in search of the body of the late Gregory Summerfield, who was reported
to have been pushed from the cars at Cape Horn, in this county, by one
Leonidas Parker, since deceased. It was not fully light when I reached
the track of the Central Pacific Railroad. Having mined at an early day
on Thompson's Flat, at the foot of the rocky promontory now called Cape
Horn, I was familiar with the zigzag paths leading down that steep
precipice. One was generally used as a descent, the other as an ascent
from the cañon below. I chose the latter, as being the freest from the
chance of observation. It required the greatest caution to thread the
narrow gorge; but I finally reached the rocky bench, about one thousand
feet below the grade of the railroad. It was now broad daylight, and I
commenced cautiously the search for Summerfield's body. There is quite a
dense undergrowth of shrubs thereabouts, lining the interstices of the
granite rocks so as to obscure the vision even at a short distance.
Brushing aside a thick manzanita bush, I beheld the dead man at the same
instant of time that another person arrived like an apparition upon the
spot. It was Bartholomew Graham, known as "Black Bart." We suddenly
confronted each other, the skeleton of Summerfield lying exactly between
us. Our recognition was mutual. Graham advanced, and I did the same; he
stretched out his hand and we greeted one another across the prostrate
corpse.

Before releasing my hand, Black Bart exclaimed in a hoarse whisper,
"Swear, Gillson, in the presence of the dead, that you will forever be
faithful, never betray me, and do exactly as I bid you, as long as you
live!"

I looked him full in the eye. Fate sat there, cold and remorseless as
stone. I hesitated; with his left hand he slightly raised the lapels of
his coat, and grasped the handle of a navy revolver.