"I was a miner in California several years, but I don't remember anybody by the name of Collins."
"It's singular then that Collins should call you his old pal and address you as 'Dear Thorn alias Darcy.'" And Carter presented Collins' letter.
"You're wanted, Thorn, alias Darcy, for the murder of William F. Cummins." The sheriff looked at the prisoner so sternly that the man wilted. "Collins has owned up, and you might as well do the same."
"O God!" groaned the man, "my sin has found me out. I killed Cummins with my own hand; and I am ready to pay the penalty."
His religion had not been all humbug, by any means; and now he asked permission to visit Union City to make public confession of the murder. But Carter had left Collins in jail at St. Louis, and saw no reason to delay the arrest of that scoundrel in order to gratify the wishes of a confessed murderer. So he proceeded to St. Louis at once, arrested Collins, who seemed rather shocked and grieved to meet his old friend the sheriff once more; and hurried the prisoners back to California.
There was great excitement in the gold fields, you may be sure, when it was announced that Will Cummins' murderers were safely lodged in jail, more than three years after the crime. Surely, California was becoming civilized, and at last Nevada County was actually to try a couple of men for murder.
CHAPTER XVIII
The End of J. C. P. Collins
At Nevada City, with its pleasant homes scattered on the hills either side of the deep gorge of Deer Creek, the traveler lingers awhile to drink in the romance of the gold fields. Roses and poppies that bloom profusely in the front yards are "emblems of deeds that are done in their clime." The very soil, like the flowers that spring therefrom, suggests gold and the red blood so freely shed for it. Here and there are eloquent, though silent, reminders of the exciting days of placer mining and highway robbery, when Wells Fargo and Company brought treasure out of the mountains guarded by armed men.