by the branches of alders, unmarked save for flat field stones, and
unknown except to a few ranchmen who drive their cattle up the river for
summer pasturage. The first burial was that of one "Scotty," a ranchman.
In 1915 there was living at the Soldiers' Home in the Napa Valley an
octogenarian, last surviving member of the Keystone Club, who had helped
to dig Scotty's grave. In the middle grave by the Middle Yuba lies the
body of Robert Palmer. The third grave is that of Sherwood. No doubt
these Californians rest as peacefully as those whose mortal remains have
been gathered into the cemetery at Downieville. Mother Earth has
received her children back into her bosom, and day and night the river
chants their requiem.

In September, ten weeks after Henry Francis's visit, Palmer put his
house in order, and with Sammy, the cat and his dog Bruce, sought
protection at Sherwood's. For Sherwood he had little respect; and he
thought Mrs. Sherwood a silly woman to have brought her boys to such a
home. But the boys were now grown men, friendly, generous, and strong.
The old man had no better neighbors.

He insisted, proud and independent to the last, that he should provision
the family for the winter. So he drew on Hintzen, who packed in an
abundance of good things from Forest City. Every night the old man sat
by the stove. He liked to stroke Sammy's sleek coat and listen to the
cat's affectionate purring. He liked to tell how his dog Bruce had saved
his life. For it seems Palmer had once started off for Forest City by
night, was stricken with a paralytic shock, and, falling unconscious in
the woods, was finally rescued by neighbors who had heard the dog's
insistent barking.

When the snow was deep in the canon, and the supply of provisions was
getting low, the old man ordered more from Hintzen. He recalled the
severity of New England winters, and talked of the friends of his youth.
He began to plan a trip East in the coming summer, directed John Woolsey
to inquire as to the expense of such a trip, and proposed to employ him
as a traveling companion. And feeling the need of some money, he bade
Mrs. Sherwood write a letter for him to Francis, signing it with his
mark.

For some unaccountable reason Francis made no answer, and the old man
seemed much disturbed. Other letters were dispatched. Still no answer.
After long waiting a letter in a feminine hand, postmarked "San
Francisco," and addressed to "Rob't Palmer, Moore's Fla