In California Opportunity knocked at every gate--not once but many times. It returned again and again, most persistently, and intruded alike on men awake and feasting, or asleep and dreaming. John Keeler had hardly spent an hour in Downieville before he had met a Golden Opportunity. On approaching the town he had passed several short tunnels dug into the hillside, and at the court-house he met the owners of one of these tunnels. Smith came from Ohio,--he had for many years been a teacher, and was a member of the Grand Army of the Republic. His partner, whom he introduced as a Confederate veteran, was a Virginian. As partners, the blue and the gray were almost irresistible. Three hundred dollars invested in their shaft would mean a rich strike.
But other Opportunities had left Keeler rich in experience and short of cash. He could not use Robert Palmer's money as his own; so he could only smile, rather sadly, and wish his new friends success. How many of his acquaintances had invested good money in a hole in the ground! Even the most prudent, in some unguarded moment, had parted with thousands of dollars, like the dog in the fable which dropped the real bone to seize the shadow. There was Mack, proprietor of the hotel at Graniteville, making lots of money at his business and losing it all in mining ventures. Only the other day Mack had remarked that if his savings had been allowed to accumulate in some good bank he would now be worth some fifty thousand dollars. As it was, he was as poor as his humblest guest. Even Dr. Mason, canny Scot though he was, could not forget the sight of ninety thousand dollars' worth of gold bullion he had once seen piled up at North Bloomfield, and so was persuaded to gamble with his earnings. He had lost as much as Mack. How rosy is the rainbow, and how evanescent the pot of gold at the end of it! California had swallowed up more wealth than its gold could ever repay, as Keeler well knew. It was only occasionally that some lucky devil, or some prudent, saving man like Robert Palmer, after thirty years in the gold fields, had anything to show for it.
So Keeler, pondering the deceitfulness of riches, sadly made his way back across the mountains. Even then Fate was weaving her web about his old friend Palmer, who was soon to lie in a pauper's grave. Francis seized a Golden Opportunity.
Francis had so far prospered that he had moved to San Francisco. In the city he could watch the stock market, as he told himself privately. To his friends he announced that failing health demanded the change, albeit the exhilarating air of the Sierras was far more beneficial than the dampness of the sea coast. But Francis, inheriting ten thousand dollars from one of his deceased brothers, had moved to San Francisco, taking with him sundry hundreds and thousands of dollars, entrusted to him by his Pennsylvania friends for investment. Everybody had faith in the integrity of Henry Francis.
The next summer, when the blue-bells were in blossom at Grass Valley, he passed through that prosperous mining town on the narrow gauge bound for Nevada City and Moore's Flat. This was the summer of 1881, nearly two years after the murder of Cummins. A still, small voice accused him of something akin to highway robbery; and it gave his conscience a twinge to pass the well-known stump which had concealed the robbers. It was bad enough that the robbers were still at large, a fact that reflected upon him. "Bed-bug Brown's" mission had proved a fiasco. But the thing that really worried Francis was his own mission and not the fruitless one of Brown's. If his own proved fruitless his conscience might be better satisfied.
But business is business, and the day was fine. Francis was a gentleman and something of a scholar. His face showed refinement, and his hands were as soft as a gambler's. He was fairly well read, and he could have told you, when the stage crossed the South Yuba, that "Uvas" is Spanish for "grapes," and that the name "Yuba" is a curious English abbreviation of "Rio Las Uvas."
When next day he crossed the foot-bridge over the Middle Yuba, where it tears along in its deep, wild cañon below Moore's Flat, he was less interested in Spanish or in the grandeur of the scenery than he was in reaching Robert Palmer's. He had not hired a horse at Moore's Flat, as the livery man might be curious; so he had sauntered along through the village, greeting old friends and chatting with them now and then until considerable time had been consumed, but he knew that the old man would put him up for the night.
It was late in the afternoon before he reached the top of Fillmore Hill. Old man Palmer, much broken in health, as Francis remarked with a degree of inward exultation immediately reproved by his conscience, greeted him affectionately.
"Well, Henry, I almost thought you had forgotten me. But, of course, I knew better."
"You must remember, Mr. Palmer, that it is quite a ways up here from the city. The narrow gauge from Colfax is little better than a stage coach. It means a trip of fifty miles into the mountains to get here."
"Well, I'm mighty glad you've come. As soon as you've rested a bit, I want to talk business."
Francis argued with his conscience that the old man had invited him. How could he have refused to answer the summons? Palmer ushered him into the house, where, seated comfortably in the kitchen and welcomed by dog and cat, he partook of the old man's hospitality. Palmer was evidently much wrought up; and, as soon as his guest had rested a little, proceeded to business.
"You got my letter?"
"Yes, Mr. Palmer."
"Hintzen has informed you that I've named you as one of my executors?"
"Yes."
"And you will be willing to act, I hope?"
"Well, Mr. Palmer, I hope that won't be necessary for many years to come."
"The Lord only knows how long I have to live. It was rather hard for me here last winter. But I guess the mountain air was good for me. However, I'm going to spend next winter at Sherwood's. The Woolsey boys say they'll take good care of me; and I'm going to deed them my claim."
"Better come to San Francisco. I saw a friend of yours down there the other day, a Mrs. Somers, who always inquires about you."
"And how is she getting along these days, Francis?"
"She appears to be well. Says hard work agrees with her."
"Glad to hear good news of her. She writes me occasionally. Remember me to her when you see her."
"Then you don't think you'll go below with me?" ("Going below" was local parlance for going to San Francisco.)
"No. I'd feel like a fish out of water in that big city. I'll be comfortable at the Sherwood's. I'll have to depend upon you to send me some money occasionally."
"Hintzen writes me that he has your will locked up in his safe. I suppose you have given him a list of your property?"
"He has written me asking for a list; but I'm not going to give him any." If the old man had not trusted Francis so implicitly he might have noticed an expression of relief light up that gentleman's dark eyes.
"So I handle your funds, and Hintzen holds your will," smiled Francis. "Do you think that is fair to either of us?"
"Oh, as for the will, I've kept a copy, which you may as well look at." And he fetched the document.
Francis read it over very carefully; and then looked up with an expression of undisguised satisfaction.
"I'm glad you put it that way," he said. "You leave it to us to act in accordance with our best judgment, whether it takes one year or twenty years. That leaves us free to dispose of securities to the best advantage, and not sacrifice them in a falling market."
"Yes, I was thinking of that investment you advised me to make a year ago."
Francis winced a little; for the old man probably knew how low a certain stock had fallen.
"I see you've named my brother back in Pennsylvania as one of the executors."
"Yes; as most of my heirs live in the East, I thought your brother could hunt them up, and let you do business through him."
"That is a good idea. But don't you think Hintzen and Haggerty ought to have a list of your property? If you should die, and they found on examining your books and papers that you had trusted me but not them, why, naturally, they would feel hurt."
"Well, Haggerty's an Irishman, and Hintzen's a Dutchman. You are an American like myself, and, what's more, a Democrat after my own heart. I want you to hold the funds."
"If you feel that way, I wish you wouldn't tell anybody. For if they knew I had money belonging to you people would suspect me of helping myself to it."
Francis had been rehearsing this speech for several days; but was now rather surprised that he had the nerve to utter it. But the old man trusted him. Was not Francis almost a son to him?
If he had been, he could not have inherited the old man's property more surely. He stayed over night on Fillmore Hill; and when he departed next morning, he took with him bank books and securities and a letter to Palmer's banker which made Francis the custodian of all his money. He even took a small chamois skin bag filled with gold nuggets which the old man had saved. And he left behind at the house on Fillmore Hill not a receipt or a paper of any kind that would indicate that Palmer ever had had any money. They had burned all such tell-tale records; and Henry Francis felt that he was guilty of something baser than highway robbery. Yet, if the stock market should take an upward turn, all might be well.
