Mayor Brenham pushed his way forward. "Did I understand you rightly, Mr. King?" he questioned. "This committee means to lynch a man--to murder him?"
King turned upon him fiery-eyed. "I might accuse you of a hundred murders, sir, with much more justice. Where are your police when our citizens are slain? What are your courts but strongholds of political iniquity?" He raised his arm and with a dramatic gesture, pointed toward the city hall. "Go, Mayor Brenham, rouse your jackals of pretended law.... The people have risen. At the Plaza in an hour you shall see what Justice means."
Several voices cheered. Brenham, overwhelmed, inarticulate before this outburst, turned and strode away. Broderick walked on thoughtfully. It was evident that the people were aroused past curbing. As he neared the city hall, Constable Charles Elleard approached him anxiously.
"There's going to be trouble, isn't there?" he asked. "What shall we do? We've less than a hundred men, Mr. Broderick. Perhaps we could get fifty more."
"Whatever happens, don't use firearms," Broderick cautioned. "One shot will set the town afire tonight." He came closer to the officer and whispered, "Make a show of interference, that's all.... If possible see that Sheriff Hayes' pistols don't go off.... You understand? I know what's best."
Elleard nodded. Broderick went on. Soon he heard the tramp of many feet. A procession headed by men bearing torches, was proceeding down the street toward the Plaza. As they neared he saw Jenkins, hands tied behind his back, striding along in the midst of his captors. A rope was about his neck; it extended for a hundred feet behind him, upheld by many hands.
Diagonally across the Plaza the procession streamed. At the flagstaff a halt was made. Samuel Brannan mounted a sand-heap and addressed the crowd.
"I have been deputed by the Vigilance Committee," he began, "to tell you that John Jenkins has been fairly tried; he was proven guilty of grand larceny and other crimes." He paused dramatically. "The sentence of the People's Court is death through hanging by the neck. It will be executed here at once, with your approval. All who are in favor of the committee's action, will say 'Aye.'"
"Aye! Aye!" came a thunder of voices, mingled with a few desultory "noes." Sheriff Jack Hayes rode up importantly on his prancing black charger. "In the name of the law I command this proceeding to cease."
"In the name of what law?" mocked Brannan, "the law you've been giving us for six months past?"
A roar of laughter greeted this retort. The sheriff, red-faced, held up a hand for silence. "I demand the prisoner," he shouted.
Instantly there was a quiet order. Fifty men in soldierly formation surrounded Jenkins. "Take him, then," a voice said pleasantly. It was William Coleman's. The guards of the forward ranks threw back their cloaks, revealing a score of business-like short-barrelled shotguns.
Before this show of force, the gallant Hayes retreated, baffled. He was a former Texan ranger, fearless to a fault; but he was wise enough to know when he was beaten.
"I've orders not to shoot," he said, "but I warn you that all who participate in this man's hanging will be liable for murder."
Again came Brannan's sneer. "If we're as safe as the last hundred men that took human life in this town, we've nothing to fear." Again a chorus of derision. The sheriff turned, outraged, on his tormentor. "You shall hear from me, sir," he said indignantly, and wheeling his horse, he rode off.
"String him up on the flagpole," suggested a bystander. But this was cried down with indignation. Several members who had been investigating now advanced with the recommendation that the hanging take place at the south-end of the old Custom House.
"We can throw the rope over a beam," cried a tall man. He was one of those who had pursued and caught Jenkins on the bay. Now he seized the rope and called, "Come on, boys."
There was a rush toward the southwest corner of the Plaza, so sudden that the hapless prisoner was jerked off his feet and dragged over the ground. When the improvised gallows was reached he was half strangled, could not stand. Several men supported him while others tossed the rope across the beam. Then, with a shout, he was jerked from his feet into space. His dangling figure jerked convulsively for a time, hung limp.
After the inquest Brannan met William Coleman at Vigilante headquarters. "They were very hostile," he declared; "the political gang is hot on our trail. They questioned me as to the names on our committee. I told them we went by numbers only," he laughed.
"There have been threats, veiled and open," said Coleman, soberly. "King has lost several good banking accounts and my business has fallen off noticeably. Friends have advised me to quit the committee--or worse things might happen."
Brannan took a folded paper from his pocket; it was a printed scrawl unsigned, which read:
"Beware; or your house will be burned. We mean business."
A newsboy hurried down the street crying an extra on the inquest. Brannan snatched one from his hand and the two men perused it eagerly. The finding, couched in usual verbiage, recited the obvious facts that Jenkins, alias Simpson, perished by strangulation and that "an association of citizens styling themselves a Committee of Vigilance," was responsible.
"Eight of us are implicated, besides myself," said Brannan finally, "they'll start proceedings probably at once."
"And they'll have the courts to back their dirty work," added Coleman, thoughtfully. "That will never do," his teeth shut with a little click. "I'm going to theHeraldoffice."
"What for?" asked Brannan, quickly.
"To publish the full list of names," Coleman responded. "We're all in this together; no group must bear the brunt."
"But," objected Brannan, "is that wise?"
"Of course.... in union there is strength. These crooks will hesitate to fight two hundred leading citizens; if they know them all they can't pick out a few for persecution."
"Well, I'll go along," said Brannan. "Eh, what's that? What's happened now?"
The Monumental engine bell was tolling violently. Coleman listened. "Its not a fire," he declared, "it's the Vigilante signal. We'll wait here."
A man came running toward them from the bay. "They've captured James Stuart," he shouted. "Bludgeoned a captain on his ship but the man's wife held on to him and yelled till rescue came."
"But Stuart's in the Auburn jail, awaiting execution for the murder of the sheriff," Coleman said bewildered.
"No," cried the man, "this is the real one. The other's Tom Berdue, his double."
"Then there'll be another hanging," Coleman muttered.
Frightened, desperate, angered by the usurpation of their power, varied forces combined in opposition to the Vigilance Committee. Political office-holders, good and bad, were naturally arrayed against it, and for the first time made a common cause. Among the politicians were many men of brains, especially those affiliated with the "Chivalry" faction, as it was known--Southern men whose object it was to introduce slavery into California. These were fiery, fearless, eloquent and quick at stratagem. There was also Broderick's Tammany organization, an almost perfect political machine, though as yet in the formative stage. There was the tacit union of the underworld; gamblers, thieves, plug-uglies, servitors of or parasites upon the stronger factions. Each and all they feared and hated this new order of the Vigilantes.
Coleman's scheme of publishing the names of the entire committee was carried out after a meeting of the executive committee. It had the effect of taking the wind out of their opponents' sails for a time. But it also robbed committee members of a certain security. In a dozen dark and devious ways the Vigilantes were harassed, opposed; windows of shops were broken; men returning to their homes were set upon from ambush; long-standing business accounts were diverted or withdrawn. Even socially the feud was felt. For the Southerners were more or less the arbiters of society. Wives of Vigilante members were struck from invitation lists in important affairs. Whispers came to them that if their husbands were persuaded to withdraw, all would be well.
A few, indeed, did hand their resignations to the committee, but more set their names with eagerness upon its roster.
The hanging of James Stuart was impressive and conducted with extreme decorum. Stuart, tried before twelve regularly impaneled talesmen and defended by an advocate, cut matters short by a voluntary confession of his crimes. In fact, he boasted of them with a curious pride. Arson, murder, robbery, he admitted with a lavishness which first aroused a doubt as to his sanity and truth, but when in many of the cases he recited details which were later verified, all doubt as to his evil triumphs vanished.
On the morning of July 11 he was sentenced. In the afternoon his body swung from a waterfront derrick at Battery and Market streets.
"Get it over with," he urged his executioners, "this 'ere's damned tiresome business for a gentleman." He begged a "quid o' terbacker" from one of the guards and chewed upon it stolidly until the noose tightened about his neck. He did not struggle much. A vagrant wind blew off his hat and gently stirred his long and wavy hair.
When Benito next saw Broderick he asked the latter anxiously if all were well with him. The latter answered with a wry smile, "I suppose so. I have not been ordered to leave town so far."
"You've remembered what we told you--Alice and I?"
"Yes," said Broderick, "and it was good advice. Tell your wife for me that woman's intuition sometimes sees more clearly than man's cunning.... It is nearer God and truth," he added, softly.
"I shall tell her that. 'Twill please her," Benito replied. "You must come to see us soon."
Brannan joined them rather anxiously and drew Benito aside with a brusque apology. "Do you know that Governor McDougall has issued a proclamation condemning the Vigilance Committee?... I happen to know that Broderick inspired this." He gave a covert glance over his shoulder, but the Lieutenant-Governor had wandered off. "So far he's taken no part against us. And we've left him alone. Now we shall strike back."
"I shall advise against it," Windham objected. "Dave is honest. He's played fair."
"If you think we're going to let this pass, you're quite mistaken," Brannan answered, hotly. "Why, its not long ago that Governor McDougall came to our committee room and commended our work. Said he hoped we'd go on."
"Exactly," said Benito, "in the presence of witnesses. Let us see if King and Coleman are inside. I have a plan."
They found their tall and quiet leader with James King of William and half a dozen others already in session. Brannan, in fiery anger, read the Governor's proclamation. There was silence when he finished. Possibly a shade of consternation. "Windham's got a scheme to answer him," said Brannan.
That day theEvening Picayuneprinted the Committee's defn. It was as follows:
San Francisco, Aug. 20, 1851."We, the undersigned, do hereby aver that Governor McDougall asked to be introduced to the executive committee of the Committee of Vigilance, which was allowed and hour fixed. The Governor, upon being introduced, states THAT HE APPROVED OF THE ACTS OF THE COMMITTEE and that much good had taken place. He HOPED THEY WOULD GO ON and endeavor to act in concert with the authorities, AND IN CASE ANY JUDGE WAS GUILTY OF MAL-ADMINISTRATION TO HANG HIM and he would appoint others."
To this was appended the names of reputable citizens--men whose statements no one doubted. It was generally conceded, with a laugh, that Governor McDougall's private opinion differed from his sense of public duty.
That afternoon representatives of the Committee met an incoming vessel and examined the credentials of all passengers. Several of these not proving up to standard, they were denied admittance to the port. The outraged captain blustered and refused to take them back to Sydney. But in the end he agreed. There was nothing else to do. A guard was placed on the non-desirables and maintained until the vessel cleared--until the pilot boat returned in fact. San Francisco applauded.
But all the laurels were not with the Committee. On Thursday morning, August 21, Sheriff Hayes surprised Vigilante Headquarters at dawn and captured Samuel Whitaker and Robert McKenzie both convicted of murder by the Committee and sentenced to hang.
The City Government was much elated but the victory was short. For, on the following Sunday, Vigilantes gained an entrance to the jail and took their prisoners back without a struggle.
Broderick and Windham, en route to the latter's ranch that afternoon, heard the Monumental bell toll slowly, solemnly. "What's up?" asked Broderick, startled.
"It means," Benito answered, "that the Vigilance Committee still rules. Two more scoundrels have been punished."
Four years had passed since the Vigilance Committee ceased active labors. Some said they preserved a tacit organization; theirs was still a name to conjure with among evil doers, but San Francisco, grown into a city of some 50,000, was more dignified and subtle in its wickedness. Politics continued notoriously bad. Comedians in the new Metropolitan Theatre made jokes about ballot-boxes said to have false bottoms, and public officials who had taken their degrees in "political economy" at Sing Sing.
"Honest Harry" Meiggs and his brother, the newly-elected City Controller, had sailed away on the yacht "American," leaving behind them an unpaid-for 2000-foot wharf and close to a million in debts; forged city warrants and promissory notes were held by practically every large business house in San Francisco.
It was concerning this urbane and gifted prince of swindlers that Adrian Stanley talked with William Sherman, manager of the banking house of Turner, Lucas & Company.
Sherman, once a lieutenant in the United States Army, had returned, after an Eastern trip, as a civilian financier. In behalf of St. Louis employers, he had purchased of James Lick a lot at Jackson and Montgomery streets, erecting thereon a $50,000 fire-proof building. The bank occupied the lower floor; a number of professional men had their offices on the second floor; on the third James P. Casey, Supervisor, journalist and politician, maintained the offices ofThe Sunday Times. He passed the two men as they stood in front of the bank and shouted a boisterous "hello." Adrian, ever courteous and good-natured, responded with a wave of the hand while Sherman, brusk and curt, as a habit of nature and military training, vouchsafed him a short nod.
"I have small use for that fellow," he remarked to Stanley, "even less than I had for Meiggs." The other had something impressive about him, something almost Napoleonic, in spite of his dishonesty. If business had maintained the upward trend of '51 and '52, Meiggs would have been a millionaire and people would have honored him--"
"You never trusted 'Honest Harry,' did you?" Stanley asked.
"No," said Sherman, "not for the amount he asked. I was the only banker here that didn't break his neck to give the fellow credit. I rather liked him, though. But this fellow upstairs," he snapped his fingers, "some day I shall order him out of my building."
"Why?" asked Adrian curiously. "Because of his--"
"His alleged prison record?" Sherman finished. "No. For many a good man's served his term." He shrugged. "I can't just tell you why I feel like that toward Jim Casey. He's no worse than the rest of his clan; the city government's rotten straight through except for a few honest judges and they're helpless before the quibbles and intricacies of law." He took the long black cigar from his mouth and regarded Adrian with his curious concentration--that force of purpose which was one day to list William Tecumseh Sherman among the world's great generals. "There's going to be the devil to pay, my young friend," he said, frowning, "between corruption, sectional feuds and business depression ..."
"What about the report that Page, Bacon & Company's St. Louis house has failed?" said Stanley in an undertone. Sherman eyed him sharply. "Where'd you hear that?" he shot back. And then, ere Adrian could answer, he inquired, "Have you much on deposit there?"
"Ten thousand," replied the young contractor.
For a moment Sherman remained silent, twisting the long cigar about between grim lips. Then he put a hand abruptly on the other's shoulder. "Take it out," he said, "today."
Somewhat later Sherman was summoned to a conference with Henry Haight, manager of the banking house in question, and young Page of the Sacramento branch. He emerged with a clouded brow, puffing furiously at his cigar. As he passed through the bank, Sherman noted an unusual line of men, interspersed with an occasional woman, waiting their turn for the paying teller's service. The man was counting out gold and silver feverishly. There was whispering among the file of waiters. To him the thing had an ominous look.
He stopped for a moment at the bank of Adams & Company. There also the number of people withdrawing deposits was unusual; the receiving teller's window was neglected. James King of William, who, since the closing of his own bank, had been Adams & Company's manager, came forward and drew Sherman aside. "What do you think of the prospect?" he asked. "Few of us can stand a run. We're perfectly solvent, but if this excitement spreads it means ruin for the house--for every bank in town perhaps."
"Haight's drunk," said Sherman tersely. "Page is silly with fear. I went over to help them ... but it's no use. They're gone."
King's bearded face was pale, but his eyes were steady. "I'm sorry," he said, "that makes it harder for us all." He smiled mirthlessly. "You're better off than we ... with our country branches. If anything goes wrong here, our agents will be blamed. There may be bloodshed even." He held out his hand and Sherman gripped it. "Good luck," the latter said, "we'll stand together, far as possible."
As Sherman left the second counting house, he noted how the line had grown before the paying teller's window. It extended now outside the door. At Palmer, Cook & Company's and Naglee's banks it was the same. The human queue, which issued from the doors of Page, Bacon & Company, now reached around the corner. It was growing turbulent. Women tried to force themselves between the close-packed file and were repelled. One of these was Sherman's washwoman. She clutched his coat-tails as he hurried by.
"My God, sir!" she wailed, "they've my money; the savings of years. And now they say it's gone ... that Haight's gambled ... spent it on women ..."
Sherman tried to quiet her and was beset by others. "How's your bank?" people shouted at him. "How's Lucas-Turner?"
"Sound as a dollar," he told them; "come and get your money when you please; it's there waiting for you."
But his heart was heavy with foreboding as he entered his own bank. Here the line was somewhat shorter than at most of the others, but still sufficiently long to cause dismay. Sherman passed behind the counter and conferred with his assistant.
"We close in half an hour--at three o'clock," he said. "That will give us a breathing spell. Tomorrow comes the test. By then the town will know of Page-Bacon's failure ..."
He beckoned to the head accountant, who came hurriedly, a quill pen bobbing behind his ear, his tall figure bent from stooping over ledgers.
"How much will we require to withstand a day's run?" Sherman flung the question at him like a thunderbolt. And almost as though the impact of some verbal missile had deprived him of speech, the man stopped, stammering.
"I--I--I think, s-s-sir," he gulped and recovered himself with an effort, "f-forty thousand will do it."
Swiftly Sherman turned toward the door. "Where are you going?" the assistant called.
"To get forty thousand dollars--if I have to turn highwayman," Sherman flung over his shoulder.
As he left the bank Sherman cast over in his mind with desperate swiftness the list of men to whom he could go for financial support. Turner, Lucas & Co. had loaned Captain Folsom $25,000 on his two late ventures, the Metropolitan Theatre and the Tehama House. Both, under normal conditions, would have made their promoter rich. But nothing was at par these days.
Sherman wondered uneasily whether Folsom could help. He was not a man to save money, and the banker, who made it his business to know what borrowers of the bank's money did, knew that Folsom liked gambling, frequented places where the stakes ran high. Of late he had met heavy losses. However, he was a big man, Sherman reasoned; he should have large resources. Both of them were former army officers. That should prove a bond between them. At Captain Folsom's house an old negro servant opened the door, his wrinkled black face anxious.
"Mars Joe, he ain't right well dis evenin'," he said, evasively, but when Sherman persisted he was ushered into a back room where sat the redoubtable captain, all the fierceness of his burnside whiskers, the austerity of his West Point manner, melted in the indignity of sneezes and wheezes.
Sherman looked at him in frank dismay.
"Heavens, man," he said, "I'm sorry to intrude on you in this condition ... but my errand won't wait...."
"What do you want, Bill Sherman?" the sick man glowered.
"Money," Sherman answered crisply. "You know, perhaps, that Page, Bacon & Co. have failed. Everyone's afraid of his deposits. We've got to have cash tomorrow. How about your--?"
With a cry of irritation Folsom threw up his hands. "Money! God Almighty! Sherman, there's not a loose dollar in town. My agent, Van Winkle, has walked his legs off, talked himself hoarse.... He can't get anything. It's impossible."
"Then you can do nothing?"
For answer Folsom broke into a torrent of sneezes and coughs. The old negro came running. Sherman shook his head and left the room.
There remained Major Hammond, collector of the port, two of whose notes the bank held.
He and Sherman were not over-friendly; yet Hammond must be asked. Sherman made his way to the customs house briskly, stated his business to the doorkeeper and sat down in an anteroom to await Hammond's pleasure. There he cooled his heels for a considerable period before he was summoned to an inner office.
"Well, Sherman," he asked, not ungraciously, "what can I do for you?"
"You can take up one of your notes with our bank," replied Sherman, without ado. "We need cash desperately."
"'Fraid of a run, eh?"
"Not afraid, no. But preparing for it."
The other nodded his approval. "Quite right! quite right!" he said with unexpected warmth.... "So you'd like me to cash one of my notes, Mr. Sherman?"
"Why, yes, sir, if it wouldn't inconvenience you," the banker answered, "it would aid us greatly." He looked into the collector's keen, inquiring eyes, then added: "I may as well say quite frankly, Mr. Hammond, you're our last resort."
"Then why"--the other's smile was whimsical--"then why not both of my notes?"
There sat the redoubtable captain, all the ... austerity of his West Point manner melted in the indignity of sneezes and wheezes.... "Money! God Almighty! Sherman, there's not a loose dollar in town."
"Do you mean it?" Sherman asked breathlessly.
By way of answer Hammond drew a book of printed forms toward him. Calmly, leisurely, he wrote several lines; tore a long, narrow strip from the book and handed it to Sherman.
"Here's my check for $40,000 on the United States Treasurer. He will cash it in gold. Never mind, don't thank me, this is purely business. I know what's up, young man. I can't see your people go under. Good day!"
Ten o'clock on the following morning. Hundreds of people lined up before the doors of San Francisco banks. Men of all classes; top-hatted merchants rubbed elbows with red-shirted miners, Irish laborers smoking clay pipes, Mexican vaqueros, roustabouts from the docks, gamblers, bartenders, lawyers, doctors, politicians. Here and there one saw women with children in their arms or holding them by the hand. They pressed shoulder to shoulder. Those at the head had their noses almost against the glass. Inside of the counting houses men with pale, harried faces stood behind their grilled iron wickets, wondering how long the pile of silver and gold within their reach would stay that clamorous human tide. Doors swung back and it swept in, a great wave, almost overturning the janitors.
The cashier and assistant manager of Lucas & Co. watched nervously, the former now and then running his fingers through his sparse hair; the assistant manager at intervals retired to a back room where he consulted a decanter and a tall glass. Frequently he summoned the bookkeeper. "How's the money lasting?" he would inquire almost in a whisper, and the other answered, "Still holding out."
But now the assistant manager saw that the cash on hand was almost exhausted. He was afraid to ask the bookkeeper any more questions.
"Where the devil's Sherman?" he snapped at the cashier. That official started. "Why--er--how should I know?... He was hunting Major Snyder this morning. He had a check from Hammond, the collector of the port."
"Damnation!" cried the assistant manager. "Sherman ought to be here. He ought to talk to these people. They think he's skipped."
He broke off hurriedly as the assistant teller came up trembling. "We'll have to close in ten minutes," he said. "There's less than $500 left." His mouth twitched. "I don't know what we'll do, sir, when the time comes ... and God only knows what they'll do."
"Good God! what's that?"
Some new commotion was apparent at the entrance of the bank. The assistant teller grasped his pistol. The line of waiting men and women turned, for the moment forgetting their quest. William Sherman, attended by two armed constables, entered the door. Between them the trio carried two large canvas bags, each bearing the imprint of the United States Treasury.
Sherman halted just inside the door.
"Forty thousand in gold, boys," he cried, "and plenty more where it came from. Turner, Lucas & Co. honors every draft."
His face pressed eagerly against the lattice of the paying teller's cage stood a little Frenchman. His hat had fallen from his pomaded hair; his waxed moustache bristled.
"Do you mean you have ze monnaie? All ze monnaie zat we wish?" he asked gesticulating excitedly with his hands.
"Sure," returned the teller. Sherman and his aids were carrying the two sacks into the back of the cage, depositing them on a marble shelf. "See!" The teller turned one over and a tinkling flood of shining golden disks poured forth.
"Ah, bon! bon!" shrieked the little Frenchman, dancing up and down upon his high-heeled boots. "If you have ze monnaie, zen I do not want heem." He broke out of the line, happily humming a chanson. Half a dozen people laughed.
"That's what I say," shouted other voices. "We don't want our money if it's safe."
After several months of business convalescence, San Francisco found itself recovered from the financial chaos of February. Many well-known men and institutions had not stood the ordeal; some went down the pathway of dishonor to an irretrievable inconsequence and destitution; others profited by their misfortunes and still others, with the dauntless spirit of the time, turned halted energies or aspirations to fresh account. Among them was James King of William.
The name of his father, William King, was, by an odd necessity, perpetuated with his own. There were many James Kings and to avert confusion of identities the paternal cognomen was added.
In the Bank Exchange saloon, where the city's powers in commerce, journalism and finance were wont to congregate, King met, on a rainy autumn afternoon, R.D. Sinton and Jim Nesbitt. They hailed him jovially. Seated in the corner of an anteroom they drank to one another's health and listened to the raindrops pattering against a window.
"Well, how is the auction business, Bob?" asked King.
"Not so bad," the junior partner of Selover and Sinton answered. "Better probably than the newspaper or banking line.... Here's poor Jim, the keenest paragrapher in San Francisco, out of work since theChronicle'sgone to the wall. And here you are, cleaned out by Adams & Company's careless or dishonest work--I don't know which."
"Let's not discuss it," King said broodingly. "You know they wouldn't let me supervise the distribution of the money. And you know what my demand for an accounting brought ..."
"Abuse and slander from that boughten sheet, the Alta--yes," retorted Sinton. "Well, you have the consolation of knowing that no honest man believes it."
King was silent for a moment. Then his clenched hand fell upon the table. "By the Eternal!" he exclaimed, with a sudden upthrust of the chin. "This town must have a decent paper. Do you know that there are seven murderers in our jail? No one will convict them and no editor has the courage to expose our rotten politics." He glanced quickly from one to the other. "Are you with me, boys? Will you help me to start a journal that will run our crooked officials and their hired plug-uglies out of town?... Sinton, last week you asked my advice about a good investment ... Nesbitt, you're looking for a berth. Well, here's an answer to you both. Let's start a paper--call it, say, the Evening Bulletin."
Nesbitt's eyes glowed. "By the Lord Harry! it's an inspiration, King," he said and beckoned to a waiter to refill their glasses. "I know enough about our State and city politics to make a lot of well-known citizens hunt cover--"
Sinton smiled at the journalist's ardor. "D'ye mean it, James?" he asked. "Every word," replied the banker. "But I can't help much financially," he added. "My creditors got everything."
"You mean the King's treasury is empty," said Sinton, laughing at his pun. "Well, well, we might make it go, boys. I'm not a millionaire, but never mind. How much would it take?"
Nesbitt answered with swift eagerness. "I know a print shop we can buy for a song; it's on Merchant street near Montgomery. Small but comfortable, and just the thing. $500 down would start us."
Sinton pulled at his chin a moment. "Go ahead then," he urged. "I'll loan you the money."
King's hand shot out to grasp the auctioneer's. "There ought to be 10,000 decent citizens in San Francisco who'll give us their support. Let's go and see the owner of that print-shop now."
On the afternoon of October 5th, 1885, a tiny four-page paper made its first appearance on the streets of San Francisco.
The first page, with its queer jumble of news and advertisements, had a novel and attractive appearance quite apart from the usual standards of typographical make-up. People laughed at King's naive editorial apology for entering an overcrowded and none-too-prosperous field; they nodded approvingly over his promise to tell the truth with fearless impartiality.
William Coleman was among the first day's visitors.
"Good luck to you, James King of William," he held forth a friendly hand. The editor, turning, rose and grasped it with sincere cordiality. They stood regarding each other silently. It seemed almost as though a prescience of what was to come lay in that curious communion of heart and mind.
"Going after the crooks, I understand," said Coleman finally.
"Big and little," King retorted. "That's all the paper's for. I don't expect to make money."
"How about the Southerners, the Chivalry party? They'll challenge you to duels daily."
"Damn the 'Chivs'." King answered. "I shall ignore their challenges. This duelling habit is absurd. It's grandstand politics; opera bouffe. They even advertise their meetings and the boatmen run excursions to some point where two idiots shoot wildly at each other for some fancied slight. No, Coleman, I'm not that particular kind of a fool."
"Well, you'd better carry a derringer," the other warned. "There are Broderick's plug-uglies. They won't wait to send a challenge."
King gave him an odd look. "I have feeling that one cannot change his destiny," he said. "If I am to be killed--then so be it ... Kismet, as the Orientals say. But meanwhile I'll fight corruption. I'll call men by name and shout their sins from the housetops. We'll wake up the town, or my name isn't James King of William.... Won't we, James?" He clapped a hand on Nesbitt's shoulder. The other turned half irritably. "What? Oh, yes. To be sure," he answered and resumed his writing. Charles Gerberding, who held the title of publisher in the new enterprise, looked up from his ledger. "If this keeps up," he said, smiling and rubbing his hands, "we can enlarge the paper in a month or so." He shut the volume with a slam and lighted a cigar.
"Hello, Coleman, how are the Vigilants? I'm told you still preserve a tacit organization."
"More of the spirit than substance," said Coleman smiling. "I hope we'll not need to revive it."
"Not so sure," responded Gerberding. "This man here," the cigar was waved in King's direction, "this editor of ours is going to set the town afire."
Coleman did not answer. He went out ... wondering whether Isaac Bluxome was in town. Bluxome had served as secretary for the Vigilance Committee of '51.
Business went on with at least a surface calm of new stability. Politics brought forth occasional eruptions, mostly twixt the Abolitionists and Slavery parties. Each claimed California. Broderick more than ever held the reins of state and city government. But the latter proved a fractious steed. For all his dauntless vigor and political astuteness, Destiny as yet withheld from Broderick the coveted United States senatorship. At best he had achieved an impasse, a dog-in-the-manger victory. By preventing the election of a rival he had gained little and incurred much censure for depriving the State of national representation. Benito and Alice tried to rouse him from a fit of moodiness as he dined with them one evening in November. Lately he had made a frequent, always-welcome third at their evening meal.
"Cheer up, Dave," Benito rallied, as he raised a glass of wine. "We'll be reading your speeches in the Washington reports before many years have gone by. Come," he said to his wife, "let's drink to the future of 'The Gentleman from California.'"
Broderick smiled; his glass clinked against those of his two companions. He gazed a moment musingly at both; then quaffed his liquor with a touch of haste.
Alice Windham's eyes were troubled. "David," she was hesitant, yet earnest. "It is really necessary to associate with people such as--well, you know ... James Casey, Billy Mulligan, McGowan?"
He answered her with a vehemence close to anger. "Politicians cannot choose their weapons. They must fight fire with fire ... or lose." For a moment the talk lagged. Then Benito, with his sprightly gossip, sent it rolling on. "Sherman has turned Jim Casey and hisSunday Timesout of the Turner-Lucas building ... for attacking the banks."
"He threatened to, some time ago," said Broderick.... "How goes it with your law, Benito?"
"Well enough," said Windham, as his wife rose. She left them to attend the child, which had awakened. Broderick stared after her, a brooding hunger in his eyes. Presently, he, too, arose, and despite Benito's urging, departed.
It was dusk when he reached the Blue Wing saloon, where "Judge" McGowan awaited him. A burly, forceful man, with bushy eyebrows, a walrus moustache perpetually tobacco-stained, and an air of ruthless command. "Where've you been?" he asked, impatiently, but did not wait for an answer. "Casey's in trouble again."
"What's the matter now?" asked Broderick with a swift, half anxious uplift of the chin.
"Oh, not his fault exactly," said the other. "Five of Gwin's men attacked him. Tried to kill him probably. But Jim's a tough lad. He laid one out, took his pistol and shot another. The rest vamoosed. Jim's in jail ... for disturbing the peace," he added, chuckling grimly.
"Well, Billy Mulligan will let him out," responded Broderick. "If not, see Scannell. Do you need bail?" He reached into his pocket and took out a roll of banknotes. "You'll attend to it, Ned?" he asked hurriedly.
"Yes, yes," returned the tall man. "That's all right.... I wish it hadn't happened, though. We're none too strong ... with seven murderers in the jail.... They'll bring up Casey's prison record at the examination. See if they don't."
Broderick turned away.
At the bar he greeted "General" Billy Richardson, deputy United States Marshal. They had a drink together.
"James King of William's crusading with The Bulletin," said Richardson, "he threatens to run all the crooks out of town. It's making a good deal of talk."
"But King's not a newspaper man," retorted Broderick, puzzled. "He's a banker. How's he going to run a journal? That takes money--experience."
"Quien sabe?" Richardson vouchsafed. "Sinton of Selover and Sinton's his financial backer. Jim Nesbitt helps with the writing. You know Nesbitt, don't you? Slings a wicked pen. But King writes his own editorials I'm told. He's got a big job on his hands--cleaning up San Francisco.... You ought to know, Dave Broderick," he laughed meaningly. "Here's to him, anyhow."
"Don't know if I should drink to that or not," Broderick ruminated, smiling. "May get after me. I'll take a chance, though. King's straight. I can always get on with a straight man." He raised his glass.
A friend of Richardson's came up. Broderick did not know him, but he recognized at his side the well-groomed figure of Charles Cora, gambler and dandy. "Wancha t'meet Charley," said the introducer, unsteadily, to Richardson. "Bes' li'l man ever lived." Richardson held out his hand a bit reluctantly. Cora's sort were somewhat declassé. "Have a drink?" he invited.
Broderick left them together. Later he saw Richardson quit the gambler's presence abruptly. The other took a few steps after him, then fell back with a shrug. Broderick heard the deputy-marshal mutter: "Too damned fresh; positively insulting," but he thought little of it. Richardson was apt to grow choleric while drinking. He often fancied himself insulted, but usually forgot it quickly. So Broderick merely smiled.
On the following day he chanced again upon Richardson, who, to Broderick's astonishment, still brooded over Cora's "impudent remark." He did not seem to know just what it was, but the offensive flavor of it lingered.
"Wonder where he is?" he kept repeating. "Deserves to be thrashed. Confound his impertinence. May do it yet."
He was drinking. Broderick glanced apprehensively about. The gambler's sleek form was not in evidence. McGowan came in with Casey and Mulligan. Casey, too, had been drinking. He was in an evil humor, his usually jovial face sullen and vengeful.
"Damn the newspapers," he exploded. "They've printed the Sing Sing yarn on me again. It was brought out at the arraignment."
"Confound it, Broderick, haven't you any influence at all? Can't you keep such stuff out of type?"
"Sometimes--if I know about it in advance. I'm sorry, Jim."
"They tell me King of William's going to print it in theBulletin. Better see him."
"No use," put in McGowan, "that fellow's so straight (he sneered the word) that he leans over backward. Somebody'll fix him though ... you'll see." The trio wandered off to Broderick's relief, making their exit just as Cora entered the door. The gambler approached Richardson. They had a drink together, some rather loud, conversation. Broderick feared it would develop into a quarrel, but evidently they patched a truce between them, for soon they went out arm in arm.
His thought turned to Alice Windham. In a kind of reverie he left the Blue Wing, walking without sense of direction. It was getting dark; a chilling touch of fog was in the air--almost, it seemed to Broderick, like a premonition. On Clay, near Montgomery, he passed two men standing in a doorway; it was too dark to see their faces. Some impulse bade him stop, but he repressed it. Later he heard a shot, men running. But his mood was not for street brawls. He went on.