Benito, in a mood of high excitement, strode uphill toward the Bella Union, pondering the significance of Parker's startling information.
So McTurpin had come back.
He had been about to ask for further details when one of the hurrying workmen called his informant away. After all it did not matter much just how or when the gambler had returned. They were sure to meet sooner or later. Once more Windham's hand unconsciously sought the pistol in his pocket. At the entrance of the Bella Union he halted, shook the rain from his hat, scraped the mud from his feet upon a pile of gunnysacks which served as doormats, and went into the brilliant room. Since the temporary closing of the Eldorado, this place had become the most elegant and crowded of the city's gaming palaces. A mahogany bar extended the length of the building; huge hanging lamps surrounded by ornate clusters of prisms lent an air of jeweled splendor which the large mirrors and pyramids of polished glasses back of the counter enhanced. On a platform at the rear were several Mexican musicians in rich native costumes twanging gaily upon guitars and mandolins. Now and then one of them sang, or a Spanish dancer pirouetted, clicking her castanets and casting languishing glances at the ring of auditors about her. These performers were invariably showered with coins. Tables of all sizes filled the center of the room from the long roulette board to the little round ones where drinks were served. Faro, monte, roulette, rouge et noir, vingt-un, chuck-a-luck and poker: each found its disciples; now and then a man went quietly out and another took his place; there was nothing to indicate that he had lost perhaps thousands of dollars, the "clean-up" of a summer of hardships at the mines. A bushy bearded miner boasted that he had won $40,000 and lost it again in an hour and a half. Henry Mellus offered him work as a teamster and the other accepted.
"Easy come, easy go," he commented philosophically and, lighting his pipe from one of the sticks of burning punk placed at intervals along the bar, he went out.
In an out-of-the-way corner, where the evening's noise and activity ebbed and flowed a little more remotely, Benito discovered Broderick chewing an unlighted cigar and discussing the probabilities of election with John Geary. They hailed him cordially, but in a little while Geary drifted off to learn further news of the polls.
"And how is the charming Mrs. Windham?" asked Broderick.
"Well and happy, thank you," said Benito. "She loves the old place. Cannot you dine with us there tonight?"
"With real pleasure," Broderick returned. "In this raw, boisterous place a chance to enjoy a bit of home life, to talk with a high-bred woman is more precious than gold."
Benito bowed. "It is not often that we have a Senator for a guest," he returned, smiling.
Broderick placed a hand upon his shoulder almost paternally. "I hope that is prophetic, Benito," he said. "I'm strangely serious about it. This town has taken hold of me--your San Francisco."
They turned to greet Sam Brannan, now a candidate for the ayuntamiento or town council. "How goes it, Sam?" asked Broderick.
"Well enough," responded Brannan. He looked tired, irritated. "There's been a conspiracy against us by the rowdy element, but I think we've beaten them now."
Broderick's brow clouded. "We need a better government; a more effective system of police, Sam," he said, striking his first against the table.
"What we need," said Brannan, "is a citizens' society of public safety; a committee of vigilance. And, mark my word, we're going to have 'em. There's more than one who suspects the town was set afire last December."
"But," said Broderick, "mob rule is dangerous. The constituted authorities must command. They are the ones to uphold the law."
"But what if they don't?" Brannan's aggressive chin was thrust forward. "What then?"
"They must be made to; but authority should not be overthrown. That's revolution."
"And where, may I ask, would human liberty be today if there'd never been a revolution?" Brannan countered.
Benito left them. He had no stomach for such argument, though he was to hear much more of it in years to come. Suddenly he recalled the man who had tried to coach the Kanaka; who had glared so murderously at Mellus. Those eyes had been familiar; something about them had made him grip his pistol, an impulse at which afterward he had laughed. But now he knew the reason for that half-involuntary action. Despite the beard and mustache covering the lower portion of his face completely; despite the low-pulled hat, the disguising ulster, he knew the man.
McTurpin.
The hot Spanish temper which he had never entirely mastered, flamed like a scorching blast across Benito's mind. He saw again McTurpin smiling as he won by fraud the stake at cards which he had laid against Benito's ranch; he seemed to hear again the gambler's sneering laugh as he, his father and Adrian had been ambushed at the entrance of his home; in his recollection burned the fellow's insult to his sister; the abduction of Alice, his wife; the murder of his partner. He was certain that McTurpin had somehow been at the bottom of it. Swiftly he was lost to all reason. He took the weapon from his pocket, examined it carefully to make certain that the caps were unimpaired by moisture. Then he set forth.
At the polling station he made casual inquiries, but the ballot-box stuffer for some time had not been seen.
"Charley Elleard ran him off, I think," said Frank Ward, laughing. "He'd have voted Chinamen and Indians if he'd had his way. But if you're looking for the rascal try the gambling house at Long Wharf and Montgomery street; that's where his kind hang out."
Later in the spring of 1850 Montgomery street was graded. Now it was a sloping streak of mud, the western side of which was several feet above the other. Where Long Wharf, which was to be cut through and called Commercial street, intersected, or rather bisected Montgomery, stood a large building with a high, broad roof. Its eaves projected over a row of benches, and here, sheltered somewhat from the rain, a group of Mexicans and Chilenos lounged in picturesque native costumes, smoking cigarettes. Through the door came a rollicking melody--sailor tunes played by skillful performers--and a hum of converse punctuated by the click of chips and coin. Benito entered. The room was blue with cigarette smoke, its score of tables glimpsed as through a fog. Sawdust covered the floor and men of all nationalities mingled quietly enough at play of every kind. A stream of men came and went to and from the gaming boards and bar.
Benito ordered a drink, and surveyed the room searchingly. The man he sought was not in evidence. "Is McTurpin here?" he asked the bartender.
If that worthy heard, he made no answer; but a slight, agile man with sly eyes looked up from a nearby table, "What d'ye want of him, stranger?"
An arrogant retort sprang to Benito's lips, but he checked it. He bent toward the questioner confidentially. "I've news for Alec," he whispered; "news he ought to know--and quickly."
Instantly the slight man rose. He had narrow eyes, shrewd and calculating and the sinuous motions of a contortionist. Linking his arm with Benito's, he smiled, disclosing small, discolored teeth. There was something ratlike about him, infinitely repellant. "Come, I'll tyke ye to 'im," he volunteered.
But this did not suit Benito's purpose. "I must go alone," he said emphatically.
The other eyed him with suspicion. "Then find him alone," he countered, sullenly. But a moment later he was plucking at Benito's elbow. "What's it all abaout, this 'ere news? Cawn't ye tell a fellow? Give me an inklin'; trust me and I'll trust you; that's business."
Benito hesitated. "It's about the ranch," he returned at a venture.
"Ow, the rawnch. Well, you needn't 'ave been so bloody sly about it. Alec isn't worried much abaout the rawnch. 'E's bigger fish to fry. But you can see 'im if you wants. 'E's at the Broken Bottle Tavern up in Sydney Town."
They had a drink together; then Benito parted from his informant, ruminating over what the little man, so palpably a "Sydney Duck," had told him.
Benito surveyed his reflection in a glass. In his rain-bedraggled attire he might pass for one of the Sydney Ducks himself. His boots were splashed with mud, his scrape wrinkled and formless. He pulled the dripping hat into a disheveled slouch, low down on his forehead. McTurpin had not seen him with a beard, had failed to recognize him at the polling station. Benito decided to risk it.
One of the largest and most pretentious of Sydney Town's "pubs," or taverns, was The Broken Bottle, kept by a former English pugilist from Botany Bay. He was known as Bruiser Jake, could neither read nor write and was shaped very much like a log, his neck being as large as his head. It was said that the Australian authorities had tried to hang him several times, but failed because the noose slipped over his chin and ears, refusing its usual function. So he finally had been given a "ticket of leave" and had come to California. Curiously enough the Bruiser never drank. He prided himself on his sobriety and the great strength of his massive hands in which he could squeeze the water out of a potato. Ordinarily he was not quarrelsome, though he fought like a tiger when aroused.
Benito found this worthy behind his bar and asked for a drink of English ale, a passable quality of which was served in the original imported bottles at most public houses.
The Bruiser watched him furtively with little piglike eyes. "And who might ye be, stranger?" he asked when Benito set down his glass.
"'Awkins--that's as good a nyme as another," said Benito, essaying the cockney speech. "And what ye daon't know won't 'urt you, my friend." He threw down a silver piece, took the bottle and glass with him and sat down at a table near the corner. Hard by he had glimpsed the familiar broad back of McTurpin.
At first the half-whispered converse of the trio at the adjoining table was incomprehensible to his ears, but after a time he caught words, phrases, sentences.
First the word "squatters" reached him, several times repeated; then, "at Rincon." Finally, "the best lots in the city can be held."
After that for a time he lost the thread of the talk. An argument arose, and, in its course, McTurpin's voice was raised incautiously.
"Who's to stop us?" he contended, passionately. "The old alcalde grants aren't worth the paper they're written on. Haven't squatters dispossessed the Spaniards all over California? Didn't they take the San Antonio ranch in Oakland, defend it with cannon, and put old Peralta in jail for bothering them with his claims of ownership?" He laughed. "It's a rare joke, this land business. If we squat on the Rincon, who'll dispossess us? Answer me that."
"But it's government ground. It's leased to Ted Shillaber," one objected.
"To the devil with Shillaber," McTurpin answered. "He won't know we're going to squat till we've put up our houses. And when he comes we'll quote him squatter law. He can buy us off if he likes. It'll cost him uncommon high. He can fight us in the courts and we'll show him squatter justice. We've our friends in the courts, let me tell you."
"Aye, mayhap," returned a lanky, red-haired sailor, "but there's them o' us, like you and me and Andy, yonder, what isn't hankerin' for courts."
McTurpin leaned forward, and his voice diminished so that Benito could scarcely hear his words. "Don't be afraid," he said. "I've got my men selected for the Rincon business, a full dozen of 'em ... all with clean records, mind ye. Nothing against them." He pounded the table with his fist by way of emphasis. "And when we've done old Shillaber, we'll come in closer. We'll claim lots that are worth fifty thou--" He paused. His tone sank even lower, so that some of his sentence was lost.
It was at this juncture that Benito sneezed. He had felt the approach of that betraying reflex for some minutes, but had stifled it. Those who have tried this under similar circumstances know the futility of such attempts; know the accumulated fury of sound with which at length bursts forth the startling, terrible and irrepressible
"Ker-CHEW!"
McTurpin and his two companions wheeled like lightning. "Who's this?" the gambler snarled. He took a step toward the Bruiser. "Who the devil let him in to spy on us?"
"Aw, stow it, Alec!" said the former fighter. "'E's no spy. 'E's one o' our lads from the bay. Hi can tell by 'is haccent."
Benito rose. His hand crept toward the derringer, but McTurpin was before him. "Don't try that, blast you!" he commanded. "Now, my friend, let's have a look at you.... By the Eternal! It's young Windham!"
"The cove you don hout o' his rawnch?" asked the Bruiser, curiously.
"Shut up, you fool!" roared the gambler. His face was white with fury. "What are you doing here?" he asked Benito.
"Getting some points on--er--land holding," said Windham. He was perfectly calm. Several times this man had overawed, outwitted, beaten him. Now, though he was in the enemy's country, surrounded by cutthroats and thieves, he felt suddenly the master of the situation. Perhaps it was McTurpin's dismay, perhaps the spur of his own danger. He knew that there was only one escape, and that through playing on McTurpin's anger. "A most ingenious scheme, but it'll fail you!"
"And why'll it fail, my young jackanapes?" the gambler blazed at him. "Do you reckon I'll let you go to give the alarm?"
It was then Benito threw his bombshell. It was but a shrewd guess. Yet it worked amazingly. "Your plan will fail," he said with slow distinctness, "because Sam Brennan and Alcalde Geary know you set the town afire. Because they're going to hang you."
Rage and terror mingled in McTurpin's face. Speechless, paralyzing wrath that held him open-mouthed a moment. In that moment Windham acted quickly. He hurled the bottle, still half full of ale, at his antagonist, missed him by the fraction of an inch and sent the missile caroming against the Bruiser's ear, thence down among a pyramid of glasses. There was a shivering tinkle; then the roar as of a maddened bull. The Bruiser charged. Windham shot twice into the air and fled. He heard a rending crash behind him, a voice that cried aloud in mortal pain, a shot. Then, silence.
On the morning of February 28, 1850, Theodore Shillaber, with a number of friends, made a visit to the former's leased land on the Rincon, later known as Rincon Hill. Here, on the old government reserve, whose guns had once flanked Yerba Buena Cove, Shillaber had secured a lease on a commanding site which he planned to convert into a fashionable residence section. What was his surprise, then, to find the scenic promontory covered with innumerable rickety and squalid huts. A tall and muscular young fellow with open-throated shirt and stalwart, hirsute chest, swaggered toward him, fingering rather carelessly, it seemed to Shillaber, the musket he held.
"Lookin' for somebody, stranger?" he inquired, meaningly.
Shillaber, somewhat taken aback, inquired by what right the members of this colony held possession.
"Squatter's rights," returned the large youth, calmly, and spat uncomfortably near to Shillaber's polished boots.
"And what are squatter's rights, may I ask?" said Shillaber, striving to control his rising temper.
The youth tapped his rifle barrel. "Anyone that tries to dispossess us'll soon find out," he returned gruffly, and, turning his back on the visitors, he strode back toward his cabin.
"Wait," called Shillaber, red with wrath, "I notify you now, in the presence of witnesses that if you and all your scurvy crew are not gone bag and baggage within twentyfour hours, I'll have the authorities dispossess you and throw you into jail for trespassing."
The large young man halted and presented a grinning face to his threatener. He did not deign to reply, but, as though he had given a signal, shrill cackles of laughter broke out in a dozen places.
Shillaber, who was a choleric man, shook his fist at them. He was too angry for speech.
Shillaber had more than his peck of trouble with the Sydney Ducks that roosted on his land. He sent the town authorities to dispossess them, but without result. There were too many squatters and too few police. Next he sent an agent to collect rents, but the man returned with a sore head and bruised body, minus coin. Shillaber was on the verge of insanity. He appealed to everyone from the prefect to the governor. In Sydney Town his antics were the sport of a gay and homogeneous population and at the public houses one might hear the flouted landlord rave through the impersonations of half a dozen clever mimics. At The Broken Bottle a new boniface held forth. Bruiser Jake had mysteriously disappeared on the evening of election. And with him had vanished Alec McTurpin, though a sly-eyed little man now and then brought messages from the absent leader.
In the end Shillaber triumphed, for he persuaded Captain Keyes, commander at the Presidio, that the squatters were defying Federal law. Thus, one evening, a squad of cavalry descended upon the Rincon squatters, scattering them like chaff and demolishing their flimsy habitations in the twinkling of an eye. But this did not end squatterism. Some of the evicted took up claims on lots closer in. A woman's house was burned and she, herself, was driven off. Another woman was shot while defending her husband's home during his absence.
Meanwhile, San Francisco's streets had been graded and planked. The old City Hall, proving inadequate, was succeeded by a converted hotel. The Graham House, a four-story wooden affair of many balconies, at Kearny and Pacific streets, was now the seat of local government.
For it the council paid the extraordinary sum of $150,000, thereby provoking a storm of newspaper discussion. Three destructive fires had ravaged through the cloth and paper districts, and on their ashes more substantial structures stood.
There was neither law nor order worthy of the name. Only feverish activity. A newsboy who peddled Altas on the streets made $40,000 from his operations; another vendor of the Sacramento Union, boasted $30,000 for his pains. A washerwoman left her hut on the lagoon and built a "mansion." Laundering, enhanced by real estate investments, had given her a fortune of $100,000.
Social strata were not yet established. Caste was practically unknown. Former convicts married, settled down, became respected citizens. Carpenters, bartenders, laborers, mechanics from the East and Middle West, became bankers, Senators, judges, merchant princes and promoters.
White linen replaced red flannel, bowie knives and revolvers were sedately hidden beneath frock coats, the vicuna hat was a substitute for slouch and sombrero.
But, under it all, the fierce, restless heart of San Francisco beat on unchanged. In it stirred the daring, the lawless adventure, the feverish ambition and the hair-trigger pride of argonauts from many lands. And in it burned the deviltry, brutality, licentiousness and greed of criminal elements freed from the curb of legal discipline.
David Broderick discussed it frequently with Alice Windham. He had fallen into a habit of coming to the ranch when wearied by affairs of state. He was a silent, brooding man, robbed somehow of his national heritage, a sense of humor, for he had Irish blood. He was a man of fire, implacable as an enemy, inalienable as a friend. And to Alice, as she sat embroidering or knitting before the fire, he told many of his dreams, his plans. She would nod her head sagely, giving him her eyes now and then--eyes that were clear and calm with understanding.
Thus Alice came to know what boded for the town of San Francisco. "Benito," she said one night, when Broderick had gone, "Benito, my dearest, will you let me stir you--even if it wounds?" She came up behind him quickly; put her arms about his neck and leaned her golden head against his own. "We are sitting here too quietly ... while life goes by," her tone was wistful. "You, especially, Benito. Outside teems the world; the gorgeous, vibrant world of which our David speaks."
"What do you want me to do?" he asked, stirring restlessly, "go into business? Make money--like Adrian?"
"No, no," she nestled closer. "It isn't money that I crave. We are happy here. But"--she looked up at the portrait of Francisco Garvez, and Benito followed her glance. "What would he have you do?"
"I promised him in thought," her husband said, "that I would help to build the city he loved. It was a prophecy," his tone grew dreamy, "a prophecy that he and his--the Garvez blood--should always stir in San Francisco's heart." Swiftly he rose and, standing very straight before the picture, raised his right hand to salute. "You are right," he said. "He would have wanted me to be a soldier."
But Alice shook her head. "The conquest is over," she told him. "San Francisco needs no gun nor saber now. In our courts and legislatures lie the future battlegrounds for justice. You must study law, Benito.... I want"--quick color tinged her face--"I want my--son to have a father who--"
"Alice!" cried Benito. But she fled from him. The door of her bedroom closed behind her. But it opened again very softly--"who makes his country's laws," she finished, fervently.
About 8 o'clock on the evening of February 19, 1851, two men entered the store of C.J. Jansen & Co., a general merchandise shop on Montgomery street. The taller and older presented a striking figure. He was of such height that, possibly from entering many low doorways, he had acquired a slight stoop. His beard was long and dark, his hair falling to the collar, was a rich and wavy brown. He had striking eyes, an aquiline nose and walked with a long, measured stride. Charles Jansen, alone in the store, noted these characteristics half unconsciously and paid little attention to the smaller man who lurked behind his companion in the shadows.
"Show me some blankets," said the tall man peremptorily. Jansen did not like his tone, nor his looks for that matter, but he turned toward a shelf where comforters, sheets and blankets were piled in orderly array. As he did so he heard a quick step behind him; the universe seemed to split asunder in a flash of countless stars. And then the world turned black.
Hours afterward his partner found him prone behind the counter, a great bleeding cut on his head. The safe stood open and a hasty examination revealed the loss of $2,000 in gold dust and coin. Jansen was revived with difficulty and, after a period of delirium, described what had occurred. The next morning's Alta published a sensational account of the affair, describing Jansen's assailant and stating that the victim's recovery was uncertain.
As Adrian, Benito and Samuel Brannan passed the new city hall on the morning of February 22, they noticed that a crowd was gathering. People seemed to be running from all directions. Newsboys with huge armfuls of morning papers, thrust them in the faces of pedestrians, crying, "Extra! Extra! Assassins of Jansen caught." Adrian tossed the nearest lad a two-bit piece and grasped the outstretched sheet. It related in heavy blackfaced type the arrest of "two scoundrelly assassins," one of whom, James Stuart, a notorious "Sydney Duck," was wanted in Auburn for the murder of Sheriff Moore. This was the man identified by Jansen. He claimed mistaken identity, however, insisting that his name was Thomas Berdue.
"They'll let him go on that ridiculous plea, no doubt," remarked Brannan, wrathfully. "There are always a dozen alibis and false witnesses for these gallows-birds. It's time the people were doing something."
"It looks very much as though weweredoing something," said Benito, with a glance at the gathering crowd.
There were shouts of "Lynch them! Bring them out and hang them to a tree!" Someone thrust a handbill toward Benito, who grasped it mechanically. It read:
CITIZENS OF SAN FRANCISCOThe series of murders and robberies that have been committed in the city seems to leave us entirely in a state of anarchy. Law, it appears, is but a nonentity to be sneered at; redress can be had for aggression but through the never-failing remedy so admirably laid down in the Code of Judge Lynch.All those who would rid our city of its robbers and murderers will assemble on Sunday at 2 o'clock on the Plaza.
"This means business," commented Adrian grimly. "It may mean worse unless their temper cools. I've heard this Stuart has a double. They should give him time--"
"Bosh!" cried Brannan, "they should string him up immediately." He waved the handbill aloft. "Hey, boys," he called out loudly, "let us go and take them. Let us have a little justice in this town."
"Aye, aye," cried a score of voices. Instantly a hundred men rushed up the stairs and pushed aside policemen stationed at the doors. They streamed inward, hundreds more pushing from the rear until the court room was reached. There they halted suddenly. Angry shouts broke from the rear. "What's wrong ahead? Seize the rascals. Bring them out!"
But the front rank of that invading army paused for an excellent reason. They faced a row of bayonets with determined faces behind them. Sheriff Hayes had sensed the brewing troubles and had brought the Washington Guards quietly in at a rear entrance.
So the crowd fell back and the first mob rush was baffled. Outside the people still talked angrily. At least a thousand thronged the court house, surrounding it with the determined and angry purpose of letting no one escape. Mayor Geary made his way with difficulty through the press and urged them to disperse. He assured them that the law would take its proper course and that there was no danger of the prisoners' release or escape. They listened to him respectfully but very few left their posts. Here and there speakers addressed the multitude.
The crowd, the first fever abated, had resolved itself into a semi-parliamentary body. But no real leader had arisen. And so it arrived at nothing save the appointment of a committee to confer with the authorities and insure the proper guarding of the prisoners. Brannan was one of these and Benito another.
"Windham's getting to be a well-known citizen," said a bystander to Adrian, "I hear he's studying law with Hall McAllister. Used to be a dreamy sort of chap. He's waking up."
"Yes, his wife is at the bottom of it," Stanley answered.
Sunday morning 8,000 people surrounded the courthouse. Less turbulent than on the previous day, their purpose was more grimly certain.
Mayor Geary's impressive figure appeared on the balcony of the court house. He held out a hand for silence and amid the hush that followed, spoke with brevity and to the point.
"The people's will is final," he conceded, "but this very fact entails responsibility, noblesse oblige! What we want is justice, gentlemen. Now, I'll tell you how to make it sure. Appoint a jury of twelve men from among yourselves. Let them sit at the trial with the presiding judge. Their judgment shall be final. I pledge you my word for that."
He ceased and again the crowd began murmuring. A tall, smooth-shaven youth began to talk with calm distinctness.
There was about him the aspect of command. People ceased their talk to listen. "I move you, gentlemen," he shouted, "that a committee of twelve men be appointed from amongst us to retire and consider this situation calmly. They shall then report and if their findings are approved, they shall be law."
"Good! Good!" came a chorus of voices. "Hurray for Bill Coleman. Make him chairman."
Coleman bowed. "I thank you, gentlemen," he said, then crisply, like so many whip-cracks, he called the names of eleven men. One by one they answered and the crowd made way for them. Silently and in a body they departed.
"There's a leader for you," exclaimed Adrian to his brother-in-law. Benito nodded, eyes ashine with admiration. Presently there was a stir among the crowd. The jury was returning. "Well, gentlemen," the mayor raised his voice, "what is the verdict?"
Coleman answered: "We recommend that the prisoners be tried by the people. If the legal courts wish to aid they're invited. Otherwise we shall appoint a prosecutor and attorney for the prisoners. The trial will take place this afternoon."
"Hurray! Hurray!" the people shouted. The cheers were deafening.
Benito, as he elbowed his way through a crowd which ringed the city hall that afternoon, was impressed by the terrific tight-lipped determination of those faces all about him. It was as though San Francisco had but one thought, one straight, relentless purpose--the punishment of crime by Mosaic law. The prisoners in the county jail appeared to sense this wave of retributive hatred, for they paced their cells like caged beasts.
It was truly a case of "The People vs. Stuart (alias Berdue) and Windred," charged with robbery and assault. Coleman and his Committee of Twelve were in absolute charge. They selected as judges, three popular and trusted citizens, J.R. Spence, H.R. Bowie and C.L. Ross. W.A. Jones was named the judge's clerk and J.E. Townes the whilom sheriff.
While the jury was impaneling, Brannan spoke to Benito: "Twelve good men and true; the phrase means something here. Lord, if we could have such jurymen as these in all our American courts."
Benito nodded. "They've appointed Bill Coleman as public prosecutor; that's rather a joke on Bill."
Judge Spence, who sat between his two colleagues, presiding on the bench, now spoke:
"I appoint Judge Shattuck and--er--Hall McAllister as counsel for the defendants."
There was a murmur of interest. Judge Shattuck, dignified, a trifle ponderous, came forward, spectacles in hand. He put them on, surveyed his clients with distaste, and took his place composedly at the table. Hall McAllister, dapper, young and something of a dandy, advanced with less assurance. He would have preferred the other side of the case, for he did not like running counter to the people.
Amid a stir the prisoners were led forward to the dock. Judge Spence, looking down at them over his spectacles, read the charges. "Are you guilty or not guilty?" he asked.
Windred, the younger, with a frightened glance about the court room, murmured almost inaudibly, "Not guilty." The other, in a deep and penetrating voice, began a sort of speech. It was incoherent, agonized. Benito thought it held a semblance of sincerity.
"Always, your honor," he declared, "I am mistaken for that scoundrel; that Stuart.... I am a decent man ... but what is the use? I say it's terrible...."
"Judge" Spence removed his eyeglasses and wiped them nervously; "does anyone in the courtroom recognize this man as Thomas Berdue?"
There was silence. Then a hand rose. "I do," said the voice of a waterfront merchant. "I've done business with him under that name."
Immediately there was an uproar. "A confederate," cried voices. "Put him out." A woman's voice in the background shrieked out shrilly, "Hang him, too!"
McAllister rose. "There must be order here," he said, commandingly and the tumult subsided. McAllister addressed Berdue's sponsor. "Can you bring anyone else to corroborate your testimony?"
The merchant, red and angry, cried: "It's nothing to me; hang him and be damned--if you don't want the truth. I'm not looking for trouble." He turned away but the prisoner called to him piteously. "Don't desert me. Find Jones or Murphy down at the long wharf. They'll identify me.... Hurry! Hurry! ... or they'll string me up!"
"All right," agreed the other reluctantly. He left the court room and Judge Shattuck moved a postponement of the case.
"Your honor," William Coleman now addressed the court, "this is no ordinary trial. Ten thousand people are around this courthouse. They are there because the public patience with legal decorum is exhausted; however regular and reasonable my colleague's plea might be in ordinary circumstances, I warn you that to grant it will provoke disorder."
Judge Shattuck, startled, glanced out of the window and conferred with Hall McAllister.
"I withdraw my petition," he said hurriedly. The case went on.
Witnesses who were present when the prisoners were identified by Jansen gave their testimony. There was little cross-examination, though McAllister established Jansen's incomplete recovery of his mental faculties when the men were brought before him. Coleman pointed out the striking appearance of the older prisoner; there was little chance to err he claimed in such a case. The record of James Stuart was then dwelt upon; a history black with evil doing, red with blood. The jury retired with the sinister determined faces of men who have made up their minds.
Meanwhile, outside, the crowd stood waiting, none too patiently. Now and then a messenger came to the balcony and shouted out the latest aspect of the drama being enacted inside. The word was caught up by the first auditor, passed along to right and left until the whole throng knew and speculated on each bit of information.
Adrian, caught in the outer eddies of that human maelstrom, found himself beside Juana Briones. "The jury's out," she told him. "Jury's out!" the word swept onward. Then there came a long and silent wait. Once again the messenger appeared. "Still out," he bellowed, "having trouble." "What's the matter with them?" a score of voices shouted. Presently the messenger returned. His face was angry, almost apoplectic. One could see that he was having difficulty with articulation. He waved his hands in a gesture of impotent wrath. At last he found his voice and shouted, "Disagreed. The jury's disagreed."
An uproar followed. "Hang the jury!" cried an irate voice. A rush was made for the entrance. But two hundred armed, determined men opposed the onslaught. The very magnitude of the human press defeated its own ends. Men cried aloud that they were being crushed. Women screamed.
Soon or late the defenders must have fallen. But now a strange diversion occurred. On the balcony appeared General Baker, noted as the city's greatest orator. In his rich, sonorous tones, he began a political speech. It rang even above the excited shouts of the mob. Instantly there was a pause, an almost imperceptible let-down of the tension. Those who could not see asked eagerly of others, "What's the matter now? Who's talking?"
"It's Ed Baker making a speech."
Someone laughed. A voice roared. "Rah for Ed Baker." Others took it up.
Impulsive, variable as the wind, San Francisco found a new adventure. It listened spellbound to golden eloquence, extolling the virtues of a favored candidate. Meanwhile Acting Sheriff Townes rushed his prisoners to the county jail without anyone so much as noticing their departure.
Presently three men came hurrying up and with difficulty made their way into the court room.
"Good God! Are we too late?" the leader of the trio asked, excitedly. He was the waterfront merchant who had recognized Berdue.
"Too late for the trial," returned Coleman; "it's over; the jury's dismissed. Disagreed."
"And what are they doing outside?" cried the other, "are they hanging the prisoners?"
"No, the prisoners are safe," returned Coleman, "though they had a close enough shave, I'll admit." He laid a hand upon Benito's shoulder and there came a twinkle to his eyes. "Our young friend here had an inspiration--better than a hundred muskets. He sent Ed Baker out to charm them with his tongue."
It was June on the rancho Windham. Roses and honeysuckle climbed the pillars and lattices of the patio; lupin and golden poppies dotted the hillsides. Cloud-plumes waved across the faultless azure of a California summer sky and distant to the north and east, a million spangled flecks of sunlight danced upon the bay.
David Broderick sat on a rustic bench, his eyes on Alice Windham. He thought, with a vague stirring of unrecognized emotion that she seemed the spirit of womanhood in the body of a fay.
"A flower for your thoughts," she paraphrased and tossed him a rose. Instinctively he pressed it to his lips. He saw her color rise and turned away. For a moment neither spoke.
"My thoughts," he said at length, "have been of evil men and trickery and ambition. I realize that, always, when I come here--when I see you, Alice Windham. For a little time I am uplifted. Then I go back to my devious toiling in the dark."
A shadow crossed her eyes, but a smile quickly chased it away. "You are a fine man, David Broderick," she said, "brave and wonderful and strong. Why do you stoop to--"
"To petty politics?" his answering smile was rueful. "Because I must--to gain my ends. To climb a hill-top often one must go into a valley. That is life."
"No, that is sophistry," her clear, straight glance was on him searchingly. "You tell me that a statesman must be first a politician; that a politician must consort with rowdies, ballot-box stuffers, gamblers--even thieves. David Broderick, you're wrong. Women have their intuitions which are often truer than men's logic." She leaned forward, laid a hand half shyly on his arm. "I know this much, my friend: As surely as you climb your ladder with the help of evil forces, just so surely will they pull you down."
It was thus that Benito came upon them. "Scolding Dave again?" He questioned merrily, "What has our Lieutenant-Governor been doing now?"
"Consorting with rowdies, gamblers, ballot-box stuffers--not to mention thieves, 'twould seem," said Broderick with a forced laugh. Alice Windham's eyes looked hurt. "He has accused himself," she said with haste.
"You're always your own worst critic, Dave," Benito said. "I want to tell you something: The Vigilance Committee forms this afternoon."
The other's eyes flashed. "What is that to me?" he asked, with some asperity.
"Only this," retorted Windham. "The committee means business; it's going to clean up the town--" Broderick made as if to speak but checked his utterance. Benito went on: "I tell you, Dave, you had better cut loose from your crowd. Some of them are going to get into trouble. You can't afford to have them running to you--calling you their master."
He took from his pocket a folded paper. "We've been drafting a constitution, Hall McAllister and I." He read the rather stereotyped beginning. Broderick displayed small interest until Benito reached the conclusion:
WE ARE DETERMINED THAT NO THIEF, BURGLAR, INCENDIARY OR ASSASSIN SHALL ESCAPE PUNISHMENT EITHER BY THE QUIBBLES OF THE LAW, THE INSECURITY OF PRISONS, THE CARELESSNESS AND CORRUPTION OF POLICE OR A LAXITY OF THOSE WHO PRETEND TO ADMINISTER JUSTICE.
"And do you mean," asked Broderick, "that these men will take the law into their own hands; that they'll apprehend so-called criminals and presume to mete out punishment according to their own ideas of justice?"
"I mean just that," returned Benito.
"Why--it's extraordinary," Broderick objected. "It's mob law--organized banditti."
"You'll find it nothing of the sort," cried Windham hotly.
"How can it be otherwise?' asked Broderick. What's to prevent rascals taking advantage of such a movement--running it to suit themselves? They're much cleverer than honest, men; more powerful.... Else do you think I'd use my political machine? No, no, Benito, this is farce--disaster."
"Read this, then," urged Benito, and he thrust into the other's hand a list of some two hundred names. Broderick perused it with growing gravity. It represented the flower of San Francisco's business and professional aristocracy, men of all political creeds, religious, social affiliations.
A few days afterward Broderick conferred with his lieutenants. Word went forth that he had cut his leading strings to city politics. Rumors of a storm were in the air. When it would break no one could say with certainty. The Committee of Vigilance had quietly established quarters on Battery street near Pine, where several secret meetings had been held and officers elected. These were not made known. Members were designated by numerals instead of names. Some said they wore masks but this was an unproven rumor.
Broderick, brooding on these things one afternoon, was suddenly aware of many people running. He descried a man hastening down Long Wharf toward the bay. "Stop thief!" some one shouted. Others took it up. Broderick found himself running, too, over the loose boards of the wharf, in pursuit of the fleeing figure. The fugitive ran rapidly, despite a large burden slung over his shoulder. Presently he disappeared from view. But soon they glimpsed him in a boat, rowing lustily away.
A dozen boats set out in chase. Shots rang out. "He's thrown his bundle in the water," someone cried. "He's diving," called another. A silence, then "We've got him," came a hail exultingly.
Ere long a dripping figure surrounded by half a dozen captors, was brought upon the wharf. "He stole a safe from Virgin & Co.," Broderick was told. "The Vigilantes have him. They'll hang him probably. Come along and see the show."
"But where are the police?" asked Broderick. The man laughed contemptuously. "Where they always are--asleep," he answered, and went on.
Others brought the news that John Jenkins, an Australian convict, was the prisoner. He had several times escaped the clutches of the "law." He seemed to treat the whole proceeding as a bit of horseplay, joking profanely with his captors, boasting of his crimes.
At 10 o'clock the Monumental fire bell struck several deep-toned notes and fifteen minutes later eighty members of the Vigilance Committee had assembled. The door was locked. A constable from the police department knocked upon it long without avail. Everything was very still about the building; even the crowd which gathered there to await developments conversed in whispers.
At midnight several cloaked forms emerged, walking rapidly up the street. Then the California fire engine bell began to toll. James King of William, a local banker, leaving Vigilante quarters almost collided with Broderick. "What does that mean?" the latter asked; he pointed to the tolling bell.
"It means," King answered, solemnly, "that Jenkins is condemned to death. He'll be executed on the Plaza in an hour."