Everybody had faith in the
integrity of Henry Francis.
The next summer, when the blue-bells were in blossom at Grass Valley, he
passed through that prosperous mining town on the narrow gauge bound for
Nevada City and Moore's Flat. This was the summer of 1881, nearly two
years after the murder of Cummins. A still, small voice accused him of
something akin to highway robbery; and it gave his conscience a twinge
to pass the well-known stump which had concealed the robbers. It was bad
enough that the robbers were still at large, a fact that reflected upon
him. "Bed-bug Brown's" mission had proved a fiasco. But the thing that
really worried Francis was his own mission and not the fruitless one of
Brown's. If his own proved fruitless his conscience might be better
satisfied.
But business is business, and the day was fine. Francis was a gentleman
and something of a scholar. His face showed refinement, and his hands
were as soft as a gambler's. He was fairly well read, and he could have
told you, when the stage crossed the South Yuba, that "_Uvas_" is
Spanish for "grapes," and that the name "Yuba" is a curious English
abbreviation of "Rio Las Uvas.
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