Port O' Gold

  "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'shatred ... let us walk here in the sweet-scented evening and forget."

  "I wish we might," said Broderick quickly. "What will happen in the nextfew 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 towardBenito. But the latter was so patently absorbed in sunset splendors thatBroderick sighed as if relieved. It seemed as though some holy thing hadpassed between him and this woman. In her look, her simple question laya shadowy, half-spoken answer to his heart's unuttered prayer. For amoment the world seemed aglow with some strange, quiet glory. Then hesaid, quite calmly: "I? Oh, yes, I'm safe enough."

  * * * * *

  Saturday passed without much change in King's condition. He was sinkingslowly, despite his rugged strength, his will to live and the unceasingefforts of the city's best physicians.

  The Law and Order Party was being organized out of various elements thatviewed 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 tohimself and took no sides, yet. Many sought him for support and foradvice, but he repulsed them tactfully, remaining in his room to read;walking silently about at twilight. He had a way of standing on ahilltop, losing count of minutes, even hours. Thus Adrian surprised himone evening gazing down on San Francisco's winking street lamps as thenight came down.

  "Hello, Dave," he said, "why so pensive?"

  Quietly as he spoke the other started. "I was wondering abouttomorrow...."

  "Why tomorrow?"

  Broderick looked around to satisfy himself that there was no one else tohear. "Coleman will withdraw his Vigilante guard from the jail on Sundaymorning.... Oh, yes," he added, as the other seemed surprised, "I havemy agents in the Committee's camp. Not to harm them. I don't hold withspies 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. Colemanknows that violent forces are at work to overthrow his Vigilantes; thatthe 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," heanswered, and resumed his gazing. Adrian went on. He looked back afterhe had gone a hundred yards. The other man remained there, immobile andsilent as a statue.

  Governor J. Neely Johnson paced up and down the confines of his suite atthe International Hotel. In a chair sprawled Mayor Van Ness, his fingersopening and shutting spasmodically upon the leather upholstery. VolneyHoward leaned in a swaggering posture against the mantelpiece, smoking abig cigar and turning at intervals to expectorate out of one corner ofhis mouth.

  "Well," said Howard, "the President's turned us down. We get no Federalaid, I understand. What next?"

  Johnson stopped his pacing. "I fancy Coleman will have to answer thatquestion. 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 onwhich reposed two letters. Something about the incident again arousedHoward's sense of humor. "Like a play," he muttered. "'My Lord, thecarriage waits.'"

  With an exclamation of annoyance the Governor stepped forward, took thetwo envelopes, displacing them with a bit of silver, and dismissed theboy. He opened both missives before examining either. Then he stood fora 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 ofdays, 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.

  CHAPTER XLV

  THE COMMITTEE STRIKES

  On Sunday morning, May 18th, all of San Francisco was astir at dawn.There was none of the usual late breakfasting, the leisurely perusal ofa morning paper.

  In some mysterious fashion word had gone abroad that history would bemade this morning. The odd and feverish expectancy which rides, anunseen herald in the van of large events, was everywhere.

  A part of this undue activity resulted from the summoning of malemembers out of nearly three thousand households for military duty tobegin at 9 o'clock. Long before that hour the general headquarters ofthe Vigilantes swarmed with members.

  * * * * *

  As a neighboring clock struck noon, the Vigilantes debouched into thestreet, an advance guard of riders clearing that thoroughfare ofcrowding spectators. First came Captain James N. Olney commanding theCitizens' Guard of sixty picked men, so soldierly in appearance thattheir coming evoked a cheer.

  Company 11, officered by Captain Donnelly and Lieutenant Frank Eastmancame next, and after them a company of French citizens, very straightand gallant in appearance; then a German company. Followed at preciseand military intervals a score or more of companies, with their gleamingbayonets, each standing at attention until the entire host had beenassembled. Now and then some bystander cried a greeting. On the roofswere now a fringe of colored parasols, a fluttering of handkerchiefs.One might have deemed it a parade save for a certain grimness, theabsence of bands. There was a hush as Marshal Doane rode all along theline and paused at the head to review his troops. One could hear himclearly as he raised his sabre and commanded, "Forward, march!" At thesidelines the lieutenants chanted:

  "Hup! Hup! Hup-hup-hup!"

  Legs began to move in an impressive clock-work unison. Gradually thethousands of bayonets took motion, seemed to flow along like somestrange 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 littlegroup of others watched the Vigilantes as they marched up Sacramentostreet. The Governor seemed calm enough; only the spasmodic puffs fromhis cigar betrayed agitation. Van Ness walked back and forth, cramminghis hands into his breeches pockets and withdrawing them every tenseconds. Volney looked down with his usual sardonic smile but his eyeswere bitter with hate. Sherman alone displayed the placidity ofa soldier.

  "Look at the damned rabble!" exclaimed Howard. "They're dividing. Someare going up Pacific street to Kearney, some to Dupont and ... yes, apart 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, MarshalNorth, Billy Mulligan the jailor, and a small guard. Some of thesewatched proceedings from the roof, now and then descending to report toScannell. Cora, in his cell, played solitaire and Casey made pretense ofreading a book.

  Presently Scannell entered the room where Casey sat; it was not a cellnor had the door been locked since the withdrawal of the Vigilanteguard. 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'thelp you. No one can.... Th
is 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 potionfrom a bottle standing on the table. Casey drained the glass, his eyesnever leaving Scannell's. "Now," resumed the Sheriff, "listen, boy, andtake 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 straightenedslightly. "Give me a case-knife, Dave," he pleaded. "I'll not let themtake me. I'll--"

  Silently, Scannell drew from his boot a knife in a leather sheath. Caseygrasped it, feverishly, concealing it beneath his vest. "How soon?" heasked, "how soon?"

  Scannell strode to the window. "They're outside now," he informed theshrinking Casey. "The executive committee's in front ... the Citizens'Guard is forming a hollow square around them.... Miers Truett's comingto the door."

  Casey drew the knife; raised it dramatically. "I'll not let them takeme," he shouted, as if to bolster up courage by the sound of his ownvoice. "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 theMontgomery Block. The former had just been released from duty atCommittee Headquarters, where a guard of 300 men was, night and day,maintained.

  "Casey has spent most of his time writing since we captured him," Benitotold his friend. "He recovered his nerve when he found we'd no intentionof hanging him without a trial. Of course, if King should live, he'llget 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. Hisaccelerated pace continued as he sped down Sacramento street. Presentlyanother made his exit; ran like mad, uphill, toward the jail.

  Dr. Hammond, looking very grim, came hurriedly out of the door andentered a closed carriage. It drove off instantly. Then everything wenton as usual. The two men stood there, watchful, expectant. The townseemed unusually still. A flag on a two-story building flappedmonotonously. Then a man across the street ran out of his store andpointed upward. A rope was thrown from an upper window of the MontgomeryBlock. Someone picked it up and carried it to The Bulletin Building,pulled it taut. On a strip of linen had been hastily inscribed thefollowing announcement, stretched across the street:

  "THE GREAT AND GOOD IS DEAD. WHO WILL NOT MOURN?"

  CHAPTER XLVI

  RETRIBUTION

  Cora's trial was in progress. In the upper front room of Vigilanteheadquarters sat the tribunal upon whose decision Cora's fate wouldrest. They were grouped about a long table, twenty-nine men, theexecutive committee. At their head sat William Coleman, grim and stern,despite his clear complexion and his youthful, beardless mien. Near him,Isaac Bluxome, keen-eyed, shrewd, efficient, made notes of theproceedings.

  Cora, affecting an air of nonchalance, and, as ever, immaculate indress, sat between his counsel, Miers F. Truett and Thomas J.L. Smiley,while John P. Manrow acted as the prosecutor.

  The gambler's eyes were fixed upon the trio when he was not searchingthe faces of those other silent men about the board. They were dressedin black. There was about them an air of impassivity almost removed fromhuman emotion, and Cora could not but contrast them with the noisy,chewing, spitting, red-shirted jury at his previous trial, where BelleCora's thousands had proved efficacious in securing disagreement. Therewould be no disagreement here. Instinctively, Cora knew that.

  Marshal Doane entered. He held in his hand a folded paper. Coleman andthe others looked at him expectantly. "It is my great misfortune toreport that James King of William is dead," said Doane. There was a buzzof comment, almost instantly stilled by Coleman's gavel. "Damn!" saidthe gambler under his breath.

  "Gentlemen, we will proceed with the trial," Coleman spoke. Theexamination of witnesses went on. But there was a difference. Coranoticed it. Sometimes, with an involuntary, shuddering gesture, hetouched the skin above his flowing collar.

  Casey, when informed of King's death, trembled. "Your trial beginstomorrow," Doane informed him. "They'll finish with Cora tonight."

  * * * * *

  Thursday morning carpenters were seen at work on the Vigilante building.A stout beam was projected from the roof over two of the upper windowsfacing Sacramento street; to these pulleys were attached.

  Platforms were extended from the window sills. They were about threefeet long and were seen to be hinged at the sills. The ends were held upby ropes fastened to the beams overhead.

  Stouter ropes next appeared, one end passing through the pulleysoverhead, then they were caught up in nooses. The other ends were in thecommittee rooms.

  Men tested the platforms by standing on them; tried the nooses; foundthem strong. Then the carpenters retired. The windows were closed.

  A crowd below looked up expectantly, but nothing happened until noon,when military companies formed lines along Sacramento, Front and Davisstreets. Cannon were placed to command all possible approaches. Thegreat alarm bell of the Vigilantes sounded.

  By this time every roof near by was thronged with people. A cry went upas the windows of Vigilante headquarters were opened. At each stood aman, his arms pinioned. He advanced to the edge of the platform.

  * * * * *

  Bells were tolling. Black bunting was festooned from hundreds of doorsand windows. All the flags of the city were at half-mast, even those ofships in the Bay.

  From the Unitarian Church on Stockton street, between Clay andSacramento, came the funeral cortege on its way to the burial ground atLone Mountain. Everywhere along the route people stood with bared heads.

  Little Joe King, a son of the murdered editor, 10 years of age, satstiff and stunned by the strangeness of it all in a carriage beside Mrs.John Sime. Mr. and Mrs. Sime were great friends of his father andmother, and Mrs. Sime, whom he sometimes called "Auntie," had taken himinto her carriage, since that of the widow was filled.

  Little Joe did not know what to make of it all. He knew, somehow,vaguely, that his father had been put into a long box that had silverhandles and was covered with flowers. He knew of that mystery calleddeath, but he had not visualized it closely heretofore. The thingoverwhelmed him. Just now he could only realize that his father wasbeing honored as no one had ever before been honored in San Francisco.That was something he could take hold of.

  As the carriage approached Sacramento street the crowd thickened. Heheard a high-pitched voice that seemed almost to be screaming. He madeout phrases faintly:

  "... God!... My poor mother!... Let nobody call ... murderer ... Godsave me ... only 29 ..."

  Swiftly the screaming stopped. A strange silence fell on the crowd. Theyturned their heads and looked down Sacramento street. Little Joe couldstand the curiosity no longer. He craned his neck to see. Far down thestreet soldiers were standing before a building. Everybody watched themopen-mouthed. In front of the building on a high platform two men stoodas if they were making speeches. But they did not move their arms, andtheir heads looked very queer ... as if they had bags over them.

  Then, unexpectedly, Mrs. Sime forced him back. She pulled the curtain onthe left side of the carriage. Little Joe heard a half-suppressed roargo up from the throng. For an instant the carriage halted. He wasgrievously disappointed not t
o witness the thing which held the publiceye. Then the carriage went on.

  * * * * *

  Later, another funeral wended its way through the streets. It was atnight and ill attended. A handsome woman followed it with streamingeyes; a woman who lived by an evil trade, and the inmates of whose housewere given over to sin. Early that morning she had married a murderer.Now she was a widow with a broken heart--she whom many stigmatized asheartless.

  For many years she was to visit and to weep over the grave of a littledark man who had touched her affections; who might, under happierconditions, have awakened her soul. She was Mrs. Charles Cora, bornArabella Ryan, and widely known as "Belle," the mistress of abawdy house.

  A few members of Casey's fire engine company paid him final honors.Shrived, before his execution, he was laid in holy ground, a stoneerected over his grave.

  * * * * *

  The city returned more or less to its normal activities. But theVigilante Committee remained in active session. It had avenged thedeaths of Richardson and King, but it had other work to do.

  About this time, Yankee Sullivan, prize-fighter, ballot-box stuffer andpolitical plug-ugly, killed himself in Vigilante quarters, evidently madwith fear.

  Ned McGowan, made of different stuff, arch plotter, thought by many tobe the instigator of King's murder, went into hiding.