It was Nesbitt who told Broderick of the murder. Nesbitt, of whom Richardson had said the night before, "he slings a wicked pen."
"My God, Jim, this is awful!" Broderick exclaimed. "You're sure there's no mistake ... I saw the two of them go out arm in arm."
"Mistake! I wish it were," cried Nesbitt angrily. "No, poor Billy Richardson is dead. Cora's in jail.... They say Cora laughed when he went to prison with Scannell.... Scannell and Mulligan!" He spat out the words with a savage distaste.
"Let me show you something, Dave. A reporter from the New YorkExpresswas out here gathering data--crime statistics for the year. He showed it to me. Listen to this: Four hundred and eighty-nine murders in California during ten months. Six executions by sheriffs, forty-six hanged by mobs; that makes fifty-two in all."
He tapped the paper with his lean forefinger. "Probably two hundred of these killings were local.... And in the entire history of this city there's been exactly one legal execution. That was in 1852."
Broderick shook his head. "What are you going to do with that stuff?" asked Broderick.
"Publish it in theBulletin," returned Nesbitt decisively. "We're going to stir things up."
They walked along together, Broderick's head bent in thought. Everywhere people were discussing the evening's tragedy. More than once "Judge Lynch's" name was mentioned threateningly.
About the jail men swarmed, coming and going in an excited human tide. Some brandished fists at the unresponsive brick walls or called threats against Cora. As Broderick and Nesbitt passed the door, a handsome and richly clad woman emerged. Trickling tears had devastated the cosmetic smoothness of her cheeks. Her eyes looked frantic. But she proceeded calmly, almost haughtily to a waiting carriage. The driver whipped his horses and the equipage rolled on through a scattering crowd, some of whom shouted epithets after it.
"That was Belle Cora, who keeps that bawdy house up town," Nesbitt volunteered.
"Yes," said Broderick musingly, "she seemes to take it hard."
"She's mad about the fellow," Nesbitt waved a parting salutation and walked toward the Bulletin office.
Broderick turned homeward, thinking of the two dark figures he had passed on Clay street where the killing had taken place. Perchance if he had stopped as he was minded, the tragedy might have been averted. Nobody seemed to know just how it came about. The thing was most unfortunate politically. King would stir up a hornet's nest of public opinion. Broderick reached his lodgings and at once retired. His sleep was fitful. He dreamed that Alice Windham and Sheriff Scannell were fighting for his soul.
In the morning he met Benito on the plaza and the two encountered Colonel E.D. Baker.
"I hear you're Cora's counsel," said Benito with a touch of disapproval.
Baker looked at the young man over his spectacles. He was a big impressive man whose appearance as well as his words swayed juries. He commanded large fees. It was to Broderick rather than Benito that he made reply.
"That Belle woman--she calls herself Mrs. Cora--came to me last night. By the Lord, she melted my heart. She got down on her knees. How she loves that gambler!... Well, I promised to defend him, confound it." He passed on shaking his head.
"Didn't mention what his fee was," Broderick spoke cynically.
"I'm informed he tried to give it back to her this morning," said Benito. "But she wouldn't take it. Made a scene and held him to his honor." He laughed.
Cora's trial dragged itself into the following January on the slow feet of countless technicalities. Every legal subterfuge was exhausted by the quartet of talented and high-priced attorneys provided by Belle Cora's questionable fortune but unquestioned affection. The trial proved a feast of oratory, a mass of contradictory evidence. Before it began a juror named Jacob Mayer accused L. Sokalasky with offering him a bribe. Sokalasky, brought into court, denied the charge. And there it ended, save that thenceforth the "twelve good men and true" were exiled even from their families by the order of Judge Hagar. None the less it seemed quite evident as a morning paper cynically remarked, that the stable had been locked after the horses were stolen.
On January 17 the Cora jury announced its inability to agree. The trial ended minus a conviction.
Ned McGowan, James P. Casey, Sheriff Scannell and his aid, Billy Mulligan, had frequent conferences in the offices of Casey'sSunday Times. Broderick held more or less aloof from his political subordinates these troublous days. But Charley Duane, former chief engineer of the fire department, was their frequent consort. TheSunday Timesconcentrated its fire chiefly on James King of William. It was his biting, unstudied verbiage that struck "The Federal Brigade" on the raw.
Early in May theTimesaccused Thomas King, theBulletineditor's brother, of scheming by illegal means to gain the office that Richardson's death had left vacant.
To this imputation, theBulletinmade a sharp reply. Among other items calculated to enrage his foe appeared the following:
"The fact that Casey has been an inmate of Sing Sing prison in New York is no offense against the laws of this State; nor is the fact of his having stuffed himself through the ballot box, as elected to the Board of Supervisors from a district where it is said he was not even a candidate, any justification why Mr. Bagley should shoot Casey, however richly he may deserve having his neck stretched for such fraud upon the people...."
There was more, but this was all that Casey read. He tore the paper into shreds and stamped upon it, inarticulate with fury. When at last he found his tongue a flood of obscenities flowed. He drew a pistol from his pocket; brandishing the weapon, he reached for the door knob. But Doane, who had brought the paper, caught his arm.
"Don't be a fool. Put that pistol away," he warned. "The public's crazy-mad about the Cora verdict. They won't stand for shooting King."
"Listen," said McGowan, craftily, "go up there and protest like a gentleman. Try to make the ---- insult you in the presence of a witness.... Afterward--we'll see."
James King of William sat with his back toward the door when Casey, still a-quiver with rage but endeavoring to control himself, entered the Bulletin office. He stumbled over the doorsill.
King turned. When he saw who the intruder was, he laid down a handful of proofs and rose. Casey glared at him.
"What do you mean," cried the politician, trying to speak calmly, "by publishing that article about me in the Bulletin?"
King transfixed him with accusing eyes. "About the ballot-box stuffing ... or your Sing Sing record, Casey?" he inquired.
"You--you know well enough," blustered Casey. "It's an outrage to rake up a man's past.... A fellow's sensitive about such things."
He shook a fist at King. "If necessary, I'll defend myself."
"Very well," responded King. "That's your prerogative. You've a paper of your own.... And now get out of here," he added curtly. "Never show your face inside this door again."
Later at the Bank Exchange McGowan found the supervisor cursing as he raised a glass of whiskey with a trembling hand.
"Well, did you make him insult you?"
"Damn him," was all Casey could answer. "Damn him. Damn him." He tossed the raw liquor down his throat and poured another drink. McGowan smiled.
"You can do that till Doomsday and it won't hurt him." McGowan's voice rang with contempt. "Is that all you can do? Are you afraid--"
Casey interrupted fiercely. "I'm NOT afraid. You know it. I'll get even."
"How?"
"Never mind. You'll see," the politician muttered darkly.
"You're a drunken fool," remarked McGowan. "You've no chance with King. He's twice as big as you. He carries a derringer. And he shoots straight. Listen to me." He dragged the other to a corner of the room; they sat there for at least an hour arguing, drinking.
James King of William watched Casey's exit from the Bulletin with a smile. He recalled his wife's warning that morning as he left his home, "Look out for Casey, James."
"Pooh, Charlotte," he had reassured her. "I've far worse enemies than that prison rat."
She had merely smiled, smoothed a wrinkle from his coat and kissed him, a worried look in her eyes. Then the children had gathered round him. Little Annie wanted a toy piano, Joe some crayons for his work at school.
Remembering this, King seized a desk pad, wrote on it some words of memoranda. Then he straightway forgot Casey in the detail of work.
When the Bulletin was off the press, the pad, with its written inscription, caught his eye and he shoved it into a side pocket.
"Well, I'm going home," he said to Nesbitt. "Must buy a few things for the children."
Nesbitt looked up half absently from his writing. "Afternoon," he greeted. "Better take your derringer. Don't know what might happen."
King shrugged himself into the talma cape, which he usually wore on the streets. It is doubtful if he heard Nesbitt's warning. With a nod to Gerberding he sauntered slowly out, enjoying the mellow spring sunshine, filtering now and then through wisps of fog. As he turned into Montgomery street he almost collided with Benito Windham, who, brief case under arm, was striding rapidly southward. They exchanged a cordial greeting. Benito looked after the tall courtly figure crossing Montgomery street diagonally toward a big express wagon. Benito thought he could discern a quick nervous movement back of it. A man stepped out, directly across King's path.
He was James P. Casey, tremendously excited. His right hand shook violently. His hat was on one side of his head; he was apparently intoxicated. King did not notice him until they were almost abreast.
Casey's arm was outstretched, pointed at King's breast. "Draw and defend yourself," he said loudly. He shut his eyes and a little puff of smoke seemed to spring from the ends of his fingers, followed in the fraction of a second by a sharp report.
Benito ran with all his might toward the men. He did not think that King was hit, for the editor turned toward the Pacific Express office. On the threshold he stumbled. A clerk ran out and caught the tall figure as it collapsed.
Benito looked about for King's assailant. He saw a group of men on Washington street, but was unable to distinguish Casey among them, though McGowan's lanky form was visible.
At Benito's feet lay a pocket-memorandum marked with a splash of red. The young man picked it up and read:
"Piano for Annie.
"Crayons for Joe.
"Candy--"
A man with a medicine case shouldered his way in. He was Dr. Hammond. "Get a basin," he ordered, "some warm water." He unbuttoned the wounded man's coat, looking grave as he saw the spreading red stain on his shirt.
"Will he get well, doctor?" shouted a dozen voices.
"Draw and defend yourself," he said loudly. He shut his eyes and a little puff of smoke seemed to spring from the end of his fingers, followed ... by a sharp report.
"Can't tell ... 'fraid not," Hammond answered, and a sympathetic silence followed his announcement.
Someone cried: "Where's Casey?"
Word came that Casey was in jail. "He gave himself up," a man said.
Presently there was a sound of carriage wheels. A white-faced woman made her way to the express office. The crowd stood with bared heads as it opened a way for her passage. The woman was Mrs. King. They heard her sobbing.
Gerberding and Nesbitt came and made their exit after a short stay. Tears ran down Nesbitt's cheeks. "I told him so," they heard him muttering, "I told him so.... He wouldn't listen.... Didn't take his pistol."
Last of all came William Coleman, lips pressed tightly together, eyes hard. He remained only a few moments. Benito hailed him as he emerged from the express office.
"Any chance of recovery?"
"Very little." The tone was grim.
"I hate to think of what may happen if he dies?" Windham commented.
"Hell will break loose," Coleman stated with conviction. "Better come along, Benito. I'm going to find Ike Bluxome. It's time we prepared."
When Benito rode up Montgomery street next morning he saw a litter being carried out of the Pacific Express Office. Beside it, were Mrs. King, Dr. Hammond and John Sime. They walked very slowly and the crowd fell back on either side as the litter-bearers progressed.
Benito's heart stood still a moment. "Is he--?" the question formed reluctantly upon his lips. But David Broderick, standing by, reassured him.
"No, not dead. Thank Heaven! They're taking him to more comfortable quarters. A room in the Montgomery Block. They've postponed the operation on the artery; as a last resort."
"Dave," said Windham, seriously, "do you suppose you'll be blamed for this?"
"Good God, man! No," returned the other. "Not even Gwin would dare to lay this at my door. There's no politics in it. At least none of mine."
"Yet Casey was one of your men. They'll say that."
"Let them," answered Broderick angrily. "I've no more to do with it than you--nor Coleman, who, they tell me, is forming another Vigilance Committee."
"Yes," said Windham. "They're to meet at the old Know Nothing Hall on Sacramento street. I'm going there now."
"Well I'm bound for a talk with Will Sherman; he's been appointed head of the militia. Just in time I should say. He'll be needed before order is restored."
They shook hands. Benito looked after his friend uneasily. Broderick was on the wrong side, the young man thought; was taking an unwise tack. But no one could argue with Broderick ... unless it were Alice. They must have Dave to dinner again.
The street in front of Know Nothing Hall, a long two-story brick building was already crowded. One by one men were admitted--or rejected. Now and then a man would fall out of the line muttering wrathfully.
"They're taking mighty good care not to let any of Scannell's friends get in," a man behind Benito confided. "The Sheriff's sent a dozen 'plants' this morning but Bluxome weeds them out unfailingly."
After a time Benito found himself at the wicket, gazing into Isaac Bluxome's shrewd eyes. He was passed immediately with a smile of welcome and found himself in a large room of the "lodge" variety. There was a desk behind which sat William Coleman and Charles Doane.
About one hundred men moved about talking animatedly in groups and among these Benito noted many of his fellows of the '51 committee.
Presently Coleman spoke.
"Gentlemen, it has been decided to reorganize the Vigilance Committee. Mr. Bluxome and I have assumed the initiative, without any idea of placing ourselves at the head of the organization. Neither of us desire more than a chance to serve--in whatever capacity you may determine. We have prepared a form of oath, which I suggest shall be signed by each of us with his name and the number of his enrollment. Afterward he shall be known by that number only."
He read the oath: "I do solemnly swear to act with the Vigilance Committee and second and sustain in full all their actions as expressed through the executive committee."
"That's good!" "That's the ticket!" affirmed a score of voices. Coleman held up a quill pen invitingly, "Who'll be first to sign?"
"You, Mr. Coleman," said Benito firmly, "you must be our chief."
A cheer followed. Coleman demurred but in vain. They would have no one else. So, at last he put his name upon the paper, adding after it "No. 1."
Others came up and affixed their signatures: C.J. Dempster, the Post brothers, Alfred Rix, P.G. Childs and so on. Bluxome, relieved from his post, was No. 33. It proved in after days a potent numeral for it represented the secretarial seal on documents which spelled doom to evildoers; hope, law and order to an outraged populace.
Meanwhile, McGowan, Scannell and his clan had not been idle. On the night of the shooting one hundred men proceeded to the Pacific street wharf where the Coliah and Seabird were anchored. From each of these, by force of arms, but with a promise of return, they took a ship's cannon which they dragged by means of two long ropes, uphill to the county stronghold.
On Thursday morning Mayor Van Ness stalked into Turner, Lucas & Company's bank and button-holed the manager. This was William T. Sherman, late of the United States army.
"Sherman," said Van Ness excitedly, "is it true that you've been appointed major-general in charge of the second division of the California Militia?"
"It is," retorted Sherman. His calm demeanor as he answered, without even looking up from the stock sheets which engrossed him, contrasted sharply with the fuming unrest of Van Ness. The latter now seized Sherman's sleeve.
"Lay those down and come with me," he urged. "We need you instantly. Armed mobs are organizing to destroy the jail and seize the city government. It's your duty, sir, your manifest duty--"
"All right, mayor," Sherman said, "I'll go along." He called a clerk and gave some orders. Then he slipped the stock sheets into a drawer and took his hat from a peg.
They strode along together, Van Ness gesturing and talking; Sherman's head slightly bent as if in thought. Now and then he asked a curt question.
The crowd about the jail had dwindled to a few curiosity seekers. The center of public interest had shifted to Know Nothing Hall where Vigilantes were still enrolling.
Sherman and Van Ness found Sheriff Scannell, Ned McGowan, Billy Mulligan and the prisoner Casey in vehement consultation. They welcomed the soldier and mayor with manifest relief.
"I'm glad you came," said Mulligan, "things look bad. There'll be Hell poppin'--if that d---- fool dies."
"If you are referring to Mr. King, speak of him with respect." Sherman's tone was like a whiplash. The soldier turned to Scannell. "How many men have you? Men on whom you can depend in a crisis?"
Scannell hesitated. "A hundred maybe ... but," he looked at Sherman hopefully, "there's your militia. Some of them served last night."
"They've refused further service," said Van Ness. "I'm told that most of them have gone over to the Vigilantes ... and taken their arms along."
Sherman stroked his chin. "This place is not impregnable by any means," he remarked. "The first thing we must do is to secure the buildings on each side."
"Too late," groaned Scannell. "I tried to find lodgings for some of my guards at Mrs. Hutchinson's boarding house. She slammed the door in my face. I tried the other side and found that Coleman and Bluxome had an option on it. They've already sent men to guard both places."
"Then," Sherman told them, "you cannot defend this jail against a well planned attack. Perhaps they'll not resort to force," he added hopefully. "The Governor's coming down to talk with Coleman."
On the second day after the shooting, Governor J. Neely Johnson arrived on the evening boat. Mayor Van Ness had sent him a panicky message, imploring him to drop all else and hasten to San Francisco. The Mayor and William K. Garrison met him at the dock. They almost pushed the Governor into a carriage which was driven hastily to the International Hotel.
In his room, behind closed doors, the Governor spoke a trifle irritably: "What the devil's all this row about, Van Ness? The town seems quiet enough. You spoke of civil war."
"Coleman's organized another Vigilance Committee," Garrison took it upon himself to answer. "You know how impulsive San Franciscans are. They're in for anything. Two thousand have already joined. They've bought all the arms in town except a few that Sheriff Scannell seized in the militia armories. Scannell's sent out a hurry call for deputies--"
"But," broke in the Governor, incredulously, "you say Coleman's doing this. I can't believe it. Coleman's a good man, a quiet fellow. He's my friend. I'll go to him at once."
He rose, but Garrison, the politic, raised his hand. "Let him come to you. Summon him. The effect is much better."
"As you say," acceded Johnson with a smile. "Send for Coleman, with my compliments." He resumed his seat and picked up an Evening Bulletin, shaking his head. "Poor King, I hear he's dying."
"A dangerous man," remarked Garrison as he left the room.
"He is a lot less dangerous alive--than dead," the Mayor shivered. "As a reformer he'd soon have ceased to interest the public. Nobody interests them long. But as a martyr!" he threw up his hands. "God help San Francisco!"
They discussed the dangers of a public outbreak till a knock at the door interrupted them.
It proved to be Garrison, accompanied by the Vigilante chief. "Hello, Coleman," the Governor greeted, cordially. The two shook hands. "What's this I hear about your Vigilante recrudescence?" He smote his hands together with a catechising manner. "What do you people want?"
"We want peace," responded Coleman.
"And, to get it, you prepare for war. What do you expect to accomplish?"
"What the Vigilantes did in '51--"
Briefly and concisely he outlined the frightful condition of affairs in San Francisco; the straining of public patience to its present breaking point.
"Now, Governor," he said, impressively, "you've been called on by the Mayor and a certain class to bring out the militia and put down this movement. I assure you it cannot be done. It's not the way to treat the question...."
"What is the way, then?" Johnson asked, aggressively.
"Allow us to clean our Augean stables without more than a formal opposition from the State. Issue your necessary proclamations to maintain the dignity of the law. But don't interfere with our work. We shall get through with it quickly--and be glad to quit, I promise you."
He rose and Johnson with him. Suddenly the Governor slapped the Vigilante chief a rousing whack upon the shoulder. "Go ahead, old boy! But hurry up. There is terrible opposition. Terrific pressure."
Turn Verein Hall that evening was a busy place. A dozen companies were drilling on the big gymnasium floor. Men who had never shouldered guns were executing orders with an ardor and a concentration which concealed much awkwardness of unfamiliarity.
The garb and condition of recruits were vividly diversified. Doctor, teamster, lawyer, stevedore and banker, they were actuated by a common spirit, working through the manual of arms together, conscious of no caste.
Benito and Adrian, who had come in late, surveyed the drilling. Warren Olney, big and forceful, gave them cordial welcome. "You're both in my company," he informed them. "We've graded all the signers of the roll according to their numbers. That is, the first hundred signers make the first company, the second hundred another. And so on."
"How about cavalry and artillery?" Benito questioned.
"Oh, we'll have both, don't worry," Charles Doane answered them. "Two vessels in the harbor have contributed cannon; we'll mount them on the foreparts of wagons. That's where Olney and his men will come in. And we've splendid riders, though the troops are still to be rounded into shape." He passed on hurriedly to execute some commission. "There's a splendid fellow," Olney said. "He's to be grand marshal of our forces." He took Benito and Adrian by the arm and led them toward a group of waiting men. "We must get our battery organized."
A messenger strode hastily across the room seeking Coleman, who conferred with Doane in a distant corner. "The Governor's outside," he whispered as he passed.
Coleman, entering the ante-room in answer to a summons, found Governor Johnson; his brother; W. K. Garrison and William Sherman, head of the somewhat depleted militia. A subtle change was noticeable in Johnson's manner. He spoke with brusque official authority, as if no previous interview had taken place:
"Mr. Coleman, what are you and your committee plotting? Can't this trouble be adjusted here and now?"
Coleman accepted the situation. He saw that opposition forces had been active.
"We are tired of outlawry and assassination, Governor," he answered. "We've determined to endure them no longer. Street shooting's got to stop!"
"I agree with you," the Governor admitted. "I've come down from Sacramento to aid. But this is a matter for the courts, and not for you to adjust. Our judges are honest. You can't impugn a man like Norton." He lowered his voice. "I'll see that Norton tries the case; that a grand jury indicts Casey. I'll do everything I can to force a trial, a conviction--and a speedy execution.... I've no right to make such promises. But I'll do it--to save this city the disgrace of a mob."
Coleman raised his head. "This is no mob. You know it, Governor," he answered. "We've no faith in Sheriff Scannell nor his juries." He turned to Sherman. "This committee is a deliberative body, sir; regularly organized with officers and men, an executive council. The best men in the city are its members...."
"And you are its Czar," remarked Garrison, tauntingly.
"I am chairman by their choice--not mine," said Coleman, tartly. "To show you that I make no personal decisions, I will call other members of the council." He bowed and withdrew, returning in a few moments with the brothers Arrington, Thomas Smiley, Seymour and Truitt. The two sides went over the ground a second time. Smiley insisted that Casey be delivered to the Vigilantes. Johnson suggested that the committee continue its labors, but permit the court to try Casey, even in the event of King's death. An impasse loomed. Finally came Coleman's ultimatum: "If Sheriff Scannell will permit ten of our members to join the guard over Casey, this committee will agree to make no overt move--until our guards are withdrawn and you are notified."
"Done," agreed the Governor, hastily.
On the Garvez ranch, at sunset, the 17th of May, David Broderick found a gracious interval of peace. It seemed almost incredible to be dining in the patio with Benito and Alice against a background of fragrant honeysuckle and early roses. The long sloping mesas were bright with golden poppies; fleecy white clouds bedecked the azure of a western sky, flushing now with carmine tints. Cowbells tinkled musically faint with distance and from the vaquero quarters came a herder's song, a woman's laughter, the tinkle of a guitar.
"What are you dreaming of, my friend?" asked Alice Windham, gently.
"It is very like a dream," he smiled at her, "this place of yours. So near the city. Yet so far removed in its enchantment....
"Down there," he pointed toward the town, where lights were springing up out of the dusk, "a man lies dying ... and a mob plots vengeance."
"Oh, come," Benito voiced a protest, "we're not a mob, Dave. You know that." He laid a hand upon the other's arm. "I understand how hard it's been for you.... You're suffering for the sins of underlings unfit to lace your boots."
"Against whom you warned me not long since," said Broderick to Alice.
"Casey, Mulligan. Yes, I remember ... you resented it a little, didn't you?"
"No," he said, his eyes upon her with that eager look, repressed and yearning, which she could not always meet. "No, dear lady; it was not resentment.... But it hurt."
Alice turned from him to her husband. "Tell me what they've done today, Benito."
Windham's eyes shone. "You should see Will Coleman. Ah, he's a leader incomparable. We've got nearly 6,000 men. Infantry, artillery, cavalry. A police force, too, for patrolling the streets day and night."
"And what is the other side doing?" Alice asked.
"They've got the Governor wobbling," said Benito. "Sooner or later he'll call out the militia...."
"But they've got no ammunition, no guns, I understand," responded Broderick. "Sherman tried to commandeer those flintlock muskets from the Mexican war--several thousand of them--but Coleman got them first."
"Yes," affirmed Benito. "The Sheriff's seized some scattered arms. But that is not what Coleman fears. It's Federal interference. They're trying to get General Wool to give them rifles from the arsenal at Benicia, perhaps a gunboat from the navy yard."
"That means--civil warfare," Broderick said, aghast.
Alice Windham rose and the two men with her. She took an arm of each. "Come," she pleaded, "let us put it all away--this turmoil of men's hatred ... let us walk here in the sweet-scented evening and forget."
"I wish we might," said Broderick quickly. "What will happen in the next few days may never be forgotten."
Swiftly, Alice turned to him; looked up into his face. "Do you think," she asked, so low that he could scarcely catch the words, "do you think, Dave, that you're safe?"
Broderick caught his breath. Involuntarily his eyes strayed toward Benito. But the latter was so patently absorbed in sunset splendors that Broderick sighed as if relieved. It seemed as though some holy thing had passed between him and this woman. In her look, her simple question lay a shadowy, half-spoken answer to his heart's unuttered prayer. For a moment the world seemed aglow with some strange, quiet glory. Then he said, quite calmly: "I? Oh, yes, I'm safe enough."
Saturday passed without much change in King's condition. He was sinking slowly, despite his rugged strength, his will to live and the unceasing efforts of the city's best physicians.
The Law and Order Party was being organized out of various elements that viewed alarmedly the Vigilantes' growing power. Religious, political, social elements combined in this new faction. In it were men of note, distinction, undisputed honor; and rascals of the worst degree.
Ned McGowan, it was rumored, had gone into hiding. Broderick kept to himself and took no sides, yet. Many sought him for support and for advice, but he repulsed them tactfully, remaining in his room to read; walking silently about at twilight. He had a way of standing on a hilltop, losing count of minutes, even hours. Thus Adrian surprised him one evening gazing down on San Francisco's winking street lamps as the night came down.
"Hello, Dave," he said, "why so pensive?"
Quietly as he spoke the other started. "I was wondering about tomorrow...."
"Why tomorrow?"
Broderick looked around to satisfy himself that there was no one else to hear. "Coleman will withdraw his Vigilante guard from the jail on Sunday morning.... Oh, yes," he added, as the other seemed surprised, "I have my agents in the Committee's camp. Not to harm them. I don't hold with spies and treachery.... But I have to keep informed."
Adrian looked at his friend, astonished. This was news to him. Broderick went on: "The Governor's indirectly forced their hand. Coleman knows that violent forces are at work to overthrow his Vigilantes; that the Governor's aiding them. So he's decided to strike."
"Tomorrow, eh!" said Adrian thoughtfully. "That means bloodshed, probably."
Broderick turned a gloomy countenance toward him. "I don't know," he answered, and resumed his gazing. Adrian went on. He looked back after he had gone a hundred yards. The other man remained there, immobile and silent as a statue.
Governor J. Neely Johnson paced up and down the confines of his suite at the International Hotel. In a chair sprawled Mayor Van Ness, his fingers opening and shutting spasmodically upon the leather upholstery. Volney Howard leaned in a swaggering posture against the mantelpiece, smoking a big cigar and turning at intervals to expectorate out of one corner of his mouth.
"Well," said Howard, "the President's turned us down. We get no Federal aid, I understand. What next?"
Johnson stopped his pacing. "I fancy Coleman will have to answer that question. Our cue is to wait."
"'He also serves who stands and waits'," quoted Howard sardonically.
There came a knock at the door. Van Ness, arising quickly, answered it. A uniformed page stood on the threshold bearing a silver platter on which reposed two letters. Something about the incident again aroused Howard's sense of humor. "Like a play," he muttered. "'My Lord, the carriage waits.'"
With an exclamation of annoyance the Governor stepped forward, took the two envelopes, displacing them with a bit of silver, and dismissed the boy. He opened both missives before examining either. Then he stood for a moment, a rectangle of paper in either hand, frowning.
Van Ness, peering over the Governor's shoulder, read:
We have given up hope for Mr. King's recovery. His death is a matter of days, perhaps hours.
DR. HAMMOND.We beg to inform your Excellency that the Vigilance Committee's guard at the county jail has been withdrawn.33, SECRETARY.
On Sunday morning, May 18th, all of San Francisco was astir at dawn. There was none of the usual late breakfasting, the leisurely perusal of a morning paper.
In some mysterious fashion word had gone abroad that history would be made this morning. The odd and feverish expectancy which rides, an unseen herald in the van of large events, was everywhere.
A part of this undue activity resulted from the summoning of male members out of nearly three thousand households for military duty to begin at 9 o'clock. Long before that hour the general headquarters of the Vigilantes swarmed with members.
As a neighboring clock struck noon, the Vigilantes debouched into the street, an advance guard of riders clearing that thoroughfare of crowding spectators. First came Captain James N. Olney commanding the Citizens' Guard of sixty picked men, so soldierly in appearance that their coming evoked a cheer.
Company 11, officered by Captain Donnelly and Lieutenant Frank Eastman came next, and after them a company of French citizens, very straight and gallant in appearance; then a German company. Followed at precise and military intervals a score or more of companies, with their gleaming bayonets, each standing at attention until the entire host had been assembled. Now and then some bystander cried a greeting. On the roofs were now a fringe of colored parasols, a fluttering of handkerchiefs. One might have deemed it a parade save for a certain grimness, the absence of bands. There was a hush as Marshal Doane rode all along the line and paused at the head to review his troops. One could hear him clearly as he raised his sabre and commanded, "Forward, march!" At the sidelines the lieutenants chanted:
"Hup! Hup! Hup-hup-hup!"
Legs began to move in an impressive clock-work unison. Gradually the thousands of bayonets took motion, seemed to flow along like some strange stream of scintillating lights.
On the roof of the International Hotel the Governor, the Mayor, Major-General Sherman of the State Militia, Volney Howard and a little group of others watched the Vigilantes as they marched up Sacramento street. The Governor seemed calm enough; only the spasmodic puffs from his cigar betrayed agitation. Van Ness walked back and forth, cramming his hands into his breeches pockets and withdrawing them every ten seconds. Volney looked down with his usual sardonic smile but his eyes were bitter with hate. Sherman alone displayed the placidity of a soldier.
"Look at the damned rabble!" exclaimed Howard. "They're dividing. Some are going up Pacific street to Kearney, some to Dupont and ... yes, a part of them on Stockton."
"It's what you call an enfilading movement," said Sherman quietly.
In the county jail were Sheriff Scannell, Harrison his deputy, Marshal North, Billy Mulligan the jailor, and a small guard. Some of these watched proceedings from the roof, now and then descending to report to Scannell. Cora, in his cell, played solitaire and Casey made pretense of reading a book.
Presently Scannell entered the room where Casey sat; it was not a cell nor had the door been locked since the withdrawal of the Vigilante guard. Casey looked up quickly. "What's the latest news from King?"
"He's dying, so they say," retorted Scannell.
"Dave," it was almost a whisper. "You've been to Broderick? Curse him, won't he turn his hand to help a friend?"
"Easy, Billy," said the Sheriff. "Broderick's never been your friend; you know that well enough. Your boss, perhaps. But even so, he couldn't help you. No one can.... This town's gone mad."
"What d'ye mean?" asked Casey in a frightened whisper.
"Billy," spoke the Sheriff, "have a drink." He poured a liberal potion from a bottle standing on the table. Casey drained the glass, his eyes never leaving Scannell's. "Now," resumed the Sheriff, "listen, boy, and take it cool. THEY'RE COMING FOR YOU!"
At first Casey made no reply. One might have thought he had not heard, save for the widening of his eyes.
"You--you'll not let them take me, Dave?" he said, after a silence. "You'll fight?"
Scannell's hand fell on the other's shoulder. "I've only thirty men; they're a hundred to one. They've a cannon."
They looked at one another. Casey closed his fists and straightened slightly. "Give me a case-knife, Dave," he pleaded. "I'll not let them take me. I'll--"
Silently, Scannell drew from his boot a knife in a leather sheath. Casey grasped it, feverishly, concealing it beneath his vest. "How soon?" he asked, "how soon?"
Scannell strode to the window. "They're outside now," he informed the shrinking Casey. "The executive committee's in front ... the Citizens' Guard is forming a hollow square around them.... Miers Truett's coming to the door."
Casey drew the knife; raised it dramatically. "I'll not let them take me," he shouted, as if to bolster up courage by the sound of his own voice. "I'll never leave this place alive."
Sheriff Scannell, summoned by a deputy, looked over his shoulder. "Oh, yes, you will," he muttered. In his tone were pity and disdain.
Early Tuesday afternoon Benito and Broderick met in front of the Montgomery Block. The former had just been released from duty at Committee Headquarters, where a guard of 300 men was, night and day, maintained.
"Casey has spent most of his time writing since we captured him," Benito told his friend. "He recovered his nerve when he found we'd no intention of hanging him without a trial. Of course, if King should live, he'll get off lightly. And then, there's Cora--"
"Yes, he'll be a problem, if the other one's released," said Broderick. "Unless King dies this whole eruption of the Vigilantes will fall flat."
Benito nodded, half reluctantly. "It seems--like destiny," he muttered. Suddenly his head jerked upward. "What is that?"
A man came running out of the Montgomery Block. He seemed excited. His accelerated pace continued as he sped down Sacramento street. Presently another made his exit; ran like mad, uphill, toward the jail.
Dr. Hammond, looking very grim, came hurriedly out of the door and entered a closed carriage. It drove off instantly. Then everything went on as usual. The two men stood there, watchful, expectant. The town seemed unusually still. A flag on a two-story building flapped monotonously. Then a man across the street ran out of his store and pointed upward. A rope was thrown from an upper window of the Montgomery Block. Someone picked it up and carried it to The Bulletin Building, pulled it taut. On a strip of linen had been hastily inscribed the following announcement, stretched across the street:
"THE GREAT AND GOOD IS DEAD. WHO WILL NOT MOURN?"