Edwin H. Clough

“ Nine men out of ten in his place would have drowned their sorrows in drink; but Peterson, with heroic fortitude, fought and struggled against his terrible destiny, alone, unaided, and unfriended, striving with the patience of an insect to retrieve his fortunes, if by any possibility of fate he had any to retrieve. ”

“ If this town had any sand, or really wanted to see justice done, ‘Chaparral George’ wouldn’t last through the night.”
“An’ how d’ye know we hevn’t the sand?” in- quired a rough looking man on the outskirts of the crowd. “How d’ye know we don’t want to see justice done?”
“I don’t say so—direct. But the crowd that hangs back don’t hang men. There’s plain talk; but a man with half an eye can see that it’s the only kind of talk that'll bring honest men to their senses.” ”

“ But cruel fortune would not even allow them this miserable respite. The Frazer River excitement burst like a thunder-clap over their heads, and depopulated the county. Miners, merchants, and prospectors shouldered their tools and joined the rush—the camp had "petered;" even the wash-tub could no longer keep the grim monster, starvation, from the cabin door. ”

“ The decision as expressed by those side glances was unanimous, and sealed the doom of the man who was charged with the crimes of “Chaparral George,” as effectually as if the hangman’s rope was already around his neck. Very little more was said, and the crowd quietly dispersed, each man well know- ing that when they again assembled it would be for a terrible purpose.
The jail where Peterson was confined had formerly been used as a warehouse and was built of brick, the windows being heavily barred and further secured by thick sheet-iron shutters. ”

“ The warm morning sunlight poured its wealth of golden rays over that pine-tree gallows and its awful burden. Roger Peterson’s Nemesis had overtaken him at last, and although the ul- timate death of the immediate instrument of remorseless fate cleared the unfortunate man of all wrong imputed to him, and caused many a heart to regret his terrible end, yet the awful work being accomplished, there was no recall, and the low mound beneath the shadow of Table Mountain must hold its tenant, until the final balancing of all accounts shall award jus- tice to a man all sinned against and seldom sinning. ”

“ The mob obeyed, and a tall, masked vigilante entered the cell, and by the glare of the lantern he carried in one hand revealed the long-revolv- er which he grasped in the other. His eyes sparkled fiendishly through the holes of his mask, and a sneering laugh came from between his lips as he contemplated the resigned ex- pression on the other’s face. Placing the lan- tern on the floor he stepped close to the pris- oner, and, raising the mask, looked him fair in the face, with an expression of countenance as nearly devilish as anything human ever be- comes. Peterson recoiled. ”

“ Peterson’s return to his home under the rim of Table Mountain was far from being tri- umphal in its character, for he was met at the threshold of the cabin by his wife, whc heaped an avalanche of reproaches and complaints upon him. She pointed to the depleted clothesline, and in choice vituperation, directed at mankind generally, informed her shrinking hus- band that fifty more miners had shaken the dust of Montezuma from their feet and turned their eager faces to the northward—another company recruited for the grand army already on the march to the gold fields of Frazer River. ”

“ The rope ain’t twisted thet’ll swing George Barnwell. Why, boys, he’s as slippery as a Greaser horse-thief, and a derned sight luckier. Look at him over in Au- rora; didn’t he slip through there on an alibi? And not three days ago, in Mammoth City, he and that_other old thief, Fogle, put up a habeas corpus job, and he got clear as slick as oil, when they thought they had him dead in the door. Hang! No, sir. ‘Chaparral George’ knows a trick worth two of that, you bet. It’s two to one that he plays the Peterson game on you, and walks the streets of Montezuma a free man in twenty-four hours. ”

“ Peterson’s luck was, without doubt, the most contemptible luck that ever handicapped a hu- man being in the race of life. An offspring of misfortune, he seemed to have been grappled by Fate, and, in a breast-to-breast struggle with his relentless antagonist, had a “fall” scored against him in every contest. In the language of Mart Keyes, Montezuma’s most successful short-card speculator, “it was safe to copper your stake against Roger Peterson’s bets on every card ”

“ It was to this door that a crowd of about fifty masked men came at midnight of the day on which Peterson was arrested, and that unfortunate man was aroused from his slumber by the heavy knocking of the leader of the mob. He heard the Deputy Sheriff ask what was wanted, and the gruff reply of the leader demanding the keys of the jail. The officer refused the request, and advised the men to desist and let the law take its course. ”

“ His whole miserable life passed in review before him, and, comparing his unfortunate career with what he had, in his earlier years, regarded as the ultimate reward of men who had lived a life as nearly approaching rectitude as their knowledge of good and evil would allow, he did not regret the grave possibilities instinctive- ly dawning upon his mind, that this night was to be his last on earth. ”

“ Peterson’s career in the Frazer River dig- gings was a counterpart of that at Montezuma. He saw fortunes slip away from him after he had almost laid his hands upon them. He labored with all his strength within a hundred feet of men who were carrying away their thou- sands, and never “struck a color.” ”

“ It was nothing more nor less than a plea of guilty of assault and battery, and the Justice of the Peace considered that he had no course to pursue but to impose a sentence of two hundred dollars fine, or one hundred days' imprisonment, the assault having been of an aggravated character. The prisoner had scarcely been remanded to the custody of the Sheriff, when, through one of Fogle's combinations, the committing magistrate received an anonymous letter, stating that the prisoner was a dangerous criminal, known as "Chaparral George," a stage robber, and a more than suspected murderer. ”

“ Look at it, an’ tell me how
long ther'll be anythin’ left in the camp to wash.
An’ now what’re ye layin’ there fur, like a dead man? Why ain’t ye out huntin’ up the thief? Ye reckon they’re stolen, do ye? Ye don’t know they're stolen. Maybe ye don’t know where they are. Maybe ye hevn’t sold the don- key an’ stuff, an’ salted the coin. Maybe ye don’t intend to git up an’ dust ez soon’s ye pull the wool over my eyes, a tryin’ to make me b’lieve somebody’s s¢o/en what I’ve raked an’ scraped, to let you squander. I reckon ye know mighty well who the thief is, Roger Peterson ”

“ Any other man but me 'd cleaned up fifty thousand dollars in the same place. Blast the luck!"
He tunneled for two years in the face of Table Mountain, and made barely enough to pay for his daily bread, leaving his work at last in utter despair, only to see another miner prosecute it a few feet beyond where he quit, and extract twenty thousand dollars from the blue gravel of the auriferous river-bed. ”

“ Nei- ther did Peterson’s sullen refusal to acquiesce in extreme measures produce any effect upon the howling mob. They were willing to “have everything regular,” but as for allowing the thief to escape, or taking him to Sonora for trial by the authorities, that was out of the question. So they carried Sam Randolph to a quiet, out- of-the-way place, near which stood a queer-look- ing pine tree, one branch of which projected from the trunk, like the cross beam of an old- fashioned gibbet. ”

“ You're a fine husband an’ father, ain’t ye? You ought to be ashamed o’ yerself. But what’s the use? Ye never was any account anyhow, an’ I’ve hed to wear myself out gettin’ bread an’ meat enough to stuff down yer mis’able throat, an’ thet’s all the thanks I git. ”

“ The meet- ing was evidently wholly unexpected on the part of the prospector, and he appeared some- what apprehensive of a deadly looking double barreled shot-gun, resting, with the muzzles toward him, upon the arm of the man who had so quietly, but firmly, ordered him to halt. The conversation between them was remarka- bly terse, and, aided by the shot-gun argument of the first speaker, resulted in both men taking the back track, over the bluffs, down to the river, and through the chaparral and grease- wood, to the western rim of Table Mountain. ”