Part 3 (2/2)
Realizing that such knowledge meant death, he replied:
”No, I don't know any of you.”
And so they left him. The lone miner no doubt had suspicions concerning several of his worthless neighbors; but to the day of his death he kept such suspicions to himself.
Is it any wonder, living in that lawless country, that Robert Palmer became almost a recluse? But why should he work so? He was working unselfishly for others, as you will see when you read his will, for his twenty-nine nephews and nieces. As if a heap of double eagles would be of any particular use to relatives who had well-nigh forgotten him! No, they had not forgotten. For one nephew borrowed money, which was, however, repaid, and one niece secured five hundred dollars by sharp practice worse than robbery. Robert Palmer made the mistake that many an unselfish man has made, the mistake that insurance companies insist is wisdom: he labored to provide others with gold, as though gold were a subst.i.tute for thrift, prudence, and self-reliance. Never mind, the old fellow did nephews and nieces no harm, though he disappointed several who had depended upon him to lift them from poverty; for in the end his hard-earned money was lost. His only legacy was his example of thrift, unselfishness, and integrity. When men go about gathering riches for others, let them gather things of the spirit. The answer to this, perhaps, is that even such riches cannot be transmitted, that every soul must enrich itself. That is true; but a n.o.ble character is at least inspiring, and leaves the whole world richer.
In the case of one nephew, Robert Palmer found a man who loved him but needed none of his gold. This man was an astronomer, who, returning from a scientific expedition to Behring Strait in 1869, paid his uncle a visit. At that time this meant a trip of forty miles into the mountains by stage and on horseback from the line of the newly constructed railroad; for the narrow gauge from Colfax to Nevada City was not built until 1876. It was a happy day for Robert Palmer when his sister's son,--covered with dust,--scaled Fillmore Hill. Here was a meeting of two strong men, blue-eyed Anglo-Saxons, large of frame, spare, rugged, their fair skin tanned by the blazing sun of California.
What a glorious visit they had! And how they revelled in a thousand recollections of their New England home! For nine days the astronomer shared his uncle's cabin, a new one, built of sawn timbers and boards, and quite comfortable. Several days they worked together in the mine; and when at last the hour of parting came, Robert Palmer sent by his nephew a present to his grandnephews in Was.h.i.+ngton, the astronomer's three small sons. It was the gold mined in those nine days, some one hundred and thirty dollars in value. Thereafter the boys played miners and stage-robbers and wild West generally, with sheet gold in the guise of yellow envelopes hidden away between the leaves of books to represent gold mines.
CHAPTER VI
Two of a Kind
The day after the council of war at Moore's Flat, John Keeler crossed the canon of the Middle Yuba to talk over the death of his old partner with Robert Palmer. As he clambered up the steep side of Fillmore Hill to the claim he had worked with c.u.mmins fifteen years before, all the poetry and all the sadness of life in California came over him. How vividly he remembered his arrival, at the age of eighteen, in this land of romance and adventure! He had reached Moore's Flat on the Fourth of July, 1860, when bronzed miners were celebrating in reckless fas.h.i.+on.
The saloons were crowded, and card games were in progress, with gold coins stacked at the corners of the tables. Out of doors some red-faced fellows were running races in the streets and shouting like wild Indians. Over the door of a restaurant was the sign ”Eat, Drink, and Be Merry,” and the youth pondered the words of Scripture following these festive words, but not quoted by the enterprising proprietor.
He remembered now, after nineteen years, the strange aspect of nature in this strange land. What great mountains! What deep canons! What huge pines, with cones as large as a rolling-pin! The strange manzanita bushes, the chaparral, the buck-eye with its plumes, the fragrant mountain lily, like an Easter lily, growing wild. It had seemed good to him, a stranger in this strange land, to see old friends in the squirrels that scampered through the woods and crossed his path, to find alders, and blossoming dog-wood, the mountain brake, and his childhood's friend the mullen stalk. Even to this day when he came upon an orchid, or a wild rose, with its small pink petals (smaller in this red sterile soil than in his native country), or when a humming bird in its s.h.i.+ning plumage came to sip honey from the flowers, or when in the still woods he heard the liquid notes of a hermit thrush, the romance and the reverence of youth thrilled him.
John Keeler was something of a poet, though the needs of his family at Eureka South kept the bread and b.u.t.ter question in the foreground. He must see ”old man Palmer” to talk over the death of c.u.mmins. He was comforted a little when the old man's small black dog, Bruce, came frisking down the trail to meet him; and when Sammy, the cat, tail in air and purring a thousand welcomes, rubbed his sleek fur against the visitor's boots, Keeler fore-tasted sweet solace for sorrow.
”Why, h.e.l.lo, Keeler! Mighty glad to see you!” And then in a changed voice, ”You're f.a.gged out. It's an all-fired steep trail. Come in.”
”No, thank you,” replied Keeler, and he seated himself upon a chair in the door-yard. ”It's pleasant out here under the pines. I want to talk.”
”I've been expecting you,” said Palmer, ”ever since the news came about c.u.mmins.”
”Well, if it wasn't for my wife and boy, I'd pull up stakes, and get out of California.”
”Don't blame you. This thieving and promiscuous killing are enough to discourage anybody. Too bad they can't get the robbers, just this once, and string 'em up.”
”I'm a peaceable man, as you know, Mr. Palmer. But I'd be willing to hang those fellows with my own hands. It wouldn't help Will c.u.mmins any, but it would give me solid satisfaction.”
”Well, Keeler, I'm glad of one thing, c.u.mmins was a bachelor, like me, and not a married man.”
”I've thought about that, but it don't give me any comfort. Will ought to have married years ago. His life might have counted for something then; but now it seems as if it had been wasted.”
”Maybe you think my life's been wasted, too?”
”No, Mr. Palmer, you know I could never think that, after your kindness to Will and me.”
”Well, Will c.u.mmins was more generous than I ever was,” answered Palmer.
”Main trouble with Will was his temper, which was no better than mine.
Every bad man in these mountains knew that Will c.u.mmins was ready to treat him to his own medicine.”
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