him upon my track, with his superhuman penetration and tireless energies.
The spirits went away to fetch him, and I got up at once in the middle of
the night and fled away, carrying nothing but the hand-bag that had my
money in it–thirty thousand dollars; two-thirds of it are in the bag
there yet. It was forty days before that man caught up on my track.
I just escaped. From habit he had written his real name on a tavern
register, but had scratched it out and written “Dagget Barclay” in the
place of it. But fear gives you a watchful eye and keen, and I read the
true name through the scratches, and fled like a deer.
He has hunted me all over this world for three years and a half–the
Pacific states, Australasia, India–everywhere you can think of; then
back to Mexico and up to California again, giving me hardly any rest; but
that name on the registers always saved me, and what is left of me is
alive yet. And I am so tired! A cruel time he has given me, yet I give
you my honor I have never harmed him nor any man.
That was the end of the story, and it stirred those boys to blood-heat,
he sure of it. As for me–each word burnt a hole in me where it struck.
We voted that the old man should bunk with us, and be my guest and
Hillyer’s. I shall keep my own counsel, naturally; but as soon as he is
well rested and nourished, I shall take him to Denver and rehabilitate
his fortunes.
The boys gave the old fellow the bone-smashing good-fellowship handshake
of the mines, and then scattered away to spread the news.
At dawn next morning Wells-Fargo Ferguson and Ham Sandwich called us
softly out, and said, privately:
“That news about the way that old stranger has been treated has spread
all around, and the camps are up. They are piling in from everywhere,
and are going to lynch the P’fessor. Constable Harris is in a dead funk,
and has telephoned the sheriff. Come along!”
We started on a run. The others were privileged to feel as they chose,
but in my heart’s privacy I hoped the sheriff would arrive in time; for I
had small desire that Sherlock Holmes should hang for my deeds, as you
can easily believe. I had heard a good deal about the sheriff, but for
reassurance’s sake I asked:
“Can he stop a mob?”
“Can he stop a mob! Can Jack Fairfax stop a mob! Well, I should smile!
Ex-desperado–nineteen scalps on his string. Can he! Oh, I say!”
As we tore up the gulch, distant cries and shouts and yells rose faintly
on the still air, and grew steadily in strength as we raced along. Roar
after roar burst out, stronger and stronger, nearer and nearer; and at
last, when we closed up upon the multitude massed in the open area in
front of the tavern, the crash of sound was deafening. Some brutal
roughs from Daly’s gorge had Holmes in their grip, and he was the calmest
man there; a contemptuous smile played about his lips, and if any fear of
death was in his British heart, his iron personality was master of it and
no sign of it was allowed to appear.
“Come to a vote, men!” This from one of the Daly gang, Shadbelly Higgins.
“Quick! is it hang, or shoot?”
“Neither!” shouted one of his comrades. “He’ll be alive again in a week;
burning’s the only permanency for him.”
The gangs from all the outlying camps burst out in a thundercrash of
approval, and went struggling and surging toward the prisoner, and closed
around him, shouting, “Fire! fire’s the ticket!” They dragged him to the
horse-post, backed him against it, chained him to it, and piled wood and
pine cones around him waist-deep. Still the strong face did not blench,
and still the scornful smile played about the thin lips.
“A match! fetch a match!”
Shadbelly struck it, shaded it with his hand, stooped, and held it under
a pine cone. A deep silence fell upon the mob. The cone caught, a tiny