The Woolsey boys, at the
ranch in the bottom of the canon, whose widowed mother had come from St.
Louis to marry old Sherwood, had grown up under his kindly eye. In early
boyhood their active limbs had scaled the forbidding ledges of Fillmore
Hill, and Robert Palmer had granted them permission to hunt on his
claim.
One night in his cabin on the mountain top, when the gold dust from the
last clean-up had not yet been disposed of, he was startled by a noise
outside. He blew out the light and hid his little bag of treasure in the
ashes of his forge. None too soon, for there was a summons at the door,
and when he opened it he was confronted by three masked men. With drawn
pistols they demanded his money. He said he had none. It was useless to
resist, so he let them bind him hand and foot. Again they demanded his
money. Again he said he had none. They knew better, and they threatened
to burn him alive in his cabin. But Palmer was firm. Then they burnt his
legs with a hot poker, and threatened to shoot him, as they might have
done with impunity in that lonesome place. Still he was firm, so they
set him on the hot stove and tortured him in that way.
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