John Keeler was something of a poet, though the needs of his family at
Eureka South kept the bread and butter question in the foreground. He
must see "old man Palmer" to talk over the death of Cummins. He was
comforted a little when the old man's small black dog, Bruce, came
frisking down the trail to meet him; and when Sammy, the cat, tail in
air and purring a thousand welcomes, rubbed his sleek fur against the
visitor's boots, Keeler fore-tasted sweet solace for sorrow.
"Why, hello, Keeler! Mighty glad to see you!" And then in a changed
voice, "You're fagged out. It's an all-fired steep trail. Come in."
"No, thank you," replied Keeler, and he seated himself upon a chair in
the door-yard. "It's pleasant out here under the pines. I want to talk."
"I've been expecting you," said Palmer, "ever since the news came about
Cummins."
"Well, if it wasn't for my wife and boy, I'd pull up stakes, and get out
of California."
"Don't blame you. This thieving and promiscuous killing are enough to
discourage anybody. Too bad they can't get the robbers, just this once,
and string 'em up."
"I'm a peaceable man, as you know, Mr.
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