John Keeler had found his friend the sheriff at the Citizens' Bank, putting up money on a bet that Cummins' murderers would not be caught within a year. Sheriff Carter was dealing in futures, as it were. Nothing would have pleased him better than to lay hands on those highwaymen; but,—thoroughly discouraged at the outlook,—like a true sportsman he enjoyed the humor of betting against himself in the vague hope that such action might lead to something. He was more than pleased to see Keeler, whose mysterious air clearly indicated that something was up. They walked immediately to the court-house, and were soon closeted together.

"Now look here, Keeler, if you're going to play detective, you don't want to hang out a sign, 'John Keeler, Detective.' There's blood in your eye. Any crook could spot you a block away."

Keeler laughed, and looked rather sheepish.

"Well," he said, "there's no harm done, I reckon. Those fellows are probably a thousand miles from here by this time."

"What makes you think so?" asked Carter. "They may be right here in Nevada City. Some of those fellows can throw a perfect bluff on a pair of two-spots."

"Well, Carter, I thank you for your suggestion. After this, I'll be careful. That is, I'll appear to be careless. I haven't any inkling as to where those thugs are, and I've come to you to get some points."

"I don't blame you a bit, Keeler, for wanting to look into this affair. Cummins was your partner once; and a better man never lived in Nevada County. I hope to God I can string up the men who killed him. Just step in here."

In an ante-room Carter had set up two straw men dressed in the discarded clothes of the highwaymen.

"Of course, this ain't going to help much," explained Carter, deprecatingly. "But it does give you a fair idea of the height of those fellows. Mat Bailey was in here the other day to help me with these dummies. He seems to have a pretty good idea of what the men looked like."

As his mission to San Francisco was confidential, and inasmuch as Palmer's Mrs. Somers was an unknown quantity, Keeler refrained from mentioning her. He proceeded to San Francisco that day; looked up Mrs. Somers, who gave him the names and descriptions of a dozen bad men of Nevada County; and the next day he returned to hunt up some of these same bad men. One of them was O'Leary of You Bet, whom he found without trouble. But he got very little encouragement from O'Leary; and he very soon discovered how hard it is for an honest man to get any sort of satisfaction from thieves and liars.

In the absence of any definite information he resolved to turn eastward, across the Sierras. He was on the right track, as we know. As far as Omaha it was not so very difficult to make a fairly thorough search for the criminals. However, this took time, and although he happened to pick up information here and there about a couple of rather odd-looking Californians traveling eastward with gold, he often felt that he was on a fool's errand. He fell in with Californians everywhere. If the building of the transcontinental railroad had served no other purpose, it had sent a steady stream of people away from the gold fields—a circumstance that made his mission seem all the more hopeless. Among so many how could he distinguish the criminals? True, he could distinguish an ex-miner among a thousand. And whenever such a man extended his right hand and said, "Put it there, partner!" Keeler could not refuse the proffered hand-clasp.

At Louisville he encountered a man whom he was sure he had seen in Nevada City. The man evidently recognized him also, and for an instant Keeler thought he saw a wild gleam in the man's eye. Then it was, "Put it there, partner!" and Keeler placed his clean right hand into the grimy palm indicated.

"The drinks are on me, this morning," said the man, marching him off to the nearest bar. And Keeler was so much in the humor of the thing that he was soon telling the story of the Frenchman who took lessons in English from a Kentuckian:

"What do you say in Anglais when one offer you a drink, and you accep' le invite?"

"Don't care if I do," replied the instructor.

"Don car fido," repeated Frenchy. "And what eef you do not accep' le invite?"

The Kentuckian looked grave, slowly shook his head, and finally answered in despair:

"You've got me there, Frenchy!"

The Californian laughed heartily—rather too heartily, Keeler thought; and then inquired:

"Going East or West?"

"Westward for me," replied Keeler; "and you?"

"Well, I reckon I've played my last game of poker in Nevada City. The East for me. With a little dust for capital, this country seems right good. Why, out there in the Sierras, you know as well as I do, the soil's too poor to feed lizards. Not much like the blue grass country of Kaintuck."

"Well," said Keeler, "if I had made my pile, Maryland would be good enough for me. As it is, California is all right, barring those same pesky lizards."

"The boys set too stiff a pace out there, though," replied the ex-miner. "Why, many a Saturday night I've seen fellows drop into town with a hundred and fifty dollars in dust, and then borrow the money to take the stage out Monday morning."

"I don't go in for sporting myself," said Keeler, "so I guess my character won't be ruined. The churches have got started, and they are giving the saloons a good deal of trouble."

"By thunder! that reminds me," quoth the Californian, "this here is a Christian country, and I'm going to join the church, first thing I do."

"And spin California yarns to a Sunday-School class," suggested Keeler. "Bet your class will be a large one."

"I'll do it, by thunder! The very thing! And I'll shoot any lad as gets impertinent."

Keeler was clearly out of his element, and thought it time to terminate the brief acquaintance.

"John Keeler is my name; and I can swear I've seen you in Nevada City. But you have the best of me."

"Why," replied the Californian, as cool as you please, "my name's Darcy."

It was the man who had killed Will Cummins! But John Keeler was none the wiser, as Darcy quickly saw. He and Collins had reached Louisville undetected. Had there assumed the character of honest miners, shipped their bullion by express, a part to New Orleans and a part to Philadelphia, and were on the point of dissolving partnership.

Darcy soon afterward assumed the name of Thorn, set up in the lumber business at Union City, Indiana, where it is but a few steps across the border into Ohio,—and became a prosperous and respected citizen. He actually associated himself with the leading church of the town and was looked upon by the young men as a Californian who had succeeded.

Honest John Keeler, who was well acquainted with the type, as he thought, could only remark, as his train sped westward, "There is a sensible miner! One who has safely transferred his money from saloons and gambling dens and robbers to the famous blue grass country. Good luck to him!"

He had well-nigh forgotten the incident when Darcy was arrested three years later.

A whole year had passed before Keeler returned home, discouraged. In the meantime, as we shall see, the snows of the Sierras had not chilled the budding affections of Mat Bailey; but the hot sun of another California summer had stricken down old man Palmer. Keeler mistrusted that something was wrong, as he had not heard from his old friend for several months. Fortunately, his wife and child were well and happy, but they had impatiently waited for his return. From them he had heard every week or two.

At length he was safely back across the Sierras. The caÑon of the American River had never seemed more terrible as the train hovered over the brink of it. And now they were at Colfax, the junction of the narrow gauge railroad, whence, at nine cents a mile, you travel northward to Nevada City. The iron bars on the high, narrow windows of the station, the low whistle of the little engine, like the lonesome cry of a wolf, as it took the high trestle over Bear River, the very bars of dirt in the river bed far below, proclaimed to John Keeler that he had returned to the land of robbers and gold mining.