"Damn shame," said the other.
Mat paid no attention to these remarks, pretending to be busy with the baggage. Quite accidentally he lifted an old valise belonging to Will Cummins, who, dressed in a long linen duster, had just boarded the stage. Cummins exchanged glances with the driver, and luckily, as Mat thought, the gamblers seemed to take no notice.
Will Cummins had been in the gold regions twenty-five years. He had already made and lost one small fortune, and now at the age of forty-five, with all his available worldly goods, some seven thousand dollars in bullion, he was homeward bound to Reedsville, Pennsylvania. In the full vigor of manhood, he was a Californian of the highest type. He had always stood for law and order, and was much beloved by decent people. By the other sort it was well understood that Will Cummins was a good shot, and would fight to a finish. He was a man of medium height, possessed of clear gray eyes and an open countenance. The outlines of a six-shooter were clearly discernible under his duster.
In a cloud of dust, to the clink of horse-shoes, the stage rolled out of Moore's Flat, and was soon in the dark woods of Bloody Run.
"Good morning, Mr. Cummins."
It was the school-teacher who spoke; and Cummins, susceptible to feminine charms, bowed graciously.
"Do you know, Mr. Cummins, it always gives me the shivers to pass through these woods. So many dreadful things have happened here."
"Why, yes," answered Cummins, good-naturedly. "It was along here somewhere, I think, that the darkey, George Washington, was captured."
"Tell me about it," said Mamie.
"Oh, George was violently opposed to Chinese cheap labor; so he made it his business to rob Chinamen. But the Chinamen caught him, tied his hands and feet, slung him on a pole like so much pork and started him for Moore's Flat, taking pains to bump him against every stump and boulder en route."