The SAINT and the SINNER (Part 3 – Conclusion)

On Christmas morning, Old Jackson turned his face to the wall and died.

Tom O’Neil was bent on vengeance.

Having followed ‘Judge’ Reynolds from California to Yale, he’d found him at a roadhouse where journalist D.W. Higgins, Reynolds and others had gathered to pass a stormy evening about a red-hot stove.

“Curse ye,” he snarled to Reynolds’ pleas for mercy as he placed the muzzle of his Colt against the old man’s forehead. “Ye put me in prison and ruined my prospecks for life. I’ve followed you for a thousand mile and now I’ve got yer.”

Time’s up!
Reynolds wrapped his arms around the gunslinger’s feet and begged for one minute more. “You’d better hurry,” O’Neil, replied, “there’s only a quarter of a minute left.”

Reynolds turned to the others who, paralyzed with fear and disbelief, had made no move to help him. Collapsing on his back, he hoarsely whispered, “Someone pray—pray as my poor old mother used to pray for me.”

Higgins had seen violence and death before; but he’d never seen a man shot down in cold blood.

“Time’s up!” snapped O’Neil, aiming at the prostrate face and slowly squeezing the trigger. “One, two, three!” With an ear-shattering roar, the gun discharged its heavy ball into the ceiling.

All were as shocked as O’Neil, who found his wrist in a vice-like grip. Cursing, he struggled to free himself, then fell to the floor, his assailant beneath him, the fall knocking the Colt from his hand.

He clutched for his Bowie knife but the other man rolled him over and pinned him. Relieved of his knife, O’Neil pulled himelf into a chair and fought to regain his breath.

Higgins saw that Reynolds’ saviour Old Jackson, the packer.

Next day, Judge Reynolds left the river for parts unknown and Tom O’Neil did the unthinkable by apologizing to Jackson.

Higgins lost touch with both men when he moved to Victoria. Two years later, he ran into Jackson on Yates Street. He wasn’t feeling well: “My left side feels as if there [is] a lump of ice inside me.”

His doctor had ordered him to bed before he caught pneumonia.

By the time Higgins accompanied him to the Hotel de France, Jackson was breathing heavily and appeared to be weak. Saying he hadn’t long to live, he asked Higgins to find him a lawyer to make out his will. After the paper had been drawn up, Jackson took to his bed.

A month later he asked Higgins to post a letter for him.
The journalist was astonished to see that it was addressed to Thomas O’Neil, Esq., Yale. Jackson explained that he and O’Neil had become friends; the letter was to ask him to come to Victoria as soon as possible.

Two days before Christmas, O’Neil swaggered into the Hotel de France. Higgins thought he looked more villainous then ever.

The next day, Higgins received word that Jackson was failing rapidly. He arrived just before dawn Christmas morning to find O’Neil standing at the head of the bed, looking down at his friend. Despite his concern for Jackson, Higgins couldn’t take his eyes from O’Neil, who was crying and shaking with emotion.

“I could not understand his agitation,” Higgins marvelled.
“Was it assumed or real? Could it be possible that this desperado—that this murderer at heart, if not in deed—this social outcast, at the mention of whose name women shuddered and strong men blanched, was it possible thar this wicked mind was open to generous impulses and emotions?”

Jackson opened his eyes, saw O’Neil and, turning slowly towards Higgins, gasped, “Be kind to him when I’m gone.”

Higgins was astounded. That a man of Jackson’s qualities could plead on behalf of a ruffian like O’Neil staggered him. Jackson continued: “It[‘s] not his fault if he grew up bad… If he has done wrong he has suffered for it. I have forgiven him and if the rest will forgive him he’ll do better.”

O’Neil, sobbing almost hysterically, fled the room. Higgins promised Jackson he’d do what he could for him. The packer tried to extend his hand but was too weak. “The will,” he murmured, “will explain it all.”

He began to choke and asked that the window be opened.

Moments later, the sound of the Sisters of St. Ann chanting their morning prayers filled the room. Jackson whispered, “Yes, George, let’s get our books and go home. Dear mother will be waiting.”

That said, he turned towards the wall. When the bell ceased to ring Old Jackson had gone home.

After he was interred in the Quadra Street Cemetery, the few in attendance retired to the hotel for the reading of his will: “I bequeath to my brother, George Jackson, sometimes known as Tom O’Neil, all my property, real and personal, that I die possessed of, the only stipulation being that he shall erect a suitable stone over my grave, recording thereon my name, age and birth place, and try to reform. James Jackson.”

Upon receiving almost $8000 in gold, O’Neil returned to the mainland and his evil ways.
Three years later, Higgins learned with satisfaction that vigilantes in Idaho had “voted” him a dangerous nuisance, tied him to a mule and driven him from camp. Higgins thought it likely that he perished in his attempt to reach civilization.

Some 45 years later, the retired journalist went in search of his old friend’s grave. He discovered that, true to form, ‘O’Neil’ had neglected to erect a headstone to his brother’s memory.

‘Old Jackson’s’ grave was indistinguishable from the other unmarked graves.

See also: The Mystery of Johanna Maguire.