Digging for Gold 37

Digging for Gold 37

indicating the farmer and the miner.

 

“I suppose you speak with authority?” observed the farmer.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You speak as if you were in this fellow’s confidence.”

 

“Do you mean to insult me?” exclaimed the black-eyed man angrily.

 

“Oh, calm yourself, my friend! Why should I mean it that way? You can’t

take a a joke.”

 

“Oh, if it’s a joke, I don’t mind.”

 

Then the talk about the famous road agent subsided. Gradually they

passed beyond the limits of population, and entered a mountain defile,

dark with frowning hills on each side.

 

“Let me get out a minute!” said the black-eyed man, signalling to the

driver.

 

The stage stopped. Once upon the ground the black-eyed passenger drew

out his revolvers, and levelling them at the astonished travellers,

cried: “Hold up your hands, gentlemen; get ready to surrender all your

valuables. _I am Stephen Dike!_”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXXV.

A TRAGEDY.

 

 

I have said that the passengers were astonished at discovering that the

notorious road agent was their fellow-traveller. There were two,

however, who were not wholly surprised—the miner who had related his

cousin’s story and the farmer who had had a sharp colloquy with the

black-eyed man.

 

For a minute no one moved or spoke.

 

“Come,” said Dike impatiently; “I have no time to waste. Give me your

money.”

 

“Do you want mine?” asked Grant, who was entirely willing to give up the

small amount of gold coin he had with him, if he could save the dust in

his valise.

 

“No; I don’t care for the trifle you have, nor the other boy’s money,

but those miners over there must give up their treasure, and my

agricultural friends also.”

 

“If you want my money, come and get it!” growled the miner already

referred to.

 

“I say the same,” added the farmer.

 

“I will stand no nonsense,” said Stephen Dike.

 

“It’s hard luck,” grumbled the miner, “to give up all my hard earnings.”

 

“Give up your money, and grumble afterward,” rejoined Dike.

 

The miner thrust his hand into his pocket, and then, in an excited

voice, exclaimed suddenly, as he peered out of the coach, “Ha, friends!

there is help approaching. See!” And he pointed, with outstretched

finger, beyond Stephen Dike.

 

The road agent, taken by surprise, turned quickly. The step was fatal to

him. The miner, who had pulled a revolver from his pocket, fired without

an instant’s delay, and Stephen Dike fell backward, instantly killed.

The miner’s bullet had penetrated his temple. So unexpected was the

assault that the road agent had not even time to discharge his own

pistols. They fell upon the ground from his nerveless hands, and one of

them accidentally went off, but did no harm.

 

[Illustration: THE ROAD AGENT MEETS HIS MATCH.]

 

“My cousin is avenged!” exclaimed the miner grimly.

 

“Give me your hand, sir!” said the farmer. “You have saved us all, and

rid the State of California of the most dangerous outlaw within its

limits.”

 

“It seems hard to rejoice in the death of a fellow-being,” observed the

teacher, “but no one can grieve over the taking off of such a man.

Gentlemen, let us remove the body to some place less public.”

 

The passengers got out, and were joined by the driver.

 

“There is a reward of five thousand dollars offered by the authorities

for the capture of Stephen Dike, dead or alive,” he said. “What

gentleman killed him?”

 

“I did,” answered the miner; “but I want no reward. I should look upon

it as blood money. What I did, I did in defence of my fellow-passengers

and myself.”

 

Stephen Dike lay upon the ground, his features still wearing the cynical

smile habitual to him. Death had come upon him so suddenly that there

had not been time even to change the __EXPRESSION__ of his face.

 

“I suppose this man has committed many robberies?” said the teacher to

the stage-driver.

 

“No one knows how many, but he has robbed my stage four times.”

 

“How did it happen that you did not recognize him when he booked as a

passenger?”

 

“He has always worn a mask when I saw him before. This time he became

bolder, and presented himself without disguise. I remember being struck

by his appearance, and wondering whether I had not met him before, but

it did not occur to me that it was the famous road agent, Stephen Dike.”

 

The passengers took the lifeless body, and drew it to one side of the

road.

 

“Ought we not to bury it?” asked the teacher.

 

“I can’t bear to put beneath the sod a man who, but fifteen minutes

since, was as full of life as we are. Let us leave that office to some

one else. We can affix to the tree, beneath which he lies, a paper

giving his name.”

 

This proposal was approved. One of the passengers produced a sheet of

paper and a travelling inkstand, and this placard was affixed to the

trunk of the tree:

 

This man is

_STEPHEN DIKE_,

THE ROAD AGENT.

Killed while attempting to rob the Sacramento coach.

 

“We ought, perhaps, to examine his pockets, and see if we can find

anything to throw light on his career.”

 

This was the suggestion of one of the passengers.

 

“No,” said the miner; “leave that to the persons who may find him. If he

has money about him, leave it to others. I have been the instrument of

Heaven’s retribution. Should I take anything of value from him, I would

be degraded to his own level.”

 

This remark seemed to voice the general sentiment, and, after an

interval of only ten minutes, the stage was again on its way to San

Francisco.

 

Grant and Robert were strongly impressed by what had happened. Neither

of them had ever seen a death by violence before.

 

“It’s awful!” said Robert, shuddering.

 

“But he deserved his fate,” returned Grant.

 

“So he did; but it is terrible to have death come so suddenly.”

 

“You are right, lad!” said the miner. “I feel entirely justified in what

I did, but it was a fearful necessity. It is something I shall never be

able to forget.”

 

There was no further adventure to record in the two days’ ride. Toward

nightfall of the second day they reached the city of the Golden Gate,

and the passengers separated. Grant regretted parting with Robert

Campbell, to whom he had become warmly attached, but was glad to think

they would have opportunities of meeting in San Francisco.

 

Before separating, he undeceived Robert as to his circumstances.

 

“I suppose,” he said, “you think me very poor?”

 

“I wouldn’t judge from your clothes that you were wealthy,” returned

Robert, smiling.

 

“That’s why I wear them. In this valise which I carry, I have about

fifteen hundred dollars in gold-dust.”

 

“You don’t mean it!” exclaimed Robert in surprise.

 

“Yes; but only half of it belongs to me. I have more at the mines,

however. I feared to be robbed, and so put on the appearance of a tramp.

Now, I shall buy a respectable suit.”

 

“I am glad you are able to do so; but even in your poor clothes I was

glad to have met you.”

 

“Thank you, Rob. We have known each other but two days, but I shall

always look upon you as a friend.”

 

The two boys shook hands cordially, and Grant set out in the direction

of the Alameda Hotel. Before he arrived there, he saw Mr. Crosmont

walking thoughtfully through Kearney Street, with his eyes fixed upon

the ground.

 

“Mr. Crosmont!” he exclaimed eagerly.

 

Giles Crosmont looked up quickly, and his face brightened as he

recognized Grant.