at has been carried away. No chance left for a poor
man. It takes a big company with capital to run the business of
hydraulic mining as they do at Moore's Flat and North Bloomfield. Quartz
mining is still worse. By the time you've sunk a shaft and put up a
stamping-mill, you've mortgaged your quartz for more than it is worth,
perhaps. It takes capital to run a quartz mine."

"Yes," assented Brown, "this country has seen its best days."

"That's what old man Palmer says," remarked Keeler, looking across the
canon at Palmer's Diggings.

"You and Cummins did pretty well over there fifteen years ago," and the
little detective's eyes twinkled at his own cleverness.

"We made a living; that's about all."

"But Cummins was a wealthy man some years back."

"Well, his partner never was," laughed Keeler. "If I could scrape
together the dust, I'd leave these mountains as he tried to."

"Who do you suppose the robbers were?"

"If I could make a good guess, I'd go after that ten thousand dollar
reward," replied Keeler.

"There's an awful tough gang over in Jim Crow Canon," said Brown,
throwing out another feeler.

"Can you tell me of a place in these gold fields where you won't find a
tough gang? I was in Forest City the other day. I took the trail over
the mountains through Alleghany. Both of those places are live towns
with cemeteries,--well settled places, you know. But a tougher lot of
citizens you never saw. Gambling, drinking, and fighting, and Sunday the
worst day of the seven."

"What impresses me most about Alleghany," said Brown, "is the vast
number of tin cans on the city dump. It makes a man hungry for the grub
his mother used to cook."

"You're right there," said Keeler, and lapsed into silence.

They were at Moore's Flat presently, where they changed to the
four-horse stage-coach; and the little detective's attention was
absorbed by the actions of Mat Bailey, who seemed strangely quiet. A
guilty conscience, perhaps?

Several people were going down to Nevada City. So Keeler and Brown did
not resume their conversation, but journeyed on, each absorbed in his
own thoughts. To Keeler the trip was a sad one. In the dark woods along
Bloody Run, and as they passed the tall rock by the roadside beyond, he
thought of robbers and his murdered partner. At the store in North
Bloomfield he could hardly resist the impulse to insult the cowardly
store-keeper who had stood by and allowed Cummins to be shot. As they
do