A glance at his wild eyes showed us that he was insane.  That was my work, mother!  The tidings of your death can some day repeat the misery I felt in that moment, but nothing else can ever do it.  The boys lifted him up, and gathered about him, and were full of pity of him, and said the gentlest and touchingest things to him, and said cheer up and don’t be troubled, he was among friends now, and they would take care of him, and protect him, and hang any man that laid a hand on him.  They are just like so many mothers, the rough mining-camp boys are, when you wake up the south side of their hearts; yes, and just like so many reckless and unreasoning children when you wake up the opposite of that muscle.  They did everything they could think of to comfort him, but nothing succeeded until Wells-Fargo Ferguson, who is a clever strategist, said: 

“If it’s only Sherlock Holmes that’s troubling you, you needn’t worry any more.”

“Why?” asked the forlorn lunatic, eagerly.

“Because he’s dead again.”

“Dead!  Dead!  Oh, don’t trifle with a poor wreck like me.  Is he dead?  On honor, now—­is he telling me true, boys?”

“True as you’re standing there!” said Ham Sandwich, and they all backed up the statement in a body.

“They hung him in San Bernardino last week,” added Ferguson, clinching the matter, “whilst he was searching around after you.  Mistook him for another man.  They’re sorry, but they can’t help it now.”

“They’re a-building him a monument,” said Ham Sandwich, with the air of a person who had contributed to it, and knew.

“James Walker” drew a deep sigh—­evidently a sigh of relief—­and said nothing; but his eyes lost something of their wildness, his countenance cleared visibly, and its drawn look relaxed a little.  We all went to our cabin, and the boys cooked him the best dinner the camp could furnish the materials for, and while they were about it Hillyer and I outfitted him from hat to shoe-leather with new clothes of ours, and made a comely and presentable old gentleman of him.  “Old” is the right word, and a pity, too:  old by the droop of him, and the frost upon his hair, and the marks which sorrow and distress have left upon his face; though he is only in his prime in the matter of years.  While he ate, we smoked and chatted; and when he was finishing he found his voice at last, and of his own accord broke out with his personal history.  I cannot furnish his exact words, but I will come as near it as I can.

The “Wrong man’s” Story

It happened like this:  I was in Denver.  I had been there many years; sometimes I remember how many, sometimes I don’t—­but it isn’t any matter.  All of a sudden I got a notice to leave, or I would be exposed for a horrible crime committed long before—­years and years before—­in the East.