A Double Barrelled Detective Story by Martin Twain

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was treacherous, aissembler, a coward, and a brute without sense ofity or compassion: the

Sedgemoor trade-mark,' he called it-and 'white-leeve badge.' Any other

man in my place would have gone to his house and shotim down like a dog.wanted to do it, and was minded to do it, but aetter thought came to

me: to put him to shame; to break his heart; to killim by inches. How to

o it? Through my treatment of you, his idol! Iwould marry you; andhen-Have patience. You will see."

From that moment onward, for three months, theoung wife suffered allhe humiliations, all the insults, all the miseries thathe diligent andnventive mind of the husband could contrive, savehysical injuries only.

Her strong pride stood by her, and she kept theecret of her troubles.

Now and then the husband said, "Why don't you go toour father and tellim?" Then he invented new tortures, applied them,nd asked again. Shelways answered, "He shall never know by my

mouth," and taunted him with





"You will be found-by the passing public. They wille dropping alongbout three hours from now, and will spread the news-o you hear? Good-by.

You have seen the last of me."

He went away then. She moaned to herself:

"I shall bear a child-to him! God grant it may be aoy!"

The farmers released her by and by-and spreadhe news, which wasatural. They raised the country with lynchingntentions, but the birdad flown. The young wife shut herself up in herather's house; he shutimself up with her, and thenceforth would see none. His pride wasroken, and his heart; so he wasted away, day byay, and even hisaughter rejoiced when death relieved him.

Then she sold the estate and disappeared.

Chapter 2





now he'd been by,hen, and I said because I smelt his track on theidewalk, and she said I

was a dum fool and made a mouth at me. What did sheo that for?"

The young woman turned white, and said toerself, "It's a birthmark!he gift of the bloodhound is in him." She snatched

he boy to her breastnd hugged him passionately, saying, "God has

ppointed the way!" Her eyeswere burning with a fierce light and her breath camehort and quick withxcitement. She said to herself: "The puzzle is solvedow; many a time itas been a mystery to me, the impossible things thehild has done in theark, but it is all clear to me now."

She set him in his small chair, and said,

"Wait a little till I come, dear; then we will talk abouthe matter."

She went up to her room and took from herressing-table several smallrticles and put them out of sight: a nail-file on theoor under the



ed; a pair of nail-scissors under the bureau; amall ivory paper-knifender the wardrobe. Then she returned, and said:

"There! I have left some things which I ought to

ave brought down."he named them, and said, "Run up and bring them,ear."

The child hurried away on his errand and was soonack again with the

hings."Did you have any difficulty, dear?"

"No, mamma; I only went where you went."

During his absence she had stepped to theookcase, taken severalooks from the bottom shelf, opened each, passeder hand over a page,oting its number in her memory, then restored themo their places. Nowhe said:

"I have been doing something while you have beenone, Archy. Do youhink you can find out what it was?"



The boy went to the bookcase and got out theooks that had beenouched, and opened them at the pages which had beentroked.

The mother took him in her lap, and said:

"I will answer your question now, dear. I haveound out that in one

way you are quite different from other people. Youan see in the dark,

ou can smell what other people cannot, you havehe talents of aloodhound. They are good and valuable things toave, but you must keephe matter a secret. If people found it out, they wouldpeak of you as andd child, a strange child, and children would beisagreeable to you, andive you nick-names. In this world one must be likeverybody else if heoesn't want to provoke scorn or envy or jealousy. Its a great and fineistinction which has been born to you, and I amlad; but you will keepa secret, for mamma's sake, won't you?"

The child promised, without understanding.



All the rest of the day the mother's brain wasusy with excitedhinkings; with plans, projects, schemes, each andll of them uncanny,rim, and dark. Yet they lit up her face; lit it with a

ell light of heir own; lit it with vague fires of hell. She was in aever of unrest;he could not sit, stand, read, sew; there was noelief for her but in

movement. She tested her boy's gift in twenty ways,

nd kept saying toerself all the time, with her mind in the past: "Heroke my father'seart, and night and day all these years I have tried,nd all in vain, tohink out a way to break his. I have found it now-I haveound it now."

When night fell, the demon of unrest still possesseder. She went on

with her tests; with a candle she traversed theouse from garret toellar, hiding pins, needles, thimbles, spools, underillows, underarpets, in cracks in the walls, under the coal in thein; then sent thettle fellow in the dark to find them; which he did,nd was happy and



roud when she praised him and smothered him witharesses.

From this time forward life took on a newomplexion for her. She

aid, "The future is secure-I can wait, and enjoy thewaiting." The mostf her lost interests revived. She took up musicgain, and languages,rawing, painting, and the other long-discardedelights of her

maidenhood. She was happy once more, and felt againhe zest of life. Ashe years drifted by she watched the developmentf her boy, and wasontented with it. Not altogether, but nearly that. Theoft side of hiseart was larger than the other side of it. It was hisnly defect, in heryes. But she considered that his love for her and

worship of her made upor it. He was a good hater-that was well; but it was

question if thematerials of his hatreds were of as tough and enduring

quality as thosef his friendships-and that was not so well.

The years drifted on. Archy was become aandsome, shapely, athletic



outh, courteous, dignified, companionable, pleasantn his ways, andooking perhaps a trifle older than he was, which wasixteen. One eveningis mother said she had something of grave

mportance to say to him,dding that he was old enough to hear it now, and oldnough and possessedf character enough and stability enough to carry out

stern plan whichhe had been for years contriving and maturing.

hen she told him heritter story, in all its naked atrociousness. For awhile the boy wasaralyzed; then he said:

"I understand. We are Southerners; and by ourustom and nature theres but one atonement. I will search him out and killim."

"Kill him? No! Death is release, emancipation; deaths a favor. Do Iwe him favors? You must not hurt a hair of his head."

The boy was lost in thought awhile; then he said:

"You are all the world to me, and your desire ismy law and my



leasure. Tell me what to do and I will do it."

The mother's eyes beamed with satisfaction, and sheaid:

"You will go and find him. I have known his hiding-lace for elevenears; it cost me five years and more of inquiry,nd much money, toocate it. He is a quartz-miner in Colorado, and well-o-do. He lives in

Denver. His name is Jacob Fuller. There-it is the firstme I have spokensince that unforgettable night. Think! That name

ould have been yoursf I had not saved you that shame and furnished you

cleaner one. Youwill drive him from that place; you will hunt himown and drive himgain; and yet again, and again, and again,ersistently, relentlessly,oisoning his life, filling it with mysterious terrors,oading it with

weariness and misery, making him wish for death,nd that he had auicide's courage; you will make of him another

wandering Jew; he shallnow no rest any more, no peace of mind, no placidleep; you shall shadow



im, cling to him, persecute him, till you break hiseart, as he broke myather's and mine."

"I will obey, mother."

"I believe it, my child. The preparations are allmade; everything iseady. Here is a letter of credit; spend freely, theres no lack of

money. At times you may need disguises. I have

rovided them; also somether conveniences." She took from the drawer ofhe typewriter tableeveral squares of paper. They all bore theseypewritten words:

$10,000 Reward

It is believed that a certain man who is wanted inn Eastern State isojourning here. In 1880, in the night, he tied hisoung wife to a treey the public road, cut her across the face with aowhide, and made hisogs tear her clothes from her, leaving her naked. Heeft her there, anded the country. A blood-relative of hers hasearched for him for



eventeen years. Address ::, ::, Post-office. Thebove reward will beaid in cash to the person who will furnish theeeker, in a personalnterview, the criminal's address.

"When you have found him and acquaintedourself with his scent, you

will go in the night and placard one of thesepon the building heccupies, and another one upon the post-office or in

ome other prominentlace. It will be the talk of the region. At first youmust give himeveral days in which to force a sale of hiselongings at somethingpproaching their value. We will ruin him by andy, but gradually; we

must not impoverish him at once, for that could bringim to despair andnjure his health, possibly kill him."

She took three or four more typewrittenorms from therawer-duplicates-and read one:

......,......, 18..

To Jacob Fuller:



You have...... days in which to settle your affairs.You will not beisturbed during that limit, which will expire at......

M., on the......

f....... You must then move on. If you are still in thelace after theamed hour, I will placard you on all the dead walls,etailing your crimence more, and adding the date, also the scene of, with all names

oncerned, including your own. Have no fear of bodilynjury-it will in noircumstances ever be inflicted upon you. You brought

misery upon an oldman, and ruined his life and broke his heart. What heuffered, you are touffer.

"You will add no signature. He must receive thisefore he learns of he reward placard-before he rises in the morning-est he lose his headnd fly the place penniless."

"I shall not forget."

"You will need to use these forms only in theeginning-once may be



nough. Afterward, when you are ready for him toanish out of a place,ee that he gets a copy of this form, which merely says:

Move On. You have...... days.

"He will obey. That is sure."

Chapter 3

Extracts from letters to the mother:

Denver, April 3, 1897.

I have now been living several days in theame hotel with Jacobuller. I have his scent; I could track him through

en divisions of nfantry and find him. I have often been near him andeard him talk. Hewns a good mine, and has a fair income from it; bute is not rich. Heearned mining in a good way-by working at it for

wages. He is a cheerfulreature, and his forty-three years sit lightly uponim; he could passor a younger man-say thirty-six or thirty-seven. He



as never marriedgain-passes himself off for a widower. He stands

well, is liked, isopular, and has many friends. Even I feel arawing toward him-the

aternal blood in me making its claim. How blindnd unreasoning andrbitrary are some of the laws of nature-the most ofhem, in fact! Myask is become hard now-you realize it? youomprehend, and make

llowances?-and the fire of it has cooled, more than Ike to confess tomyself. But I will carry it out. Even with the pleasurealed, the dutyemains, and I will not spare him.

And for my help, a sharp resentment rises in mewhen I reflect that hewho committed that odious crime is the only one whoas not suffered by. The lesson of it has manifestly reformed hisharacter, and in thehange he is happy. He, the guilty party, is absolvedrom all suffering;ou, the innocent, are borne down with it. But beomforted-he shallarvest his share.



Silver Gulch, May 19.

I placarded Form No. 1 at midnight of April 3; anour later I slippedorm No. 2 under his chamber door, notifying him to

eave Denver at orefore 11.50 the night of the 14th.

Some late bird of a reporter stole one of mylacards, then hunted theown over and found the other one, and stole that.

n this manner heccomplished what the profession call a "scoop"-that is,e got a valuableem, and saw to it that no other paper got it. Ando his paper-therincipal one in the town-had it in glaring type on theditorial page inhe morning, followed by a Vesuvian opinion of our

wretch a column long,which wound up by adding a thousand dollars to oureward on the paper'sccount! The journals out here know how to do theoble thing-when there'susiness in it.

At breakfast I occupied my usual seat-selectedecause it afforded aiew of papa Fuller's face, and was near enough for



me to hear the talkhat went on at his table. Seventy-five or a hundredeople were in theoom, and all discussing that item, and saying theyoped the seeker would

nd that rascal and remove the pollution of hisresence from theown-with a rail, or a bullet, or something.

When Fuller came in he had the Notice to Leave-olded up-in one hand,

nd the newspaper in the other; and it gave me morehan half a pang toee him. His cheerfulness was all gone, and he lookedld and pinched andshy. And then-only think of the things he had tosten to! Mamma, heeard his own unsuspecting friends describe him

with epithets andharacterizations drawn from the very dictionariesnd phrase-books of atan's own authorized editions down below. And more

han that, he had togree with the verdicts and applaud them. Hispplause tasted bitter inis mouth, though; he could not disguise thatrom me; and it wasbservable that his appetite was gone; he onlyibbled; he couldn't eat.



inally a man said:

"It is quite likely that that relative is in the roomnd hearing whathis town thinks of that unspeakable scoundrel. I hope

o."

Ah, dear, it was pitiful the way Fuller winced,nd glanced aroundcared! He couldn't endure any more, and got up andeft.

During several days he gave out that he hadought a mine in Mexico,nd wanted to sell out and go down there as soon ase could, and give theroperty his personal attention. He played his cards

well; said he wouldake $40,000-a quarter in cash, the rest in safeotes; but that as hereatly needed money on account of his new purchase,e would diminish hiserms for cash in full. He sold out for $30,000. Andhen, what do youhink he did? He asked for greenbacks, and tookhem, saying the man in

Mexico was a New-Englander, with a head full ofrotchets, and preferredreenbacks to gold or drafts. People thought it queer,





ain and a heavy darkness, and got into a two-horseack, which of course

was waiting for him by appointment. I took a seatuninvited) on the trunklatform behind, and we drove briskly off. We drove

en miles, and theack stopped at a way-station and was discharged.uller got out and tookseat on a barrow under the awning, as far as he

ould get from theght; I went inside, and watched the ticket-office.

uller bought nocket; I bought none. Presently the train camelong, and he boarded aar; I entered the same car at the other end, andame down the aisle andook the seat behind him. When he paid theonductor and named hisbjective point, I dropped back several seats, whilehe conductor washanging a bill, and when he came to me I paid tohe same place-about aundred miles westward.

From that time for a week on end he led me aance. He traveled herend there and yonder-always on a general westwardend-but he was not a

woman after the first day. He was a laborer, like



myself, and wore bushyalse whiskers. His outfit was perfect, and he couldo the character

without thinking about it, for he had served theade for wages. His

earest friend could not have recognized him. At laste located himself ere, the obscurest little mountain camp in Montana;e has a shanty, andoes out prospecting daily; is gone all day, andvoids society. I am

ving at a miner's boarding-house, and it is an awfullace: the bunks,he food, the dirt-everything.

We have been here four weeks, and in that time Iave seen him butnce; but every night I go over his track and post

myself. As soon as hengaged a shanty here I went to a town fifty milesway and telegraphedhat Denver hotel to keep my baggage till I shouldend for it. I needothing here but a change of army shirts, and I broughthat with me.

Silver Gulch, June 12.

The Denver episode has never found its way here,



think. I know themost of the men in camp, and they have nevereferred to it, at least in

my hearing. Fuller doubtless feels quite safe in theseonditions. He has

ocated a claim, two miles away, in an out-of-the-way place in themountains; it promises very well, and he is working itiligently. Ah, buthe change in him! He never smiles, and he keepsuite to himself,

onsorting with on one-he who was so fond ofompany and so cheery onlywo months ago. I have seen him passinglong several timesecently-drooping, forlorn, the spring gone from histep, a patheticgure. He calls himself David Wilson.

I can trust him to remain here until we disturb him.ince you insist,will banish him again, but I do not see how he cane unhappier than helready is. I will go back to Denver and treat myselfo a little seasonf comfort, and edible food, and endurable beds, andodily decency; thenwill fetch my things, and notify poor papa Wilson to

move on.



Denver, June 19.

They miss him here. They all hope he is prosperingn Mexico, and they

o not say it just with their mouths, but out of theirearts. You knowou can always tell. I am loitering here overlong, Ionfess it. But if ou were in my place you would have charity for me.

Yes, I know what you

will say, and you are right: if I were in your place,nd carried yourcalding memories in my heart-

I will take the night train back to-morrow.

Denver, June 20.

God forgive us, mother, we are hunting the wrongman! I have not sleptny all night. I am now waiting, at dawn, for the

morning train-and howhe minutes drag, how they drag!

This Jacob Fuller is a cousin of the guilty one.How stupid we haveeen not to reflect that the guilty one would nevergain wear his own



ame after that fiendish deed! The Denver Fuller isour years youngerhan the other one; he came here a young widower in79, aged twenty-one-aear before you were married; and the documents

o prove it arennumerable. Last night I talked with familiar friendsf his who havenow him from the day of his arrival. I said nothing,ut a few days fromow I will land him in this town again, with the loss

pon his mine madeood; and there will be a banquet, and a torch-lightrocession, and there

will not be any expense on anybody but me. Do youall this "gush"? I amnly a boy, as you well know; it is my privilege. By andy I shall not beboy any more.

Silver Gulch, July 3.

Mother, he is gone! Gone, and left no trace. Thecent was cold when Iame. To-day I am out of bed for the first time since. I

wish I were not aoy; then I could stand shocks better. They allhink he went west. Itart to-night, in a wagon-two or three hours of that,



hen I get a train.don't know where I'm going, but I must go; to try toeep still would beorture.

Of course he has effaced himself with a new namend a disguise. Thismeans that I may have to search the whole globe to

nd him. Indeed it iswhat I expect. Do you see, mother? I is I that am theWandering Jew. The

ony of it! We arranged that for another.Think of the difficulties! And there would be none

f I only coulddvertise for him. But if there is any way to do ithat would notrighten him, I have not been able to think it out, and

have tried tillmy brains are addled. "If the gentleman who latelyought a mine in Mexicond sold one in Denver will send his address to" (to

whom, mother!), "itwill be explained to him that it was all a mistake; hisorgiveness wille asked, and full reparation made for a loss whiche sustained in aertain matter." Do you see? He would think it aap. Well, any one





he street, and followed it on a run to a cheap hotel.hat was a costly

mistake; a dog would have gone the other way. But Im only part dog, andan get very humanly stupid when excited. He had

een stopping in thatouse ten days; I almost know, now, that he stopsong nowhere, the pastix or eight months, but is rest-less and has to keep

moving. I understandhat feeling! and I know what it is to feel it. He still

ses the name head registered when I came so near catching himine months ago-"James

Walker"; doubtless the same he adopted when he fledrom Silver Gulch. Annpretending man, and has small taste for fancyames. I recognized theand easily, through its slight disguise. A square

man, and not good athams and pretenses.

They said he was just gone, on a journey; left noddress; didn't say

where he was going; looked frightened when asked toeave his address; hado baggage but a cheap valise; carried it off onoot-a "stingy olderson, and not much loss to the house." "Old!" I



uppose he is, now. Iardly heard; I was there but a moment. I rushedlong his trail, and ited me to a wharf. Mother, the smoke of the steamere had taken was just

ading out on the horizon! I should have saved half anour if I had gonen the right direction at first. I could have taken a fastug, and shouldave stood a chance of catching that vessel. She isound for Melbourne.

Hope Canyon, California, October 3, 1900.

You have a right to complain. "A letter a year" is aaucity; I freelycknowledge it; but how can one write when there isothing to write aboutut failures? No one can keep it up; it breaks the heart.

I told you-it seems ages ago, now-how I missedim at Melbourne, andhen chased him all over Australasia for months on end.

Well, then, after that I followed him to India;lmost saw him in

Bombay; traced him all around-to Baroda, Rawal-indi, Lucknow, Lahore,

Cawnpore, Allahabad, Calcutta, Madras-oh,



verywhere; week after week,month after month, through the dust and swelter-lways approximately onis track, sometimes close upon him, yet neveratching him. And down to

Ceylon, and then to-Never mind; by and by I will writeall out.

I chased him home to California, and down toMexico, and back again toCalifornia. Since then I have been hunting him about

he State from therst of last January down to a month ago. I feellmost sure he is notar from Hope Canyon; I traced him to a point thirty

miles from here, buthere I lost the trail; some one gave him a lift in a

wagon, I suppose.

I am taking a rest, now-modified by searchings forhe lost trail. I

was tired to death, mother, and low-spirited, andometimes comingncomfortably near to losing hope; but the miners inhis little camp areood fellows, and I am used to their sort this longme back; and theirreezy ways freshen a person up and make himorget his troubles. I have



een here a month. I am cabining with a youngellow named "Sammy"

Hillyer, about twenty-five, the only son of his mother-ke me-and loveser dearly, and writes to her every week-part of which

s like me. He is amid body, and in the matter of intellect-well, heannot be dependedpon to set a river on fire; but no matter, he is wellked; he is goodnd fine, and it is meat and bread and rest and

uxury to sit and talkwith him and have a comradeship again. I wishJames Walker" could have. He had friends; he liked company. That brings up

hat picture of him,he time that I saw him last. The pathos of it! Itomes before me oftennd often. At that very time, poor thing, I wasirding up my conscienceo make him move on again!

Hillyer's heart is better than mine, better thannybody's in theommunity, I suppose, for he is the one friend of thelack sheep of theamp-Flint Buckner-and the only man Flint everalks with or allows toalk with him. He says he knows Flint's history, and



hat it is troublehat has made him what he is, and so one ought to bes charitable towardim as one can. Now none but a pretty large heartould find space to

ccommodate a lodger like Flint Buckner, from allhear about himutside. I think that this one detail will give you aetter idea of ammy's character than any labored-out description Iould furnish you of

im. In one of our talks he said something about likehis: "Flint is ainsman of mine, and be pours out all his troubleso me-empties hisreast from time to time, or I reckon it would burst.here couldn't beny unhappier man, Archy Stillman; his life has been

made up of misery of mind-he isn't near as old as he looks. He hasost the feel of eposefulness and peace-oh, years and years ago! Heoesn't know what gooduck is-never has had any; often says he wishes he

was in the other hell,e is so tired of this one."

Chapter 4



No real gentleman will tell the naked truth in theresence of ladies

It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October.

The lilacs and laburnums, lit with the glory-firesf autumn, hungurning and flashing in the upper air, a fairy bridgerovided by kind

Nature for the wingless wild things that have theiromes in the tree-topsnd would visit together; the larch and theomegranate flung their purplend yellow flames in brilliant broad splashes along thelanting sweep of he woodland; the sensuous fragrance of innumerableeciduous flowers rosepon the swooning atmosphere; far in the empty sky

solitary aeosophaguslept upon motionless wing; everywhere broodedtillness, serenity, andhe peace of God.

October is the time-1900; Hope Canyon is thelace, a silver-miningamp away down in the Esmeralda region. It is aecluded spot, high and



emote; recent as to discovery; thought by itsccupants to be rich in

metal-a year or two's prospecting will decide thatmatter one way or thether. For inhabitants, the camp has about two

undred miners, one whitewoman and child, several Chinese washermen, fivequaws, and a dozenagrant buck Indians in rabbit-skin robes, batteredlug hats, and tin-canecklaces. There are no mills as yet; no church, no

ewspaper. The campas existed but two years; it has made no bigtrike; the world isgnorant of its name and place.

On both sides of the canyon the mountains risewall-like, threehousand feet, and the long spiral of straggling hutsown in its narrowottom gets a kiss from the sun only once a day,

when he sails over atoon. The village is a couple of miles long; the cabinstand well apartrom each other. The tavern is the only "frame" house-he only house, one

might say. It occupies a central position, and is thevening resort of he population. They drink there, and play seven-up





ublic and in private; and of course this lad waspplied to fornformation, but with no success. Fetlock Jones-ame of the youth-saidhat Flint picked him up on a prospecting tramp, and

s he had neitherome nor friends in America, he had found it wiseo stay and take

Buckner's hard usage for the sake of the salary,which was bacon andeans. Further than this he could offer no testimony.

Fetlock had been in this slavery for a month now,nd under his meekxterior he was slowly consuming to a cinder withhe insults andumiliations which his master had put upon him.or the meek sufferitterly from these hurts; more bitterly, perhaps,han do the manlierort, who can burst out and get relief with words orlows when the limitf endurance has been reached. Good-hearted people

wanted to help Fetlockut of his trouble, and tried to get him to leave

Buckner; but the boyhowed fright at the thought, and said he "dasn't."at Riley urged him,nd said:





was the only joy head in life; these hours were the only ones in thewenty-four which heooked forward to with eagerness and spent inappiness.

He thought of poison. No-that would not serve;he inquest wouldeveal where it was procured and who had procured it.

He thought of a shotn the back in a lonely place when Flint would be

omeward bound atmidnight-his unvarying hour for the trip. No-omebody might be near, andatch him. He thought of stabbing him in his sleep. No-e might strike annefficient blow, and Flint would seize him. Hexamined a hundredifferent ways-none of them would answer; for inven the very obscurestnd secretest of them there was always the fatalefect of a risk, ahance, a possibility that he might be found out. He

would have none of hat.

But he was patient, endlessly patient. There was nourry, he said toimself. He would never leave Flint till he left him a



orpse; there waso hurry-he would find the way. It was somewhere,nd he would endurehame and pain and misery until he found it. Yes,omewhere there was a

way which would leave not a trace, not even theaintest clew to themurderer-there was no hurry-he would find that way,nd then-oh, then, it

would just be good to be alive! Meantime he wouldiligently keep up his

eputation for meekness; and also, as alwaysheretofore, he would allowo one to hear him say a resentful or offensive thingbout his oppressor.

Two days before the before-mentioned Octobermorning Flint had boughtome things, and he and Fetlock had brought themome to Flint's cabin: aresh box of candles, which they put in theorner; a tin can of lasting-powder, which they placed upon the candle-ox; a keg of lasting-powder, which they placed under Flint'sunk; a huge coil of use, which they hung on a peg. Fetlock reasonedhat Flint's miningperations had outgrown the pick, and that blasting



was about to beginow. He had seen blasting done, and he had a notionf the process, but head never helped in it. His conjecture was right-lasting-time had come.

n the morning the pair carried fuse, drills, and theowder-can to thehaft; it was now eight feet deep, and to get into itnd out of it ahort ladder was used. They descended, and byommand Fetlock held the

rill-without any instructions as to the right way toold it-and Flintroceeded to strike. The sledge came down; therill sprang out of etlock's hand, almost as a matter of course.

"You mangy son of a nigger, is that any way toold a drill? Pick itp! Stand it up! There-hold fast. D-you! I'll teach you!"

At the end of an hour the drilling was finished.

"Now, then, charge it."

The boy started to pour in the powder.

"Idiot!"



A heavy bat on the jaw laid the lad out.

"Get up! You can't lie sniveling there. Now, then,tick in the fuserst. Now put in the powder. Hold on, hold on! Are you

oing to fill theole all up? Of all the sap-headed milksops I-Put inome dirt! Put inome gravel! Tamp it down! Hold on, hold on! Oh,reat Scott! get out of he way!" He snatched the iron and tamped the

harge himself, meantimeursing and blaspheming like a fiend. Then he firedhe fuse, climbed outf the shaft, and ran fifty yards away, Fetlockollowing. They stood

waiting a few minutes, then a great volume of smokend rocks burst highnto the air with a thunderous explosion; after attle there was ahower of descending stones; then all was serenegain.

"I wish to God you'd been in it!" remarked themaster.

They went down the shaft, cleaned it out, drillednother hole, andut in another charge.



"Look here! How much fuse are you proposing towaste? Don't you knowow to time a fuse?"

"No, sir."

"You don't! Well, if you don't beat anything I everaw!"

He climbed out of the shaft and spoke down:

"Well, idiot, are you going to be all day? Cut the fusend light it!"

The trembling creature began,

"If you please, sir, I-"

"You talk back to me? Cut it and light it!"

The boy cut and lit.

"Ger-reat Scott! a one-minute fuse! I wish you weren-"

In his rage he snatched the ladder out of the shaftnd ran. The boy

was aghast.



"Oh, my God! Help! Help! Oh, save me!" hemplored. "Oh what can I do!

What can I do!"

He backed against the wall as tightly as he could;he sputtering fuserightened the voice out of him; his breath stood still;e stood gazingnd impotent; in two seconds, three seconds, foure would be flying

oward the sky torn to fragments. Then he had annspiration. He sprang athe fuse; severed the inch of it that was left aboveround, and wasaved.

He sank down limp and half lifeless with fright,is strength gone;ut he muttered with a deep joy:

"He has learnt me! I knew there was a way, if Iwould wait."

After a matter of five minutes Buckner stole tohe shaft, looking

worried and uneasy, and peered down into it. He tookn the situation; heaw what had happened. He lowered the ladder, and



he boy dragged himself weakly up it. He was very white. His appearancedded something to

Buckner's uncomfortable state, and he said, with ahow of regret and

ympathy which sat upon him awkwardly from lack ofractice:

"It was an accident, you know. Don't say anythingbout it to anybody;was excited, and didn't notice what I was doing.

You're not lookingwell; you've worked enough for to-day; go down tomy cabin and eat whatou want, and rest. It's just an accident, you know,n account of myeing excited."

"It scared me," said the lad, as he startedway; "but I learntomething, so I don't mind it."

"Dammed easy to please!" muttered Buckner,ollowing him with his eye.I wonder if he'll tell? Mightn't he?: I wish it had killedim."

The boy took no advantage of his holiday in thematter of resting; he



mployed it in work, eager and feverish and happywork. A thick growth of haparral extended down the mountain-side clear tolint's cabin; the mostf Fetlock's labor was done in the dark intricacies

f that stubbornrowth; the rest of it was done in his own shanty.At last all wasomplete, and he said:

"If he's got any suspicions that I'm going to tell

n him, he won'teep them long, to-morrow. He will see that I amhe same milksop as Ilways was-all day and the next. And the dayfter to-morrow nighthere'll be an end of him; nobody will ever guess whonished him up norow it was done. He dropped me the idea his own self,nd that's odd."

Chapter 5

The next day came and went.

It is now almost midnight, and in five minutes theew morning will



egin. The scene is in the tavern billiard-room.Rough men in roughlothing, slouch hats, breeches stuffed into boot-ops, some with vests,one with coats, are grouped about the boiler-iron

tove, which has ruddyheeks and is distributing a grateful warmth; theilliard balls arelacking; there is no other sound-that is, within; the

wind is fitfullymoaning without. The men look bored; also

xpectant. A hulkingroad-shouldered miner, of middle age, withrizzled whiskers, and annfriendly eye set in an unsociable face, rises, slips aoil of fuse uponis arm, gathers up some other personal properties,nd departs without

word or greeting to anybody. It is Flint Buckner.As the door closesehind him a buzz of talk breaks out.

"The regularest man that ever was," said Jakearker, the blacksmith:you can tell when it's twelve just by him leaving,

without looking atour Waterbury."

"And it's the only virtue he's got, as fur as I



now," said PeterHawes, miner.

"He's just a blight on this society," said Wells-argo's man,

erguson. "If I was running this shop I'd make himay something, someme or other, or vamos the ranch." This with auggestive glance at thearkeeper, who did not choose to see it, since the

man under discussion

was a good customer, and went home pretty well setp, every night, withefreshments furnished from the bar.

"Say," said Ham Sandwich, miner, "does any ofyou boys ever recollectf him asking you to take a drink?"

"Him? Flint Buckner? Oh, Laura!"

This sarcastic rejoinder came in a spontaneouseneral outburst in oneorm of words or another from the crowd. After a briefilence, Pat Riley,

miner, said:

"He's the 15-puzzle, that cuss. And his boy'snother one. I can't



make them out."

"Nor anybody else," said Ham Sandwich; "and ifhey are 15-puzzles,ow are you going to rank up that other one?

When it comes to A 1ghtdown solid mysteriousness, he lays over both ofhem. Easy-don't he?"

"You bet!"

Everybody said it. Every man but one. He washe new-comer-Peterson.He ordered the drinks all round, and asked whoNo. 3 might be. Allnswered at once, "Archy Stillman!"

"Is he a mystery?" asked Peterson.

"Is he a mystery? Is Archy Stillman a mystery?"aid Wells-Fargo's

man, Ferguson. "Why, the fourth dimension'soolishness to him."

For Ferguson was learned.

Peterson wanted to hear all about him; everybodywanted to tell him;verybody began. But Billy Stevens, the barkeeper,



alled the house torder, and said one at a time was best. Heistributed the drinks, andppointed Ferguson to lead. Ferguson said:

"Well, he's a boy. And that is just about all wenow about him. Youan pump him till you are tired; it ain't any use; you

won't get anything.At least about his intentions, or line of business, orwhere he's from,

nd such things as that. And as for getting at theature and get-up of is main big chief mystery, why, he'll just changehe subject, that'sll. You can guess till you're black in the face-it'sour privilege-butuppose you do, where do you arrive at? Nowhere,s near as I can makeut."

"What is his big chief one?"

"Sight, maybe. Hearing, maybe. Instinct, maybe.Magic, maybe. Takeour choice-grown-ups, twenty-five; children andervants, half price. Nowll tell you what he can do. You can start here, and

ust disappear; you





traight to that cabin and open every one of themooks at the right page,nd call it off, and never make a mistake."

"He must be the devil!"

"More than one has thought it. Now I'll tell you aerfectly wonderfulhing that he done. The other night he-"

There was a sudden great murmur of sounds

utside, the door flew open,nd an excited crowd burst in, with the camp's onewhite woman in the leadnd crying:

"My child! my child! she's lost and gone! For theove of God help meo find Archy Stillman; we've hunted everywhere!"

Said the barkeeper:

"Sit down, sit down, Mrs. Hogan, and don't worry.He asked for a bedhree hours ago, tuckered out tramping the trailshe way he's alwaysoing, and went upstairs. Ham Sandwich, run up andoust him out; he's in

No. 14."





arrow road, and stroderiskly along southward in the wake of the leaders. In

few minutes theHogan cabin was reached.

"There's the bunk," said Mrs. Hogan; "there'swhere she was; it'swhere I laid her at seven o'clock; but where she is now,God only knows."

"Hand me a lantern," said Archy. He set it on the

ard earth floor andnelt by it, pretending to examine the ground closely.Here's her track,"e said, touching the ground here and there andonder with his finger.Do you see?"

Several of the company dropped upon their kneesnd did their best toee. One or two thought they discerned something like

track; the othershook their heads and confessed that the smooth hardurface had no markspon it which their eyes were sharp enough toiscover. One said, "Maybe ahild's foot could make a mark on it, but I don't seeow."



Young Stillman stepped outside, held the light tohe ground, turnedeftward, and moved three steps, closely examining;hen said, "I've gothe direction-come along; take the lantern, somebody."

He strode off swiftly southward, the filesollowing, swaying andending in and out with the deep curves of the gorge.hus a mile, and the

mouth of the gorge was reached; before them

tretched the sage-brushlain, dim, vast, and vague. Stillman called a halt,aying, "We mustn'ttart wrong, now; we must take the direction again."

He took a lantern and examined the ground formatter of twenty

ards; then said, "Come on; it's all right," and gavep the lantern. Innd out among the sage-bushes he marched, auarter of a mile, bearingradually to the right; then took a new direction and

made another greatemicircle; then changed again and moved due westearly half a mile-andtopped.

"She gave it up, here, poor little chap. Hold the





"Oh, my God! oh, blessed Virgin! some flying beastas got her. I'llever see her again!"

"Ah, don't give up," said Archy. "We'll find her-don'tive up."

"God bless you for the words, Archy Stillman!" andhe seized his handnd kissed it fervently.

Peterson, the new-comer, whispered satirically inerguson's ear:

"Wonderful performance to find this place, wasn't? Hardly worth

while to come so far, though; any otherupposititious place would havenswered just as well-hey?"

Ferguson was not pleased with the innuendo. Heaid, with some warmth:

"Do you mean to insinuate that the child hasn'teen here? I tell youhe child has been here! Now if you want to getourself into as tidy attle fuss as-"



"All right!" sang out Stillman. "Come, everybody,nd look at this! It

was right under our noses all the time, and we didn'tee it."

There was a general plunge for the ground at thelace where the child

was alleged to have rested, and many eyes tried hardnd hopefully to seehe thing that Archy's finger was resting upon. There

was a pause, then aeveral-barreled sigh of disappointment. Pat Riley andHam Sandwich said,n the one breath:

"What is it, Archy? There's nothing here."

"Nothing? Do you call that nothing?" and hewiftly traced upon theround a form with his finger. "There-don't youecognize it now? It'snjun Billy's track. He's got the child."

"God be praised!" from the mother.

"Take away the lantern. I've got the direction.ollow!"



He started on a run, racing in and out among theage-bushes a matterf three hundred yards, and disappeared over aand-wave; the otherstruggled after him, caught him up, and found him

waiting. Ten steps awaywas a little wickieup, a dim and formless shelterf rags and oldorse-blankets, a dull light showing through its chinks.

"You lead, Mrs. Hogan," said the lad. "It's your

rivilege to be first."All followed the sprint she made for the wickieup,

nd saw, with her,he picture its interior afforded. Injun Billy was sittingn the ground;he child was asleep beside him. The mother hugged it

with a wild embrace,which included Archy Stillman, the grateful tearsunning down her face,nd in a choked and broken voice she poured out aolden stream of that

wealth of worshiping endearments which has itsome in full richnessowhere but in the Irish heart.

"I find her bymeby it is ten o'clock," Billyxplained. "She 'sleep



ut yonder, ve'y tired-face wet, been cryin', 'spose;etch her home, feeder, she heap much hungry-go 'sleep' gin."

In her limitless gratitude the happy mother waived

ank and hugged himoo, calling him "the angel of God in disguise." Ande probably was inisguise if he was that kind of an official. He wasressed for theharacter.

At half-past one in the morning the processionurst into the villageinging, "When Johnny Comes Marching Home,"

waving its lanterns, andwallowing the drinks that were brought out alllong its course. Itoncentrated at the tavern, and made a night of

what was left of themorning.

Chapter 6

The next afternoon the village was electrifiedwith an immenseensation. A grave and dignified foreigner of



istinguished bearing andppearance had arrived at the tavern, and enteredhis formidable namepon the register:

Sherlock Holmes

The news buzzed from cabin to cabin, from claimo claim; tools wereropped, and the town swarmed toward the centre ofnterest. A man passing

ut at the northern end of the village shouted it toat Riley, whoselaim was the next one to Flint Buckner's. At thatme Fetlock Joneseemed to turn sick. He muttered to himself:

"Uncle Sherlock! The mean luck of it!-that hehould come just when.:"

He dropped into a reverie, and presently said toimself: "But what's these of being afraid of him? Anybody that knows himhe way I do knows hean't detect a crime except where he plans it allut beforehand andrranges the clews and hires some fellow toommit it according tonstructions. :Now there ain't going to be any clewshis time-so, what



how has he got? None at all. No, sir; everything'seady. If I was tosk putting it off-:No, I won't run any risk like

hat. Flint Buckneroes out of this world to-night, for sure." Then

nother trouble presentedself. "Uncle Sherlock 'll be wanting to talk homematters with me thisvening, and how am I going to get rid of him? forve got to be at myabin a minute or two about eight o'clock." This was

n awkward matter,nd cost him much thought. But he found a way toeat the difficulty.We'll go for a walk, and I'll leave him in the road a

minute, so that hewon't see what it is I do: the best way to throw aetective off theack, anyway, is to have him along when you arereparing the thing. Yes,hat's the safest-I'll take him with me."

Meantime the road in front of the tavern waslocked with villagers

waiting and hoping for a glimpse of the great man.But he kept his room,nd did not appear. None but Ferguson, Jake Parkerhe blacksmith, and Hamandwich had any luck. These enthusiastic admirers of



he great scientificetective hired the tavern's detained-baggageockup, which looked intohe detective's room across a little alleyway ten orwelve feet wide,

mbushed themselves in it, and cut some peep-oles in the window-blind.Mr. Holmes's blinds were down; but by and by heaised them. It gave thepies a hair-lifting but pleasurable thrill to findhemselves face to

ace with the Extraordinary Man who had filled theworld with the fame of is more than human ingenuities. There he sat-not a

myth, not a shadow,ut real, alive, compact of substance, and almost

within touching distancewith the hand.

"Look at that head!" said Ferguson, in an awedoice. "By gracious!hat's a head!"

"You bet!" said the blacksmith, with deepeverence. "Look at hisose! look at his eyes! Intellect? Just a battery of it!"

"And that paleness," said Ham Sandwich.Comes from thought-that's



what it comes from. Hell! duffers like us don't knowwhat real thoughts."

"No more we don't," said Ferguson. "What we take

or thinking is justlubber-and-slush."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo. And look at thatrown-that's deephinking-away down, down, forty fathom into the

owels of things. He's onhe track of something."

"Well, he is, and don't you forget it. Say-lookt that awfulravity-look at that pallid solemnness-there ain't anyorpse can lay over."

"No, sir, not for dollars! And it's his'n byereditary rights, too;e's been dead four times a'ready, and there's historyor it. Three timesatural, once by accident. I've heard say he smellsamp and cold, like arave. And he-"

"'Sh! Watch him! There-he's got his thumb on









ess. Teeth?'

"'Five, your Honor, and one a-coming.'

"'Very good, very good, very good, indeed. 'You

ee, boys, he knows alew when he sees it, when it wouldn't mean a dernhing to anybody else.Stockings, madam? Shoes?'

"'Yes, your Honor-both.'

"'Yarn, perhaps? Morocco?'

"'Yarn, your Honor. And kip.'

"'Um-kip. This complicates the matter. However,et it go-we shall

manage. Religion?'

"'Catholic, your Honor.'

"'Very good. Snip me a bit from the bed blanket,lease. Ah, thanks.art wool-foreign make. Very well. A snip fromome garment of thehild's, please. Thanks. Cotton. Shows wear. Anxcellent clew, excellent.ass me a pellet of the floor dirt, if you'll be so



ind. Thanks, manyhanks. Ah, admirable, admirable! Now we know where

we are, I think.' Youee, boys, he's got all the clews he wants now; heon't need anything

more. Now, then, what does this Extraordinary Mano? He lays those snipsnd that dirt out on the table and leans over them onis elbows, and putshem together side by side and studies them-

mumbles to himself, 'Female';

hanges them around-mumbles, 'Six years old';hanges them this way andhat-again mumbles: 'Five teeth-one a-coming-

Catholic-yarn-cotton-kip-damnhat kip.' Then he straightens up and gazes towardeaven, and plows hisands through his hair-plows and plows, muttering,

Damn that kip!' Thene stands up and frowns, and begins to tally offis clews on hisngers-and gets stuck at the ring-finger. But only justminute-then his

ace glares all up in a smile like a house afire, ande straightens uptately and majestic, and says to the crowd, 'Take aantern, a couple of ou, and go down to Injun Billy's and fetch the child-he rest of you go



ong home to bed; good-night, madam; good-night,ents.' And he bows likehe Matterhorn, and pulls out for the tavern. That'sis style, and the

Only-scientific, intellectual-all over in fifteen minutes-

o poking aroundll over the sage-brush range an hour and a half in amass-meeting crowdor him, boys-you hear me!"

"By Jackson, it's grand!" said Ham Sandwich.

Wells-Fargo, you've gotim down to a dot. He ain't painted up any exactero the life in theooks. By George, I can just see him-can't you, boys?"

"You bet you! It's just a photograft, that's what it is."

Ferguson was profoundly pleased with his success,nd grateful. He satilently enjoying his happiness a little while, then he

murmured, with aeep awe in his voice,

"I wonder if God made him?"

There was no response for a moment; then Hamandwich said, reverently,



"Not all at one time, I reckon."

Chapter 7

At eight o'clock that evening two persons wereroping their way pastlint Buckner's cabin in the frosty gloom. They wereherlock Holmes andis nephew.

"Stop here in the road a moment, uncle," saidetlock, "while I run to

my cabin; I won't be gone a minute."

He asked for something-the uncle furnished it-hen he disappeared inhe darkness, but soon returned, and the talking-walk

was resumed. By nine'clock they had wandered back to the tavern.hey worked their way

hrough the billiard-room, where a crowd hadathered in the hope of etting a glimpse of the Extraordinary Man. A royalheer was raised. Mr.

Holmes acknowledged the compliment with a series ofourtly bows, and ase was passing out his nephew said to the assemblage,



"Uncle Sherlock's got some work to do,entlemen, that 'll keep himll twelve or one; but he'll be down again then, orarlier if he can,

nd hopes some of you'll be left to take a drink withim."

"By George, he's just a duke, boys! Three cheersor Sherlock Holmes,he greatest man that ever lived!" shouted Ferguson.

Hip, hip hip-""Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Tiger!"

The uproar shook the building, so hearty was theeeling the boys putnto their welcome. Upstairs the uncle reproachedhe nephew gently,aying,

"What did you get me into the engagement for?"

"I reckon you don't want to be unpopular, do you,ncle? Well, then,on't you put on any exclusiveness in a mining-camp,hat's all. The boysdmire you; but if you was to leave without taking

drink with them,



hey'd set you down for a snob. And besides, youaid you had home talknough in stock to keep us up and at it half the night."

The boy was right, and wise-the uncle

cknowledged it. The boy waswise in another detail which he did not mention,-xcept to himself: "Unclend the others will come handy-in the way of nailingn alibi where itan't be budged."

He and his uncle talked diligently about threeours. Then, about

midnight, Fetlock stepped downstairs and took aosition in the dark aozen steps from the tavern, and waited. Five

minutes later Flint Bucknerame rocking out of the billiard-room and almostrushed him as he passed.

"I've got him!" muttered the boy. He continuedo himself, lookingfter the shadowy form:

"Good-by-good-by for good, Flint Buckner; youalled my mother a-well,ever mind what: it's all right, now; you're takingour last walk,



riend."

He went musing back into the tavern. "From nowll one is an hour.

We'll spend it with the boys: it's good for the alibi."

He brought Sherlock Holmes to the billiard-room,which was jammed withager and admiring miners; the guest called the drinks,nd the fun began.verybody was happy; everybody was complimentary;

he ice was soon broken,ongs, anecdotes, and more drinks followed, and theregnant minutes flew.

At six minutes to one, when the jollity was at its highest-

Boom!

There was silence instantly. The deep sound cameolling and rumblingrom peak to peak up the gorge, then died down,nd ceased. The spellroke, then, and the men made a rush for the door,aying,

"Something's blown up!"

Outside, a voice in the darkness said,



"It's away down the gorge; I saw the flash."

The crowd poured down the canyon-Holmes,etlock, Archy Stillman,verybody. They made the mile in a few minutes. By

he light of a lanternhey found the smooth and solid dirt floor of FlintBuckner's cabin; of he cabin itself not a vestige remained, not a rag nor aplinter. Nor anyign of Flint. Search parties sought here and there

nd yonder, andresently a cry went up.

"Here he is!"

It was true. Fifty yards down the gulch they hadound him-that is,hey had found a crushed and lifeless mass whichepresented him. Fetlockones hurried thither with the others and looked.

The inquest was a fifteen-minute affair. Hamandwich, foreman of the

ury, handed up the verdict, which was phrased withcertain unstudied

terary grace, and closed with this finding, to wit:hat "deceased cameo his death by his own act or some other person or





he distance fromhe cabin site to the corpse, and correctedhat for tidalifferentiation. He took the altitude with a pocket-neroid, and the

emperature with a pocket-thermometer. Finally heaid, with a statelyow:

"It is finished. Shall we return, gentlemen?"

He took up the line of march for the tavern, andhe crowd fell intois wake, earnestly discussing and admiring thextraordinary Man, and

nterlarding guesses as to the origin of the tragedy andwho the author of

might be.

"My, but it's grand luck having him here-hey, boys?"aid Ferguson.

"It's the biggest thing of the century," said Hamandwich. "It 'll goll over the world; you mark my words."

"You bet!" said Jake Parker the blacksmith. "It 'lloom this camp.

Ain't it so, Wells-Fargo?"



"Well, as you want my opinion-if it's any sign ofow I think about, I can tell you this: yesterday I was holding thetraight Flush claim

t two dollars a foot; I'd like to see the man that canet it at sixteeno-day."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo! It's the grandest lucknew camp ever

truck. Say, did you see him collar them little ragsnd dirt and things?What an eye! He just can't overlook a clew-'tain't inim."

"That's so. And they wouldn't mean a thing tonybody else; but toim, why, they're just a book-large print at that."

"Sure's you're born! Them odds and ends haveot their little oldecret, and they think there ain't anybody can pull it;ut, land! when heets his grip there they've got to squeal, and don't youorget it."

"Boys, I ain't sorry, now, that he wasn't here tooust out the child;



his is a bigger thing, by a long sight. Yes, sir, andmore tangled up andcientific and intellectual."

"I reckon we're all of us glad it's turned out

his way. Glad?George! it ain't any name for it. Dontchuknow,Archy could 've learntomething if he'd had the nous to stand by and takeotice of how that man

works the system. But no; he went poking up into

he chaparral and justmissed the whole thing."

"It's true as gospel; I seen it myself. Well,Archy's young. He'llnow better one of these days."

"Say, boys, who do you reckon done it?"

That was a difficult question, and brought out aworld of unsatisfyingonjecture. Various men were mentioned asossibilities, but one by onehey were discarded as not being eligible. No oneut young Hillyer hadeen intimate with Flint Buckner; no one had reallyad a quarrel withim; he had affronted every man who had tried to



make up to him, althoughot quite offensively enough to require bloodshed.here was one name that

was upon every tongue from the start, but it washe last to get

tterance-Fetlock Jones's. It was Pat Riley thatmentioned it.

"Oh, well," the boys said, "of course we've allhought of him,ecause he had a million rights to kill Flint Buckner,

nd it was just hislain duty to do it. But all the same there's twohings we can't getround: for one thing, he hasn't got the sand; and fornother, he wasn'tnywhere near the place when it happened."

"I know it," said Pat. "He was there in the billiard-oom with us whenhappened."

"Yes, and was there all the time for an hour before itappened."

"It's so. And lucky for him, too. He'd have beenuspected in a minutef it hadn't been for that."



Chapter 7

At eight o'clock that evening two persons were

roping their way pastlint Buckner's cabin in the frosty gloom. They wereherlock Holmes andis nephew.

"Stop here in the road a moment, uncle," said

etlock, "while I run tomy cabin; I won't be gone a minute."

He asked for something-the uncle furnished it-hen he disappeared inhe darkness, but soon returned, and the talking-walk

was resumed. By nine'clock they had wandered back to the tavern.hey worked their way

hrough the billiard-room, where a crowd hadathered in the hope of etting a glimpse of the Extraordinary Man. A royalheer was raised. Mr.

Holmes acknowledged the compliment with a series ofourtly bows, and ase was passing out his nephew said to the assemblage,

"Uncle Sherlock's got some work to do,



entlemen, that 'll keep himll twelve or one; but he'll be down again then, orarlier if he can,nd hopes some of you'll be left to take a drink withim."

"By George, he's just a duke, boys! Three cheersor Sherlock Holmes,he greatest man that ever lived!" shouted Ferguson.Hip, hip hip-"

"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Tiger!"The uproar shook the building, so hearty was the

eeling the boys putnto their welcome. Upstairs the uncle reproachedhe nephew gently,aying,

"What did you get me into the engagement for?"

"I reckon you don't want to be unpopular, do you,ncle? Well, then,on't you put on any exclusiveness in a mining-camp,hat's all. The boysdmire you; but if you was to leave without taking

drink with them,hey'd set you down for a snob. And besides, youaid you had home talk



nough in stock to keep us up and at it half the night."

The boy was right, and wise-the unclecknowledged it. The boy was

wise in another detail which he did not mention,-

xcept to himself: "Unclend the others will come handy-in the way of nailingn alibi where itan't be budged."

He and his uncle talked diligently about three

ours. Then, aboutmidnight, Fetlock stepped downstairs and took aosition in the dark aozen steps from the tavern, and waited. Five

minutes later Flint Bucknerame rocking out of the billiard-room and almostrushed him as he passed.

"I've got him!" muttered the boy. He continuedo himself, lookingfter the shadowy form:

"Good-by-good-by for good, Flint Buckner; youalled my mother a-well,ever mind what: it's all right, now; you're takingour last walk,riend."





The crowd poured down the canyon-Holmes,etlock, Archy Stillman,verybody. They made the mile in a few minutes. Byhe light of a lanternhey found the smooth and solid dirt floor of Flint

Buckner's cabin; of he cabin itself not a vestige remained, not a rag nor aplinter. Nor anyign of Flint. Search parties sought here and therend yonder, andresently a cry went up.

"Here he is!"

It was true. Fifty yards down the gulch they hadound him-that is,hey had found a crushed and lifeless mass whichepresented him. Fetlockones hurried thither with the others and looked.

The inquest was a fifteen-minute affair. Hamandwich, foreman of the

ury, handed up the verdict, which was phrased withcertain unstudied

terary grace, and closed with this finding, to wit:hat "deceased cameo his death by his own act or some other person orersons unknown tohis jury not leaving any family or similar effects



ehind but his cabinwhich was blown away and God have mercy on his soulmen."

Then the impatient jury rejoined the main crowd,

or the storm-centref interest was there-Sherlock Holmes. The minerstood silent andeverent in a half-circle, enclosing a large vacantpace which includedhe front exposure of the site of the late premises. In

his considerablepace the Extraordinary Man was moving about,ttended by his nephew withlantern. With a tape he took measurements of the

abin site; of theistance from the wall of chaparral to the road; ofhe height of thehaparral bushes; also various other measurements.

He gathered a rag here,splinter there, and a pinch of earth yonder,

nspected them profoundly,nd preserved them. He took the "lay" of the place

with a pocket compass,llowing two seconds for magnetic variation. He tookhe time (Pacific) byis watch, correcting it for local time. He paced offhe distance fromhe cabin site to the corpse, and corrected



hat for tidalifferentiation. He took the altitude with a pocket-neroid, and theemperature with a pocket-thermometer. Finally heaid, with a stately

ow:

"It is finished. Shall we return, gentlemen?"

He took up the line of march for the tavern, andhe crowd fell into

is wake, earnestly discussing and admiring thextraordinary Man, andnterlarding guesses as to the origin of the tragedy and

who the author of might be.

"My, but it's grand luck having him here-hey, boys?"aid Ferguson.

"It's the biggest thing of the century," said Hamandwich. "It 'll goll over the world; you mark my words."

"You bet!" said Jake Parker the blacksmith. "It 'lloom this camp.

Ain't it so, Wells-Fargo?"

"Well, as you want my opinion-if it's any sign of



ow I think about, I can tell you this: yesterday I was holding thetraight Flush claimt two dollars a foot; I'd like to see the man that canet it at sixteen

o-day."

"Right you are, Wells-Fargo! It's the grandest lucknew camp ever

truck. Say, did you see him collar them little ragsnd dirt and things?

What an eye! He just can't overlook a clew-'tain't inim."

"That's so. And they wouldn't mean a thing tonybody else; but toim, why, they're just a book-large print at that."

"Sure's you're born! Them odds and ends haveot their little oldecret, and they think there ain't anybody can pull it;ut, land! when heets his grip there they've got to squeal, and don't youorget it."

"Boys, I ain't sorry, now, that he wasn't here tooust out the child;his is a bigger thing, by a long sight. Yes, sir, and

more tangled up and



cientific and intellectual."

"I reckon we're all of us glad it's turned outhis way. Glad?George! it ain't any name for it. Dontchuknow,

Archy could 've learntomething if he'd had the nous to stand by and takeotice of how that man

works the system. But no; he went poking up intohe chaparral and just

missed the whole thing."

"It's true as gospel; I seen it myself. Well,Archy's young. He'llnow better one of these days."

"Say, boys, who do you reckon done it?"

That was a difficult question, and brought out aworld of unsatisfyingonjecture. Various men were mentioned asossibilities, but one by onehey were discarded as not being eligible. No oneut young Hillyer hadeen intimate with Flint Buckner; no one had reallyad a quarrel withim; he had affronted every man who had tried to

make up to him, althoughot quite offensively enough to require bloodshed.



here was one name thatwas upon every tongue from the start, but it washe last to gettterance-Fetlock Jones's. It was Pat Riley that

mentioned it.

"Oh, well," the boys said, "of course we've allhought of him,ecause he had a million rights to kill Flint Buckner,nd it was just hislain duty to do it. But all the same there's two

hings we can't getround: for one thing, he hasn't got the sand; and fornother, he wasn'tnywhere near the place when it happened."

"I know it," said Pat. "He was there in the billiard-oom with us whenhappened."

"Yes, and was there all the time for an hour before itappened."

"It's so. And lucky for him, too. He'd have beenuspected in a minutef it hadn't been for that."



Chapter 9

From a letter to Mrs. Stillman, dated merelyTuesday."

Fetlock Jones was put under lock and key in annoccupied log cabin,nd left there to await his trial. Constable Harrisrovided him with aouple of days' rations, instructed him to keep a good

uard over himself,nd promised to look in on him as soon as furtherupplies should be due.

Next morning a score of us went with Hillyer, outf friendship, andelped him bury his late relative, the unlamented

Buckner, and I acted asrst assistant pall-bearer, Hillyer acting as chief.ust as we hadnished our labors a ragged and melancholytranger, carrying an oldand-bag, limped by with his head down, and Iaught the scent I hadhased around the globe! It was the odor of Paradise to

my perishing hope!

In a moment I was at his side and had laid a





outh side of their hearts; yes, and just like somany reckless andnreasoning children when you wake up the oppositeide of that muscle.hey did everything they could think of to comfort

im, but nothingucceeded until Wells-Fargo Ferguson, who is a clevertrategist, said,

"If it's only Sherlock Holmes that's troubling you,ou needn't worry

ny more.""Why?" asked the forlorn lunatic, eagerly.

"Because he's dead again."

"Dead! Dead! Oh, don't trifle with a poor wreck likeme. Is he dead?On honor, now-is he telling me true, boys?"

"True as you're standing there!" said Hamandwich, and they allacked up the statement in a body.

"They hung him in San Bernardino last week,"dded Ferguson, clinchinghe matter, "whilst he was searching around afterou. Mistook him for



nother man. They're sorry, but they can't help it now."

"They're a-building him a monument," said Hamandwich, with the airf a person who had contributed to it, and knew.

"James Walker" drew a deep sigh-evidently a sighf relief-and saidothing; but his eyes lost something of their

wildness, his countenanceleared visibly, and its drawn look relaxed a little. We

ll went to ourabin, and the boys cooked him the best dinner theamp could furnish the

materials for, and while they were about it Hillyernd I outfitted himrom hat to shoe-leather with new clothes of ours,nd made a comely andresentable old gentleman of him. "Old" is the right

word, and a pity,oo: old by the droop of him, and the frost upon hisair, and the marks

which sorrow and distress have left upon his face;hough he is only inis prime in the matter of years. While he ate, wemoked and chatted; and

when he was finishing he found his voice at last, andf his own accordroke out with his personal history. I cannot furnish



is exact words, butwill come as near it as I can.

The "Wrong Man's" Story

It happened like this: I was in Denver. I had beenhere many years;ometimes I remember how many, sometimes I don't-ut it isn't any matter.

All of a sudden I got a notice to leave, or I woulde exposed for a

orrible crime committed long before-years and yearsefore-in the East.

I knew about that crime, but I was not theriminal; it was a cousinf mine of the same name. What should I bettero? My head was allisordered by fear, and I didn't know. I was allowedery little time-onlyne day, I think it was. I would be ruined if I wasublished, and theeople would lynch me, and not believe what I said. is always the way

with lynchings: when they find out it is a mistake theyre sorry, but its too late,-the same as it was with Mr. Holmes, youee. So I said I

would sell out and get money to live on, and run



way until it blew overnd I could come back with my proofs. Then I escapedn the night and wentlong way off in the mountains somewhere, and livedisguised and had a

alse name.

I got more and more troubled and worried, and myoubles made me seepirits and hear voices, and I could not think straightnd clear on any

ubject, but got confused and involved and had toive it up, because myeard hurt so. It got to be worse and worse; morepirits and more voices.hey were about me all the time; at first only in theight, then in theay too. They were always whispering around myed and plotting against

me, and it broke my sleep and kept me fagged out,ecause I got no goodest.

And then came the worst. One night thewhispers said, "We'll nevermanage, because we can't see him, and so can'toint him out to theeople."



They sighed; then one said: "We must bringherlock Holmes. He can beere in twelve days."

They all agreed, and whispered and jibbered with

oy. But my heartroke; for I had read about that man, and knew whatwould be to have

im upon my track, with his superhuman penetrationnd tireless energies.

The spirits went away to fetch him, and I got up atnce in the middlef the night and fled away, carrying nothing but theand-bag that had my

money in it-thirty thousand dollars; two-thirds of it aren the bag thereet. It was forty days before that man caught upn my track. I justscaped. From habit he had written his real name on aavern register, butad scratched it out and written "Dagget Barclay" inhe place of it. Butear gives you a watchful eye and keen, and I readhe true name throughhe scratches, and fled like a deer.

He has hunted me all over this world for threeears and a half-the



acific States, Australasia, India-everywhere you canhink of; then backo Mexico and up to California again, giving me hardlyny rest; but thatame on the registers always saved me, and what is

eft of me is aliveet. And I am so tired! A cruel time he has given me.et I give you myonor I have never harmed him nor any man.

That was the end of the story, and it stirred

hose boys tolood-heat, be sure of it. As for me-each word burnt aole in me where ittruck.

We voted that the old man should bunk with us,nd be my guest and

Hillyer's. I shall keep my own counsel, naturally; buts soon as he is

well rested and nourished, I shall take him to Denvernd rehabilitate hisortunes.

The boys gave the old fellow the bone-mashing good-fellowshipandshake of the mines, and then scattered away topread the news.



At dawn next morning Wells-Fargo Ferguson andHam Sandwich called usoftly out, and said, privately:

"That news about the way that old stranger has

een treated has spreadll around, and the camps are up. They are piling inrom everywhere, andre going to lynch the P'fessor. Constable Harris is in

dead funk, andas telephoned the sheriff. Come along!"

We started on a run. The others were privileged toeel as they chose,ut in my heart's privacy I hoped the sheriff wouldrrive in time; for Iad small desire that Sherlock Holmes should hang for

my deeds, as you canasily believe. I had heard a good deal about theheriff, but foreassurance's sake I asked,

"Can he stop a mob?"

"Can he stop a mob! Can Jack Fairfax stop a mob!Well, I should smile!

x-desperado-nineteen scalps on his string. Can he Oh,say!"



As we tore up the gulch, distant cries andhouts and yells roseaintly on the still air, and grew steadily in strength as

we raced along.Roar after roar burst out, stronger and stronger,

earer and nearer; andt last, when we closed up upon the multitude massedn the open area inront of the tavern, the crash of sound was deafening.ome brutal roughsrom Daly's gorge had Holmes in their grip, and he

was the calmest manhere; a contemptuous smile played about his lips,nd if any fear of eath was in his British heart, his iron personality was

master of it ando sign of it was allowed to appear.

"Come to a vote, men!" This from one of theDaly gang, ShadbellyHiggins. "Quick! is it hang, or shoot?"

"Neither!" shouted one of his comrades. "He'd belive again in a

week; burning's the only permanency for him."

The gangs from all the outlying camps burst out inthunder-crash of

pproval, and went struggling and surging toward the



risoner, and closedround him, shouting, "Fire! fire's the ticket!" Theyragged him to theorse-post, backed him against it, chained him to it,nd piled wood and

ine cones around him waist-deep. Still the strongace did not blench,nd still the scornful smile played about the thin lips.

"A match! fetch a match!"

Shadbelly struck it, shaded it with his hand,tooped, and held itnder a pine cone. A deep silence fell upon the mob.he cone caught, any flame flickered about it a moment or two. Ieemed to catch the soundf distant hoofs-it grew more distinct-still more and

more distinct, morend more definite, but the absorbed crowd did notppear to notice it. The

match went out. The man struck another, stooped, andgain the flame rose;his time it took hold and began to spread-here andhere men turned awayheir faces. The executioner stood with the charred

match in his fingers,watching his work. The hoof-beats turned a projectingrag, and now they



ame thundering down upon us. Almost the nextmoment there was a shout-

"The sheriff!"

And straightway he came tearing into the midst,tood his horse almostn his hind feet, and said,

"Fall back, you gutter-snipes!"

He was obeyed. By all but their leader. He stoodis ground, and hisand went to his revolver. The sheriff covered himromptly, and said:

"Drop your hand, you parlor-desperado. Kick there away. Now unchain

he stranger."

The parlor-desperado obeyed. Then the sheriffmade a speech; sittingis horse at martial ease, and not warming his

words with any touch of re, but delivering them in a measured and deliberate

way, and in a tonewhich harmonized with their character andmade them impressivelyisrespectful.



"You're a nice lot-now ain't you? Just aboutligible to travel withhis bilk here-Shadbelly Higgins-this loud-mouthedneak that shoots

eople in the back and calls himself a desperado. Ifhere's anything I doarticularly despise, it's a lynching mob; I've nevereen one that had a

man in it. It has to tally up a hundred against oneefore it can pump up

luck enough to tackle a sick tailor. It's made up ofowards, and so ishe community that breeds it; and ninety-nine timesut of a hundred theheriff's another one." He paused-apparently to turnhat last idea overn his mind and taste the juice of it-then he went on:The sheriff thatets a mob take a prisoner away from him is theowest-down coward theres. By the statistics there was a hundred and eighty-wo of them drawingneak pay in America last year. By the way it'soing, pretty soonhere'll be a new disease in the doctor books-heriff complaint." Thatdea pleased him-any one could see it. "People willay, 'Sheriff sick



gain?' 'Yes; got the same old thing.' And next there'lle a new title.eople won't say, 'He's running for sheriff of

Rapaho County,' fornstance; they'll say, 'He's running for Coward of

Rapaho.' Lord, the ideaf a grown-up person being afraid of a lynch mob!"

He turned an eye on the captive, and said,Stranger, who are you, and

what have you been doing?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I have not beenoing anything."

It was wonderful, the impression which the soundf that name made onhe sheriff, notwithstanding he must have comeosted. He spoke up witheeling, and said it was a blot on the country that a

man whose marvelousxploits had filled the world with their fame andheir ingenuity, and

whose histories of them had won every reader's hearty the brilliancy andharm of their literary setting, should be visitednder the Stars andtripes by an outrage like this. He apologized in theame of the whole



ation, and made Holmes a most handsome bow, andold Constable Harris toee him to his quarters, and hold himself personallyesponsible if he was

molested again. The he turned to the mob and said:

"Hunt your holes, you scum!" which they did; thene said: "Follow me,hadbelly; I'll take care of your case myself. No-eep your pop-gun;

whenever I see the day that I'll be afraid to have you

ehind me with thathing, it'll be time for me to join last year's hundrednd eighty-two;"nd he rode off in a walk, Shadbelly following.

When we were on our way back to our cabin,oward breakfast-time, wean upon the news that Fetlock Jones had escapedrom his lock-up in theight and is gone! Nobody is sorry. Let his uncleack him out if hekes; it is in his line; the camp is not interested.

Chapter 10

Ten days later.



"James Walker" is all right in body now, andis mind showsmprovement too. I start with him for Denver to-

morrow morning.

Next night. Brief note, mailed at a way station.

As we were starting, this morning, Hillyer whisperedo me: "Keep thisews from Walker until you think it safe and not

kely to disturb hismind and check his improvement: the ancient crimee spoke of was reallyommitted-and by his cousin, as he said. We buriedhe real criminal thether day-the unhappiest man that has lived in aentury-Flint Buckner.

His real name was Jacob Fuller!" There, mother,y help of me, an

Documents

A Double Barrelled Detective Story by Martin Twain