst of it all is yet to come. One crime leads 
 to another; and so you were compelled to resort to such an 
 extreme measure. You knew well enough that your brother 
 would learn that Lone Tree had been robbed of its treasure, 
 and that he would know you had committed the robbery, 
 and that he would seek me and tell me all. It was then 
 that you decided upon a desperate plan. You employed 
 this fellow, Covill, to do the bloody work. You hired him 
 to murder your own brother. Don't start and try to gasp 
 some denial. I know it all too well. But see how shrewd 
 you were! You fooled even Covill, who never suspected 
 until this moment that you are the brother of the man he 
 tried to murder. Covill, you ought to be thankful to me 
 for opening up to your gaze such a grand opportunity for 
 blackmailing your worthy employer. Well, Henry Webster, 
 what have you to say for yourself? " 
 
 This long speech was made in a burst of inspired elo- 
 quence ; and those problems that he had not already work- 
 ed out solved themselves as he spoke. He saw through 
 the plot; and so great was his indignation and rage that his 
 hot words poured out like a stream of molten metal, 
 scorching and burning where it fell. No guilty man could 
 carry a bold face under such terrible denunciation. 
 15 
 
2 26 BL OOD-MONE Y. 
 
 Henry Webster sat speechless. It seemed that he was 
 choking, for he made an effort to loosen his cravat. 
 
 Covin, clearly seeing now w^hat his penetration had not 
 fathomed before, was stunned by the discoveries that 
 Graham had made. With an effort he gained his feet, and 
 with his old sense of cunning, he looked indignantly at 
 Henry Webster, and said loftily: 
 
 "Judge Harriott — " 
 
 Graham eagerly caught at that name, and interrupted 
 Covin : 
 
 "Did you call this man Judge Harriott?" 
 
 "Yes: didn't you know he is Judge Harriott?" 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed Graham, as this new revelation burst 
 upon him. 
 
 It was a wonderful surprise, and for a moment Graham 
 was powerless with astonishment. With the keen mental 
 penetration that the excitement of the moment invested 
 him with, he at once grasped a solution of the whole 
 mystery. 
 
 "I understand it all now," he said. "Webster, you are a 
 far deeper scoundrel than I thought you were. I see 
 through it all now. I know now why Nellie was picked up 
 by your wife. And so, Webster, you are behind all this 
 wonderful plot!" 
 
 Graham was silent a moment through wonder, and then 
 he proceeded : 
 
 "I see now that you are at the bottom of it all. You 
 thought that Nellie had sufficient influence over me to 
 cause me to accept a position under your patronage, hoping 
 
THE END OF THE SEARCH. 
 
 227 
 
 to place me under obligations to you, in order that you 
 might get me in your power. A very shrewd scheme that 
 was, Webster. I suspected it then, but I didn't understand 
 it. When you found that Nellie could do nothing with me 
 you kicked her out into the street. We'll see about that 
 directly. And so it wasn't alone because I was a Mussel 
 Slough settler that you wanted to put a gag into my mouth. 
 You had a private reason, eh, Webster? And that accounts 
 for the warrant for my arrest on a charge of resisting a 
 United States officer. You wanted to get me under lock 
 and key, didn't you, Webster? And it also accounts for 
 that note you gave Covill just now. You wanted me 
 placed under arrest before I could learn anything by seeing 
 your imbecile old brother face to face with you. You are 
 a very, very shrewd man, Webster ; and it is a pity to spoil 
 such a nice plot. Now, Webster, let us talk about Nellie. 
 Where is she?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 A strange change had come over Henry Webster — for- 
 merly Judge Harriott. The shock had told upon him. 
 He was in a condition of great nervous prostration. 
 
 "Tell me where she is," demanded Graham, becoming 
 furious. 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "I tell you she must be found!" said Graham. 
 
 His anxiety on Nellie's account was so great that it out- 
 weighed every other consideration. He was willing to lose 
 everything else if Nellie could only be found. 
 
 "I am going to make a proposition to you: I will leave 
 
228 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 now, and continue my search for Nellie; but I warn you, 
 Webster, and you too, Covill, that if I am arrested before 
 that girl is found, somebody will pay for it. You can put 
 me into jail for a year or two, because the company that you 
 work for knows how to put innocent men into jail; but 
 after a time I shall be free. I shall surrender myself after 
 Nellie is found. You must find her, Covill." 
 
 Graham then unlocked the doors and left, taking the 
 helpless old cripple with him. The interview had continued 
 so long that the night was rapidly approaching; and on that 
 account Graham failed to see a slender woman, dressed in 
 black, who followed him and the cripple. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A TREASURE LOST AND A TREASURE FOUND. 
 
 ;FTER Graham's departure with the cripple, 
 Henry Webster sat a long time in silence — so 
 long, in fact, that the shadows of evening crept 
 into the room, and the light from many lamps 
 on the street below shone through the windows, lighting up 
 the ceiling of the room with ghostly effect. The two men 
 were absorbed in their thoughts. At last the elder man 
 moved uneasily, as though he expected Covill to say some- 
 thing. 
 
 "We are ruined," said the detective, gloomily. 
 
 There was no reply. Then Covill paced the room, and 
 went around the table in order to be nearer his employer. 
 At last the latter said: 
 
 "You are a fool, Covill." 
 
 "Sir?" 
 
 "You are a fool." 
 
 "Well, what is to be done?" 
 
 Webster straightened himself in his chair, and said : 
 
 "We must put this young man out of the way?" 
 
 "How?" 
 
230 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 "Listen: he came into this room unbidden; and before 
 I had time to do anything he thrust a pistol in my face and 
 demanded money. You were present, and you dared not 
 move for fear he would shoot you. Do you understand?" 
 
 If the darkness had not been so great the ^Ider man 
 might have seen that Covill's eyes sparkled with pleasure. 
 
 "None can fail to credit our testimony, and Vv^e can send 
 him to the penitentiary." 
 
 "Yes; but he will get out sometime." 
 
 "There will be time to see about that. Do you know- 
 where Graham is staying?" 
 
 "Yes, I think I do. In any event, there will be no 
 trouble in finding him." 
 
 "Very well. Go immediately to his house and secrete 
 some money there. Then go to the central police station 
 and lodge a complaint against him, charging him with 
 highway robbery. We can afterwards arrange the details 
 of our testimony. Don't fear anything, Covill. It's the 
 simplest matter in the world for a man in my position to get 
 all the testimony we want, and to secure a jury to suit us. ' 
 
 "All right, sir." 
 
 Covill took some money that Webster gave him to secrete 
 in Graham's house, and was about to leave, when he 
 bethought him of another mattter. 
 
 "By the way, Judge, can't you let me have some money?" 
 
 "How much do you want, Covill?" 
 
 "About two thousand dollars." 
 
 The other man winced, but he drew a check for that 
 amount. 
 
A TREASURE LOST AND A TREASURE FOUND. 
 
 231 
 
 Before midnight Graham was aroused by a loud knock- 
 mg at the door. He soon appeared, when a heavy hand 
 was laid on his shoulder. 
 
 "I want you," said the intruder. 
 
 "What for? Who are you?" 
 
 "O, that's all right, you know. I'm an officer; and levant 
 you for that nice little job you worked to-night — highway 
 robbery. " 
 
 "Highway robbery?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Who makes the charge?" 
 
 "A man named Covill." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 Graham then understood it all. They desired to get him 
 out of the way. 
 
 When he was locked up in a cell he bitterly complained 
 of his fate, and said : 
 
 "Is it possible that because a man is poor such things 
 can happen to him ? Is the power of money so great that 
 it can but raise a finger, and everything that stands in its 
 way is swept aside ?" 
 
 His examination was conducted with due pomp, and he 
 was held to answer before a higher court. He was too 
 proud to seek bail; and he believed that so gross an injus- 
 tice as his conviction could not be done. In his own con- 
 sciousness he knew that he had not committed the crime 
 with which he was charged. How, then, could he be 
 convicted ? 
 
 He never learned of his old grandmother's death ; but as 
 
232 . BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 soon as he could he wrote her a letter, telling her that he 
 expected soon to arrive, and that he had found the Lone 
 Tree treasure. It was a cheering letter, and if the patient 
 old lady had been alive it would have done her heart good 
 to read it. 
 
 His greater anxiety was not for himself, for thoughts of 
 Nellie weighed heavier by far that did his own troubles. 
 
 It is unnecessary to describe that trial. Graham was 
 ably defended, but the influence against him was far too 
 strong. At last the sentence came — a year in the State 
 prison at San Quentin. The time that had elapsed since 
 the beginning of the trial was so long that Graham's senses 
 had become blunted. In two days more he would be taken 
 to San Quentin. 
 
 During the two days that elapsed, it seemed to him that 
 the life within him was dead. None can picture the agony 
 of such torture as can bring about that result in the breast 
 of a strong, brave, hopeful young man. He asked for his 
 grandmother a hundred times, for he felt that the shock 
 would kill her; but none could give him tidings of her. 
 
 A day passed. To-morrow he would be taken to his 
 destination.- 
 
 About eight o'clock that night, a shabbily-dressed young 
 woman applied at the prison for permission to see Graham. 
 She was pale and emaciated, and several hard lines in her 
 face showed that she had undergone great suffering. 
 
 After some demurring, an officer conducted her through 
 a long corridor, and opened a small iron wicket in the door 
 of a cell. 
 
A TREASURE LOST AND A TREASURE FOUND. 
 
 '■Zl 
 
 "Here's a visitor, young fellow," he said to the prisoner 
 within. 
 
 A haggard face appeared at the wicket, and the trembling 
 voice of the young woman faintly exclaimed : 
 
 "John!" 
 
 He peered at her through the gloom that pervaded the 
 corridor, at first recognizing neither the voice nor the face; 
 and then a great light broke upon him, and all aghast, he 
 said: 
 
 "Nellie!" 
 
 There was a tenderness and sorrow in the utterance of 
 that name — a reviving of sweet and sacred memories of the 
 past — that went down into her heart; and she leaned her 
 weary head upon the wicket and burst into tears. 
 
 He gently stroked her hair, and with a voice shaken with 
 emotion, he said : 
 
 " You have come at last, Nellie ! Poor Nellie ! Where 
 have you been all this time, my child? and why did you leave 
 us, who loved you so much? Your uncle looked for you so 
 long ; and we were very unhappy about you, Nellie ! We 
 feared that something serious had happened to you. What 
 has been the trouble, dear Nellie, tell me?" 
 
 She wept all the harder for the tenderness that he showed, 
 and said, through her sobs : 
 
 " I was ashamed to go back, John." 
 
 "Ashamed? Why, Nellie, what could you do to be 
 ashamed of?" 
 
 " O, I was so headstrong, and treated you so shamefully, 
 and would not listen to your advice." 
 
234 
 
 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 "Yes; but that is all forgotten in the great pleasure of 
 seeing you again. Now tell me what has happened to you." 
 
 "Spare me, John!" 
 
 " Tell me, Nellie," he gently urged. 
 
 She sobbed quietly for some time, and then John said 
 again : 
 
 "Tell me, Nellie." 
 
 " They never had a good purpose in befriending me, John ; 
 and when they saw that I could no longer be useful to them, 
 they slighted and snubbed me, and treated me like a servant. 
 O, I understand it all now ! I know now that they wanted 
 to make a slave of you, as you said, and that they wanted 
 me to help them. They talked so shamefully about you 
 that I flew at last into a passion, and called them hypocrites 
 and heartless schemers. Then I left them, and refused to 
 take any of the fine things they had given me ; and ever 
 since that time I have tried to make a living by sewing. But 
 it is so hard — so hard ! And many a time I have gone hun- 
 gry." 
 
 "Poor Nellie! Poor Nellie!" said John, softly, while he 
 continued to stroke her hair; "didn't you know that you 
 would have made us so happy by coming back? You 
 should have come to us, Nellie." 
 
 " I couldn't," she exclaimed, in despair. " I couldn't do 
 that, John." 
 
 "Well, come now; that will do," said the jailer. "You 
 must go now." 
 
 Nellie looked despairingly around, and pleaded : 
 
 " O, I have something else to say to him. Please, sir, 
 let me stay a moment longer." 
 
A TREASURE LOST AND A TREASURE FOUND. 
 
 235 
 
 Ah ! that humble pleading could not have come from 
 the Nellie of old. Poor, poor Nellie, indeed ! Her proud 
 spirit was broken, and humbled to the dust. 
 
 " Hurry up, then," said the jailer, gruffly. 
 
 Nellie thrust her face as far as she could through the 
 wicket, that the listening jailer might not hear, and blush- 
 ing so deeply that it could be seen even through the gloom, 
 she hurriedly whispered : 
 
 " John, I pity you, oh, so much ! I would be willing to 
 lay down my life for you, John." 
 
 "Nellie!" 
 
 " Don't interrupt me. I have something to say to you. 
 John—" 
 
 "Well, Nellie?" 
 
 " I don't know how to say it John,-' she exclaimed, in de- 
 spair. 
 
 "Tell me, Nellie." 
 
 "John, do you — do you think, John — that — that you 
 could love me now ? " 
 
 " Nellie ! I love you more than I ever did in my life." 
 
 "O, John, it makes me so happy!" and she sobbed 
 afresh, and seized his hand and covered it with kisses. 
 "John, that isn't all I had to say. John — O, how can you 
 love me now, John?" 
 
 " Nellie, Nellie ! I love you with all my heart." 
 
 " Do you think that you would like to have me think of 
 you in — in a very tender, yearning way, while you are in 
 prison?" 
 
 "Yes, Nellie; and I hope you will. It will give me 
 strength and hope." 
 
236 BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 "And do you think, John — do you think that you would 
 — that you would like to have me wait for you — wait for you 
 — as your wife?" and she buried her face in her arm to hide 
 her blushes. 
 
 "Nellie," he replied, sadly and thoughtfully, "when I 
 shall be set at liberty, I shall be a ruined man, on whom the 
 most degrading mark of the law has been set, never to be 
 lived down nor worn away. I will be called a convict, and 
 people will shun me, and point me out as a man who is not 
 worthy the esteem of other men. I love you deeply, Nellie; 
 but I love you too much to ask you, when I shall be liber- 
 ated, to become my wife." 
 
 "You don't understand me, John. I didn't mean the7ir 
 
 The light that then burst upon him staggered him and 
 rendered him speechless. 
 
 "I know, John, that it is a very strange and unwomanly 
 thing for me to do, but I believe it's my duty — and — and I 
 want to be your wife, John ! I will write you cheering letters ; 
 and when they let you out, you can come to me, and we 
 will be so happy!" 
 
 As she spoke, the old brightness that had won John's 
 heart years ago came back to her eyes, which beamed with 
 love and hope. 
 
 "Do you mean, Nellie," asked John, hardly able to be- 
 lieve his ears, "that you want us to marry now?" 
 
 "To-morrow, John," replied Nellie, still hiding her face. 
 
 "But, Nellie, I am a ruined man — ruined now and for all 
 time!" 
 
 "Don't say that, John!" 
 
A TREASURE LOST AND A TREASURE FOUND. 237 
 
 He was silent for some moments, seemingly in hesita- 
 tion. 
 
 "You can't deny me, can you, John? You can't turn me 
 out on the world as those heartless people did!" 
 
 His arm stole through the wicket and around her pretty 
 neck, and he impressed a kiss upon her lips. 
 
 "It shall be as you say, Nellie. It will give me new 
 hope and life, and it will dispel the desolation that has 
 stretched before me. Perhaps it will be better for us both, 
 dear Nellie." 
 
 She raised her smiling face, which was wet with tears, 
 and laughed softly in the sweet old way that was so dear to 
 John, and playfully said : 
 
 "Well, good night, my — " and she leaned forward and 
 whispered in his ear — " husband. I'll have to be the man, 
 and get the license and the preacher. That is funny!" 
 
 Then she hurried away, and the jailer closed the wicket 
 with a snap and a gruff "Good night." 
 
 The next morning there was a quiet wedding in the office 
 of the jail, and Nellie and the convict were made man and 
 wife. Graham's face was brighter and his hope was surer 
 than it had been for many days; and he took with him to 
 prison the bright anticipation that awaited him, when he 
 should regain his liberty and claim his wife. 
 
*'!i5^<teb.'* 
 
" o , '^ 
 
 
 '^^. %. .^ ^kmkr^ ^. / .;^. 
 
 o V'' 
 
 ^. 
 
 0" 
 
 
 %a'' .-sfe'-. \,/ .•:#&'• %.^* ^$ 
 
 
 '>^. 
 
 mw. ^*- ^^ -.si^,-" y%_ "«:«, 
 
 
 
 V- o. 
 
 ^^-'-^ 
 
 o » o - .0