There was no serious doubt in Sheriff Carter's mind as to the importance of O'Leary's telegram. He hoped that the murder of Will Cummins was, at last, to be avenged; and, as he had admired and loved that chivalrous man, he resolved to use every means in his power to bring the murderers to justice. But he realized what a difficult task it would be to get them hanged.

There was a strong sentiment in California against capital punishment. There seemed to be little objection to murder committed by private citizens, but people raised their hands in horror at what they were pleased to call judicial murder. What right has the State to take so precious a thing as human life, even though the life be that of a hardened criminal? Carter was sick at heart. He had watched the most depraved characters, fed and clothed and guarded at the public expense, spend their days in shame and utter uselessness. It would have been a mercy to have terminated their existence; and it would have instilled respect for law in the minds of other criminals.

But the immediate problem of Sheriff Carter, as it is the immediate concern of this story, was to capture the murderers. Carter went armed with proper legal documents, handcuffs, and a pair of derringers—for the sheriff of Nevada County could shoot straight simultaneously with both hands. Two faithful deputies accompanied their chief, and all three were well supplied with the sinews of war in gold and bank-notes.

Arrived at St. Louis Carter immediately got in touch with O'Leary, and cautioned him not to alarm Collins, for proper circumspection might lead to the capture of both murderers. Showing his credentials to the proper authorities, he took them into his confidence, and thus made sure that Collins would not be discharged from jail without his knowledge. Then he and his deputies retired to their hotel for rest, refreshment, and poker.

In less than three days the chief of police showed him a letter written by Collins to Thorn. The missive ran:

It was evidently a blackmailing letter. The sheriff remembered Darcy of old, and the chances seemed good that Thorn alias Darcy was the other highwayman. So, taking O'Leary along to assist in the identification, he set out for Union City to deliver Collins' letter in person. No doubt this Thorn was a harder man to catch than Collins. He had had sense enough to change his name and to join a church. So Carter approached Union City rather cautiously, leaving O'Leary with one of his deputies in Chicago with orders to wait for a telegram. Accompanied by the other deputy he arrived at Union City rather late at night, to avoid publicity.

There he learned that Thorn had been in town nearly three years. That he was engaged in the lumber business, was prosperous, highly respected and was prominent in the leading church of the town. He was away on business in Chicago at the time, but was expected to return in a week or two, as it was rumored that he was soon to marry.

The sheriff's disappointment was much relieved by the receipt of a telegram the next morning:

"Just as well that we brought O'Leary along," remarked Carter to his deputy. "You stay on guard here till you hear from me."

In Chicago the sheriff found that his deputy had promptly arrested Darcy on O'Leary's identification, and had had the man locked up. But on visiting the jail, Carter was considerably in doubt if he had ever seen the prisoner before. The Darcy he remembered was smooth shaven, bronzed through exposure to the California sun, rough and rather desperate in appearance. This man wore a beard, was well dressed, rather pale from confinement in his office, and of sanctimonious countenance.

"But that's Darcy, all right," O'Leary assured him. "Same eyes, and same mole on his neck. Just read him that letter from Collins, Mr. Carter."

At the name of Collins the prisoner winced visibly. For some time he had realized that Collins might betray him; and he had thought seriously of ending that scoundrel's career.

Carter followed up the advantage quickly.

"I think this is Mr. Thorn of Union City?" he inquired politely.

"That's my name," said the man, "and I live in Union City, as I told the officer."

"I've just come from Union City," replied Carter quietly, "and happen to know that you are a respected citizen of that place. Don't suppose you ever heard of J. C. P. Collins of Nevada County, California?"

"I was a miner in California several years, but I don't remember anybody by the name of Collins."

"It's singular then that Collins should call you his old pal and address you as 'Dear Thorn alias Darcy.'" And Carter presented Collins' letter.

"You're wanted, Thorn, alias Darcy, for the murder of William F. Cummins." The sheriff looked at the prisoner so sternly that the man wilted. "Collins has owned up, and you might as well do the same."

"O God!" groaned the man, "my sin has found me out. I killed Cummins with my own hand; and I am ready to pay the penalty."

His religion had not been all humbug, by any means; and now he asked permission to visit Union City to make public confession of the murder. But Carter had left Collins in jail at St. Louis, and saw no reason to delay the arrest of that scoundrel in order to gratify the wishes of a confessed murderer. So he proceeded to St. Louis at once, arrested Collins, who seemed rather shocked and grieved to meet his old friend the sheriff once more; and hurried the prisoners back to California.

There was great excitement in the gold fields, you may be sure, when it was announced that Will Cummins' murderers were safely lodged in jail, more than three years after the crime. Surely, California was becoming civilized, and at last Nevada County was actually to try a couple of men for murder.