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possessions they could still salvage from the fire.
    Eventually, small collections were taken up by various church groups to help feed and clothe the survivors, but little else could be done to assist in their relief, as more than a few citizens were quite satisfied to see the village gone. These whispered sentiments saddened me more than anything else.
    Two days later, while teaching a class at Hopkins, I was surprised by a visit from Sheriff Nesbitt and Captain Young. They were accompanied by a demure young corporal who seemed rather downcast and distracted. Once I had dismissed my students, I invited my visitors to retire to my office for what looked to be a very serious conference indeed. I only assumed this because Sheriff Nesbitt, normally a smiling, good-natured peace officer, bore the appearance of a fellow now deeply haunted by serious concerns.
    Sheriff Nesbitt informed me that he was now quite sure the fire that destroyed the fishing village had been an act of arson. The blaze had begun in a communal hay storage barn on the south end of the village. The prevailing winds blowing south to north, as they usually do at that time of year, had rapidly driven the conflagration through the tightly packed village.
    When I asked Sheriff Nesbitt why he suspected arson, Captain Young quickly interjected that six of his men had seen a man run from the barn just before the flames broke out. His men were squadron buglers and concert musicians who had gathered about a small campfire to practice pieces for a company concert. The troopers had evidently seen the arsonist quite well when he ran away.
    I told Nesbitt and Young that I couldn’t imagine what the crime had to do with Hopkins, as I couldn’t imagine we harbored any blatant arsonists. Sheriff Nesbitt didn’t find my response the least bit amusing, and I will never forget the exchange that followed. Sheriff Nesbitt looked at me with knitted brows. “Dr. Gilbert, just when exactly was the last time you spoke with a man in your employ called Billy O’Flynn, known in some quarters as Red Billy?”
    I was of course stunned by the question, but I told him all that I knew of Mr. O’Flynn, his rather sudden departure from our employ due to some kind of reconciliation with the Southern Pacific, and how he and his family had left Pacific Grove some weeks past as far as I knew. I asked Sheriff Nesbitt if he had made inquiries with O’Flynn’s other employers, and he answered that everyone interviewed had stated the very same facts and presumptions.
    “But why would you be asking after Mr. O’Flynn?” I asked.
    Captain Young then spoke up. “My men are the best skirmishers and pickets in the Army. General Abernathy called us his Night Owls. My boys can spot a vole at fifty yards on a moonless night. That’s how we stayed alive all those months in the Philippines.” Captain Young looked to his corporal for confirmation and received it with a nod. “And to that end, they swear that they witnessed a man run from the barn just before the flames appeared at the doors. The culprit was remarked by my men as a figure of unusual appearance, primarily because he seemed to have a dark complexion crowned by a mane of bright, copper-colored hair.”
    Sheriff Nesbitt stepped in to save time. “The only man that fits that description is Mr. Bill O’Flynn . . . The question is, to what purpose would a man, who has supposedly migrated north to work for the Southern Pacific Railroad, secretly return to burndown an innocent Chinese fishing village where, according to what you’ve told me in the past, he was so well received and respected for his fair dealings?”
    I admitted to them both that I had no idea why these presumed crimes might have transpired, all the time secretly suspecting that some dangerous impasse had taken place between O’Flynn and the Chinese. Perhaps the conflict had something to do with O’Flynn’s secret discovery. I’m ashamed to say that this scenario