unreasoning children when you wake up the opposite of that muscle. They
did everything they could think of to comfort him, but nothing succeeded
until Wells-Fargo Ferguson, who is a clever strategist, said:
“If it’s only Sherlock Holmes that’s troubling you, you needn’t worry any
more.”
“Why?” asked the forlorn lunatic, eagerly.
“Because he’s dead again.”
“Dead! Dead! Oh, don’t trifle with a poor wreck like me. Is he dead?
On honor, now–is he telling me true, boys?”
“True as you’re standing there!” said Ham Sandwich, and they all backed
up the statement in a body.
“They hung him in San Bernardino last week,” added Ferguson, clinching
the matter, “whilst he was searching around after you. Mistook him for
another man. They’re sorry, but they can’t help it now.”
“They’re a-building him a monument,” said Ham Sandwich, with the air of a
person who had contributed to it, and knew.
“James Walker” drew a deep sigh–evidently a sigh of relief–and said
nothing; but his eyes lost something of their wildness, his countenance
cleared visibly, and its drawn look relaxed a little. We all went to our
cabin, and the boys cooked him the best dinner the camp could furnish the
materials for, and while they were about it Hillyer and I outfitted him
from hat to shoe-leather with new clothes of ours, and made a comely and
presentable old gentleman of him. “Old” is the right word, and a pity,
too: old by the droop of him, and the frost upon his hair, and the marks
which sorrow and distress have left upon his face; though he is only in
his prime in the matter of years. While he ate, we smoked and chatted;
and when he was finishing he found his voice at last, and of his own
accord broke out with his personal history. I cannot furnish his exact
words, but I will come as near it as I can.
THE “WRONG MAN’S” STORY
It happened like this: I was in Denver. I had been there many years;
sometimes I remember how many, sometimes I don’t–but it isn’t any
matter. All of a sudden I got a notice to leave, or I would be exposed
for a horrible crime committed long before–years and years before–in
the East.
I knew about that crime, but I was not the criminal; it was a cousin of
mine of the same name. What should I better do? My head was all
disordered by fear, and I didn’t know. I was allowed very little time–
only one day, I think it was. I would be ruined if I was published, and
the people would lynch me, and not believe what I said. It is always the
way with lynchings: when they find out it is a mistake they are sorry,
but it is too late–the same as it was with Mr. Holmes, you see. So I
said I would sell out and get money to live on, and run away until it
blew over and I could come back with my proofs. Then I escaped in the
night and went a long way off in the mountains somewhere, and lived
disguised and had a false name.
I got more and more troubled and worried, and my troubles made me see
spirits and hear voices, and I could not think straight and clear on any
subject, but got confused and involved and had to give it up, because my
head hurt so. It got to be worse and worse; more spirits and more
voices. They were about me all the time; at first only in the night,
then in the day too. They were always whispering around my bed and
plotting against me, and it broke my sleep and kept me fagged out,
because I got no good rest.
And then came the worst. One night the whispers said, “We’ll never
manage, because we can’t see him, and so can’t point him out to the
people.”
They sighed; then one said: “We must bring Sherlock Holmes. He can be
here in twelve days.”
They all agreed, and whispered and jibbered with joy. But my heart
broke; for I had read about that man, and knew what it would be to have