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Updated: May 7, 2025
"Well, it mustn't go to a trial, that's all." That night two letters went out from Leauvite, one to Hester Craigmile at Aberdeen, Scotland, and one to the other end of the earth, where Larry Kildene waited for news of Harry King, there on the mountain top. On the first of each month Larry rode down to the nearest point where letters could be sent, making a three days' trip on horseback.
We're friends all of us and we'll go all around to Elder Craigmile's house this night, and help him give thanks by partaking of his bounty and now will ye lift your voices and give a cheer for Elder Craigmile, a man who has stood in this community for all that is excellent, for uprightness and advancement, for honor and purity, a man respected, admired, and true who has stood for the good of his fellows in this town of Leauvite for fifty years."
They both were silent as the boys came panting up the bank. "Here's a handkerchief. It was what I saw. It was caught on a thorn bush, and here here's Peter Junior's little notebook, with his name " "This is Peter's handkerchief. P. C. J. Hester Craigmile embroidered those letters." Mary's eyes filled with tears. "Bertrand, we must go to her. She may hear in some terrible way."
If any one was thrown over the bluff, it must have been your son, for he was lame and could not have saved himself. If he struck any one, he could not have killed him; for evidently he got away, unless he also went over the brink. If he got away, he must be found. There is something for you to do, Elder Craigmile."
"I, G. B. Stiles, detective, in the employ of Peter Craigmile, of the town of Leauvite, for the capture of the murderer of his son, Peter Craigmile, Jr., do hereby promise one Nels Nelson, Swede, in the employ of Mr Decker, hotel proprietor, as stable man, for services rendered in the identification of said criminal at such time as he should be found, Now, what service have you rendered?
From that day the intimacy began, and a warm friendship sprang up between the two families, founded on Bertrand's love for the old works of art, wherein the ancestors of Peter Craigmile, Senior, looked out from their frames with a dignity and warmth and grace rarely to be met with in this new western land.
One short letter to Betty, inclosing the worn scrap of paper the wind had brought him; he kissed it before he placed it in the envelope. Then he wrote one to her father and mother jointly, and a long one to Hester Craigmile.
Kellar, stand off, I say. I am Peter Craigmile. Look at me. Put away those handcuffs. It is I, alive, Peter Craigmile, Jr." "That's a very clever plea, but it's no go," said G. B. Stiles, and proceeded to fasten the irons on his wrists. "Yas, I know you dot man keel heem, all right. I hear you tol' some von you keel heem," said the Swede, slowly, in suppressed excitement.
She did not wish to go down and meet her son before the others, and if he did not find her below, he would know where to look for her. Peter Senior was an Elder in the Presbyterian Church, and he was always addressed as Elder, even by his wife and son. On the street he was always Elder Craigmile. She heard the men enter the dining room and the door close after them, but still she waited.
He had gone out of their lives as completely as a candle in a gale of wind. She had mothered the boy, and the Elder had always been kind to him for his own dead sister's sake, but of the father they never spoke. It was while Hester Craigmile sat in her western window, thinking her thoughts, that two lads came hurrying down the bluff from the old camp ground, breathless and awed.
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