"He lives a mile up the canon," continued Francis.
"Oh, you mean Bed-bug Brown," said Mat Bailey.
"Yes," replied Francis, "that's the name he commonly goes by."
"I know the man," said the doctor. "Says he came here in '54 and that he
has had a picnic ever since. Though he couldn't have had much of a
picnic that first winter, when he camped out by the big log; and only a
few winters ago Palmer had to send him a quarter of beef."
"Well, Brown is a born detective," said Francis. "He worked up the
Caffey case like a professional."
Ben Caffey's brother had been hanged in Wisconsin, in the region of the
lead mines, ten years before. He was innocent of the crime charged, and
Ben had vowed vengeance on the jury. All twelve of the jurors, though
scattered over the country from New Orleans to the canon of the Middle
Yuba, had met violent deaths. The last man had been a neighbor of
Brown's. Just before his death a stranger with a limp left arm had
appeared at Moore's Flat; and Brown had proved to his own satisfaction
that the same man with a limp arm had appeared at New Orleans just
before the death of the eleventh juror in that city.
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