At three o'clock in the afternoon of May 14, 1856, the current issue of the Bulletin was placed on sale. A very few minutes later a copy found its way into the hands of James Casey. Casey at that time, in addition to his political cares, was editor of a small sheet he called the Sunday Times. With this he had strenuously supported the extreme wing of the Law party, which, as has been explained, comprised also the gambling and lawless element. It was suspected by some that his paper was more or less subsidized for the purpose, though the probability is that Casey found his reward merely in political support. This Casey it was who, to his own vast surprise, had at a previous election been returned as elected supervisor; although he was not a candidate, his name was not on the ticket, and no man could be found who had voted for him. Indeed, he was not even a resident of the district. However, Yankee Sullivan, who ran the election, said officially the votes had been cast for him; so elected he was proclaimed. Undoubtedly he proved useful; he had always proved useful at elections elsewhere, seldom appearing in person, but adept at selecting suitable agents. His methods were devious, dishonest, and rough. He was head of the Crescent Fire Engine Company, and was personally popular. In appearance he was a short, slight man, with a bright, keen face, a good forehead, a thin but florid countenance, dark curly hair, and light blue eyes, a type of unscrupulous Irish adventurer with a dash of romantic ideals. Like all the gentlemen rovers of his time, he was exceedingly touchy on the subject of "honour."
In the Bulletin of the date mentioned James Casey read these words, apropos of the threat of one Bagby to shoot Casey on sight:
It does not matter how bad a man Casey had been, or how much benefit it might be to the public to have him out of the way, we cannot accord to any one citizen the right to kill him, or even beat him, without justifiable provocation. The fact that Casey has been an inmate of Sing Sing prison in New York is no offence against the laws of this State; nor is the fact of his having stuffed himself through the ballot box, as elected to the Board of Supervisors from a district where it is said he was not even a candidate, any justification for Mr. Bagby to shoot Casey, however richly the latter may deserve to have his neck stretched for such fraud on the public.
Casey read this in the full knowledge that thousands of his fellow-citizens would also read it. His thin face turned white with anger. He crumpled the paper into a ball and hurled it violently into the gutter, settled his hat more firmly on his head, and proceeded at once to the Bulletin office with the full intention of shooting King on sight. Probably he would have done so, save for the accidental circumstance that King happened to be busy at a table, his back squarely to the door. Casey could not shoot a man in the back without a word. He was breathless and stuttering with excitement. King was alone, but an open door into an adjoining office permitted two witnesses to see and hear.
"What do you mean by that article?" cried Casey in a strangled voice.
King turned slowly, and examined his visitor for a moment.
"What article?" he inquired at last.
"That which says I was formerly an inmate of Sing Sing!"
King gazed at him with a depth of detached, patient sadness in his dark eyes.
"Is it not true?" he asked finally.
"That is not the question," retorted Casey, trying again to work himself up to the rage in which he had entered. "I do not wish my past acts rated up: on that point I am sensitive."
A faint smile came and went on King's lips.
"Are you done?" he asked still quietly; then, receiving no reply, he turned in his chair and leaned forward with a sudden intensity. His next words hit with the impact of bullets: "There's the door! Go! Never show your face here again!" he commanded.
Casey found himself moving toward the open door. He did not want to do this, he wanted to shoot King, or at least to provoke a quarrel, but he was for the moment overcome by a stronger personality. At the door he gathered himself together a little.
"I'll say in my paper what I please!" he asserted, with a show of bravado.
King was leaning back, watching him steadily.
"You have a perfect right to do so," he rejoined. "I shall never notice your paper."
Casey struck himself on the breast.
"And if necessary I shall defend myself!" he cried.
King's passivity broke. He bounded from his seat bristling with anger.
"Go!" he commanded sharply, and Casey went.
LI
People had already read King's article in the Bulletin. People had seen Casey heading for the Bulletin office with blood in his eye. The news had spread. When the Irishman emerged he found waiting for him a curious crowd. His friends crowded around asking eager questions. Casey answered with vague but bloodthirsty generalities: he wasn't a man to be trifled with, and egad some people had to find that out! blackmailing was not a healthy occupation when it was aimed at a gentleman! He left the impression that King had recanted, had apologized, had even begged—there would be no more trouble. Uttering brags of this sort, Casey led the way to the Bank Exchange, a fashionable bar near at hand. Here he set up the drinks, and was treated in turn. His bragging became more boastful. He made a fine impression, but within his breast the taste of his interview with King curdled into dangerous bitterness. Casey could never stand much alcohol. The well-meant admiration and sympathy of his friends served only to increase his hidden, smouldering rage. His eyes became bloodshot, and he talked even more at random.
In the group that surrounded him was our old acquaintance, Judge Edward McGowan—Ned McGowan—jolly, hard drinking, oily, but not as noisy as usual. He was watching Casey closely. The Honourable Ned was himself a fugitive from Pennsylvania justice. By dint of a gay life, a happy combination of bullying and intrigue, he had made himself a place in the new city, and at last had "risen" to the bench. He was apparently all on the surface, but his schemes ran deep. Some historians claim that he had furnished King the documents proving Casey an ex-convict! Now, when he considered the moment opportune, he drew Casey from the noisy group at the bar.
"All this talk is very well," he said contemptuously to the Irishman, "but I see through it. What are you going to do about it?"
"I'll get even with the——, don't you worry about that!" promised Casey, still blustering.
This McGowan brushed aside as irrelevant. "Are you armed?" he asked. "No, that little weapon is too uncertain. Take this." He glanced about him, and hastily passed to Casey a big "navy" revolver. "You can hide it under your cloak—so!" He fixed Casey's eyes with his own, and brought to bear on the little man all the force of his very vital personality, "Listen: King comes by here every evening. Everybody knows that, and everybody knows what has happened."
He stared at Casey significantly for a moment, then turned abruptly away. Casey, become suddenly quiet, his blustering mood fallen from him, his face thoughtful and white, his eyes dilated, said nothing. He returned to the bar, took a solitary drink, and walked out the door, his right hand concealed beneath his long cloak. McGowan watched him intently, following to the door, and looking after the other's retreating form. Casey walked across the street, but stopped behind a wagon, where he stood, apparently waiting. McGowan, with a grunt of satisfaction, sauntered deliberately to the corner of the Bank Exchange. There he leaned against the wall, also waiting.
For nearly an hoar the two thus remained: Casey shrouded in his cloak, apparently oblivious to everything except the corner of Merchant and Montgomery streets, on which he kept his eyes fixed; McGowan lounging easily, occasionally speaking a low word to a passerby. Invariably the person so addressed came to a stop. Soon a little group had formed, idling with Judge McGowan. A small boy happening by was commandeered with a message for Pete Wrightman, the deputy sheriff, and shortly Pete arrived out of breath to join the group.
At just five o'clock the idlers stiffened to attention. King's figure was seen to turn the corner of Merchant Street into Montgomery. Head bent, he walked toward the corner of the Bankers' Exchange, the men on the corner watching him. When nearly at that point he turned to cross the street diagonally.
At the same instant Casey stepped forward from behind the wagon, throwing back his cloak.
LII
The same afternoon Johnny Fairfax and Keith were sitting together in the Monumental's reading-room. They happened to be the only members in the building with the exception of Bert Taylor, who was never anywhere else. Of late Keith had acquired the habit of visiting the reading-room at this empty hour. He was beginning to shrink from meeting his fellowmen. Johnny Fairfax was a great comfort to him, for the express rider was never out of spirits, had a sane outlook, and entertained a genuine friendship for the young lawyer. Although yet under thirty years of age, he was already an "old-timer," for he had come out in '49, and knew the city's early history at first hand.
"This old bell of yours is historical," he told Keith. "Its tolling called together the Vigilantes of '51."
They sat gossiping for an hour, half sleepy with reaction from the fatigues of the day, smoking slowly, enjoying themselves. Everything was very peaceful—the long slant of a sunbeam through dust motes, the buzz of an early bluebottle, the half-heard activities of some of the servants in the pantry beyond, preparing for the rush of the cocktail hour. Suddenly Johnny raised his head and pricked up his ears.
"What the deuce is that!" he exclaimed.
They listened, then descended to the big open engine-room doors and listened again. From the direction of Market Street came the dull sounds of turmoil, shouting, the growl and roar of many people excited by something. Across the Plaza a man appeared, running. As he came nearer, both could see that his face had a very grim expression.
"Here!" called Johnny, as the man neared them. "Stop a minute! Tell us what's the matter!"
The man ceased running, but did not stop. He was panting but evidently very angry. His words came from between gritted teeth.
"Fight," he said briefly. "Casey and James King of William. King's shot."
At the words something seemed to be stilled in Keith's mind. Johnny seized the man by the sleeve.
"Hold on," he begged. "I know that kind of a fight. Tell us."
"Casey went up close to King, said 'come on,' and instantly shot him before King knew what he was saying."
"Killed?"
"Fatally wounded."
"Where's Casey?"
"In jail—of course—where he's safe—with his friends."
"Where you headed for?"
"I'm going to get my gun!" said the man grimly, and began again to run.
They watched his receding figure until it swung around the corner and disappeared. Without warning a white-hot wave of anger swept over Keith. All the little baffling, annoying delays, enmities, technicalities, chicaneries, personal antagonisms, evasions that had made up the Cora trial were in it. He seemed to see clearly the inevitable outcome of this trial also. It would be another Cora-Richardson case over again. A brave spirit had been brutally blotted out by an outlaw who relied confidently on the usual exoneration. With an exclamation Keith darted into the engine house to where hung the rope ready for an alarm. An instant later the heavy booming of the Monumental's bell smote the air.
LIII
Having given this alarm. Keith, Johnny at his elbow, started toward the centre of disturbance, From it arose a dull, menacing roar, like the sound of breakers on a rocky coast. Many people, with much excitement, shouting, and vituperation, were converging toward the common centre. As this was approached, it became more difficult, at last impossible, to proceed. The streets were packed, jammed. All sorts of rumours were abroad—King, was dead—King was only slightly hurt—Casey was not in jail at all—Casey had escaped down the Peninsula—the United States warships had anchored off the foot of Market Street and were preparing to bombard the city. There was much rushing to and fro without cause. And over all the roar could be distinguished occasionally single cries, as one may catch fragments of conversation in a crowded room, and all of these were sinister: "Hang him!" "Where is he?" "Run him up on a lamp post!" "Bring him out!" "He'll get away if left to the officers!" And over all the cries, the shouts, the curses, the noise of shuffling feet, the very sound of heavy breathing—that—the numbers of the mob magnified to a muffled, formidable undernote, pealed louder and louder the Monumental bell, which now Bert Taylor—or some one else—was ringing like mad.
Keith's eyes had become grim and inscrutable, and his mouth had settled into a hard, straight line. Johnny's interest had at first centred in the mob, but after a few curious glances at his companion he transferred it entirely to him, Johnny Fairfax was a judge of men and of crises; and now he was invaded with a great curiosity to see how the one and the other were here to work out. With a determination that would not be gainsaid, Keith thrust himself through the crowd until he had gained an elevated coping. Here he stood watching. Johnny, after a glance at his face, joined him.
Suddenly in the entrance of Dunbar Alley, next the city jail, a compact group of men with drawn pistols appeared. They made their way rapidly to a carriage standing near, jumped in, and the driver whipped up his horses. With a yell of rage the crowd charged down, but recoiled instinctively before the presented pistols. The horses reared and plunged, and before anybody had gathered his wits sufficiently to seize the bridles, the whole equipage had disappeared around the corner of Kearney Street.
"I must say that was well done," said Johnny.
"North and Charles Duane, with Casey, inside," commented Keith, as dispassionately as though reading from a catalogue. "Billy Mulligan and his deputies outside. That is to be remembered."
A great mob had surged after the disappearing vehicle, but at least fifty yards in the rear. The remainder were following at a more leisurely pace. Almost immediately the street was empty. Keith climbed slowly down from his coping.
"What do you intend doing?" asked Johnny curiously.
"Nothing yet."
"But they're getting him away!"
"No," said Keith, out of his local knowledge. "They're merely taking him to the county jail; it's stronger."
They followed the crowd to the wide open space below the county jail. The latter was at that period a solidly built one-story building situated atop a low bluff. Below it the marshal had drawn up his officers. They stood coolly at ease. The mob, very excited, vociferated, surged back and forth. North and his men, busily and coolly, but emphatically, were warning them, over and over again, not to approach nearer. A single, concerted rush would have overwhelmed the few defenders; but the rush was not made. Nevertheless, it could not be doubted that this time the temper of the people was very determined. The excitement was growing with every minute. Cries again took coherence.
"Hang him!" "Arrest the officers!" "Good, that's it!" "Let's take the jail!"
A man burst through the front ranks, clambered up the low bluff on which stood the jail, turned, and attempted to harangue the crowd. He was instantly torn down by the officers. He fought like a wild cat, and the crowd, on the hair trigger as it was, howled and broke forward. But Marshal North, who really handled the situation intelligently, sharply commanded his men to desist, and instantly to release the orator. He knew better than to allow the matter to come to an issue of strength. Intensely excited, the man shouldered his way through the crowd, and, assisted by many hands, mounted the balcony of a two-story house. Thence he began to harangue, but so great was the confusion that he could not be heard.
"Who is he?" "Who is that man?" voices cried from a dozen points.
George Frank, a hotel keeper, possessed of a great voice, shouted back:
"That is Thomas King—"
An officer seized Frank hastily by the collar. "Stop or I'll arrest you!" he threatened.
"—brother of James King of William!" bellowed Frank, undaunted.
"Bully for you!" muttered Johnny Fairfax, whose eyes were shining.
Keith was watching the whole scene from beneath the brim of his hat, his eyes sombre and expressionless. Johnny glanced at him from time to time, but said nothing.
From the balcony Thomas King continued to harangue the crowd. Little of what he said could be heard, but he was at a white heat of excitement, and those nearest him were greatly aroused. An officer made a movement to arrest him, but a hasty message from the sapient North restrained that.
At that moment a great cheer burst out from the lower end of the street. Over the heads of the crowd could be distinguished the glint of file after file of bayonets.
"That's the ticket!" cried an enthusiast near Keith and Johnny. "Here come the militia boys! Now we'll soon have the jail!"
The bayonets bobbed steadily through the crowd, deployed in front of the jail, and turned to face the mob. A great groan went up.
"Sold!" cried the enthusiast.
These were volunteers from the Law and Order party, hastily armed from the militia armouries, and thrown in front of the jail for its protection.
Immediately they had taken position the jail door opened, and there appeared a rather short, carefully dressed man, with side whiskers, carrying his hat in his hand. He stood for a moment, appealing for attention, one arm upraised. Little by little the noise died down.
"Who is that?" inquired Johnny.
He received no reply from Keith, but the enthusiast informed him:
"That's our beloved mayor—Van Ness," said he.
When quiet had at length been restored, Van Ness addressed them:
"You are here creating an excitement," he said, "which may lead to occurrences this night which will require years to wipe out. You are now labouring under great excitement, and I advise you quietly to disperse. I assure you the prisoner is safe. Let the law have its course and justice will be done."
Up to this point Van Ness had been listened to with respect, but at the last word he received such a chorus of jeers and cat calls that he retired hastily.
"How about Richardson?" they demanded of him. "Where's the law in Cora's case?" "To hell with such justice!"
"Not the popular orator," observed Johnny Fairfax.
More soldiers came, and then more, at short intervals, until the square was filled with shining bayonets. Johnny was frankly disgusted. As a man of action he too well understood that this particular crisis was practically over. From this mob the jail was safe.
"They lost their chance talking," he said. "They ought to have rushed the jail first pop. Now the whole thing will fizzle out slowly. Let's go get supper."
Without reply Keith descended from his perch. They hunted some time for a restaurant. All were closed for the sufficient reason that their staffs were on the streets. Finally they discovered a Chinese chop house prepared to serve them, and here they ate. Johnny was voluble in his scorn for the manner in which a golden opportunity had been allowed to slip by. Keith was very taciturn.
"Let's get out of here," he said abruptly at last. "Let's get some news."
They learned that King was still alive, though badly wounded in the left breast; that he could not be moved; that he was attended by Dr. Beverly Cole and a half score of the best surgeons of the city; that a mass meeting had been called at the Plaza. Indeed, there could be no doubt that the centre of excitement had been shifted to the Plaza. Men by thousands, all armed, were marching in that direction. Johnny and Keith found the square jammed, but the latter led the way by devious alleys to the rear of the Monumental headquarters, and so out to a little second-story balcony.
Below them the faces of the packed mass of humanity showed white in the dim light from the street lamps and the buildings. Arms gleamed. Every roof top, every window, every balcony was crowded. From the latter vehement orators held forth. All wanted to talk at once. Some of these people were, as our chronicler of the time quaintly expresses it, "considerably tight." Keith looked them all over with an appraising eye, listening at the same time to incendiary speeches advising the battering down of the jail and the hanging of all its inmates. Occasionally one of the cooler headed would get in a few words, but invariably was interrupted by some well-meaning hot head.
There seemed to be a great diversity of opinion both among the people on the balcony and those below. Keith listened attentively for a time, then, with the abruptness that had characterized his movements and decisions since the moment he had heard the news of King's assassination, he turned away.
"Let's go," he said briefly.
"Oh, hold on!" cried Johnny, aghast. "It's just the shank of the evening! We'll miss all the fun."
"There'll be nothing done," said Keith with decision.
"I'm more in hopes," persisted Johnny. "I'll bet there are ten thousand men here, armed and angry, and getting angrier every minute. They could fairly eat up that lot at the jail."
"They won't," said Keith.
"I'll bet one good man could turn them loose in a minute."
Suddenly Keith's dour taciturnity broke. "You're perfectly right," he conceded; "but the point is that good men won't lead a rabble. If we're to have good leaders we must have something for them to lead. If we're to cure these conditions, we must do things in due order. This cannot be remedied by mere excitement nor by deeds done under excitement. I have not yet seen anything that promises either satisfaction or reform."
"What do you propose doing, then?" asked Johnny, his intuitions again satisfying him that here was the man to tie to.
"Walk about," replied Keith.
They walked about. In the course of the evening they looked in on a dozen meetings of which they had news—in the Pioneer Club, in rooms over the old Bella Union, in a saloon off Montgomery Street, at the offices of various merchants. Keith looked carefully over the personnel of each of these various meetings, listened a minute or so, and went out. By some of the men so gathered Johnny was quite impressed, but Keith shook his head.
"These meetings are being held by clubs or cliques," he explained his disbelief in them. "They influence a certain following, but not a general following. This must be a general movement or none at all. The right people haven't taken hold."
About midnight he unexpectedly announced that he was going home and to bed. Johnny was frankly scandalized.
"I think nothing will happen in this matter," said Keith,
"The time for mob violence has passed. If an attack were now to be made, I should consider it unfortunate, and should not want to be mixed up in it, anyway. A mob attack is nothing but a manifestation of sheer lawlessness."
"And you're keen for the dear law, of course," said Johnny with sarcasm.
"There is a difference between mere laws and the law. There is a time—either here or coming soon—when laws may be broken that justice may be done. But no popular movement will succeed unless it has behind it the solemn, essential human law. Good-night."
LIV
On this same afternoon of King's assassination Nan Keith, was expecting Sansome in for tea. Afternoon tea was then an exotic institution, practically unknown in California society. Ben Sansome was about the only man of Nan's acquaintance who took it as a matter of course, without either awkwardness, embarrassment, or ill-timed jest. The day had been fine, and several times she had regretted her promise as she cast an eye at the glow over the gilt-edged tops of the western hills. The sunset through the Golden Gate must to-day be very fine.
And Ben Sansome had failed her! She had made certain little especial preparations—picked flowers, herself cut the sandwiches thin, put on her most becoming tea gown. As time passed she became more and more annoyed. She was disappointed not so much at the absence of Ben Sansome as a person as at the waste of her efforts.
But at six o'clock, when she had given him up, and was about to change from her tea gown, he came in, full of apologies, very flustered, and bursting with news.
"King was shot on the street by Casey," he told her, trying not unsuccessfully for his habitual detached manner. "I stopped to get the news for you. King is not dead, but probably fatally wounded. Casey is in jail. There is a great public excitement—a mob is forming. I've been expecting something of the sort. King has been pretty free with his comments."
At seven o'clock Nan jumped to her feet in a sudden panic.
"Why, I wonder where Milton is!" she cried. "He's never been so late as this before!"
"He's probably stayed downtown to follow the course of the excitement. Naturally he would. He may not get home to supper at all."
Wing Sam announced supper. He was unheeded. Even Gringo, his ears cocked, watched the door, getting up uneasily, whining, sniffing inquiringly, and lying down again. At half-past seven Sansome firmly intervened.
"You're going to make yourself ill," he insisted, "if you don't eat something. I am hungry, anyway, and I'm not going to leave you until he comes back."
"Oh, you must be starved! How thoughtless I am!" she cried.
Sansome, who, it must be confessed, had been somewhat chagrined at the apparent intensity of her anxiety, was, within the next two hours, considerably reassured. Nan never did things halfway. For the moment she had forgotten her guest. He was certainly very kind, very thoughtful—as always—to stay here with her. She must not oppress his spirits. But the inner tension was terrible. She felt that shortly something must snap. And after supper, when they had returned to the drawing-room, a queer, low, growling, distant roar, borne on a chance shift of wind, broke one of her sentences in the middle.
"What's that?" she cried, but before Sansome had replied, she knew what It was, the roar of the mob! And Milton was somewhere there!
Suddenly a wave of reaction swept her, of anger. Why was he there? Why wasn't he at home? Why had he made no attempt to relieve her cruel anxiety? A messenger—it would have been very simple! And Ben Sansome was so kind—as always. She turned to him with a new decision.
"I know you are dying to go see what is going on," she said. "You simply must not stay here any longer on my account. I insist! Indeed, I think I'll go to bed." But Ben Sansome, his manner becoming almost caressingly protective, would not listen.
"It isn't safe to leave you alone," he told her. "All the worst elements of the city will be out. No woman should be left alone in times of such danger. I should feel most uneasy at leaving you before your husband comes in."
His words were correct enough, but he managed to convey his opinion that he was only fulfilling what should have been Keith's first and manifest duty. She made no reply. The conversation languished and died. They sat in the lamplight opposite each other, occasionally exchanging a word or so. Sansome was content and enjoying himself. He conceived that the stars were fighting for him, and he was enjoying the hour. Nan, a prey alternately to almost uncontrollable fits of anxiety and flaming resentment, could hardly sit still.
About midnight Gringo pricked up his ears and barked sharply. A moment later Keith came in.
He was evidently dead tired and wholly preoccupied. He hung up his hat absently. Nan had sprung to her feet.
"Oh, how could you!" she cried, the pent exasperation in her voice. "I've been so anxious! I didn't know what might have happened!"
"I'm all right," replied Keith briefly. "Sorry you were worried. No chance to send you word."
His apparent indifference added fuel to Nan's irritation.
"If it hadn't been for Ben, I should have been stark, staring crazy, here all alone!".
Keith for the first time appeared to notice Sansome's presence. He nodded at him wearily.
"Mighty good of you," said he. "I appreciate it."
"I thought some man ought to be in the house at a time of such public excitement," rejoined Sansome significantly.
Keith failed to catch, or elected not to notice, the implication. Nan's cheeks turned red.
Without further remark Keith walked across to lock the window; returning, he extinguished a small lamp on the side table. He was tired out, knew he must be up early, and wanted above everything to get to bed. The hint was sufficiently obvious. Sansome rose. Nan's flush deepened with mortification.
"Well, I'll just run along," said Sansome cheerfully. He did not ask for news of the evening, nor did Keith volunteer it. Keith nodded at him briefly and indifferently. He did not mean to be rude, but his wearied mind was filled to the exclusion of everything else with the significance of this day.
Nan, feeling that she must make amends, followed Sansome into the hall. Her anxiety for Keith's safety relieved, her whole reaction was indignantly toward Sansome.
"I'm sorry to have you go," she said, with a feeling that other circumstances could not have called out, "I don't know what I'd have done without you!"
Sansome's sensitive intuitions thrilled to the feeling.
"Your husband is here to take care of you—now," he murmured. "I must be off." He took her hand, and bent over her, gazing into her eyes with the concentration of a professional hypnotist, "Good-night," he said, with a world of unexpressed meaning. "Try to get some sleep—Nan," He said her name in a lower tone, almost lingeringly, then turned abruptly and went out.
Nan stood looking for a moment at the closed door. The effect of his personality was on her spirit, the mantle of his care for her, his consideration for her every mood, wrapped her about gratefully.
She found the lights all out, and Keith already half undressed.
"I must say, Milton," she said, "you might have been a little less rude to Mr. Sansome. It would have only been decent after he had sat up here until all hours."
Keith, whose wide eyes would have showed him to be wholly preoccupied with some inner vision or problem, answered impatiently from the surface of his mind:
"What in the world did I do to Sansome?"
"You didn't do anything, that's the trouble. Do you realize he waited here over six hours for you to come in?"
"Oh, I guess he'll pull through," said Keith a little contemptuously.
Nan became indignant.
"At least," she retorted, "you ought to be grateful that he stayed to protect the place!"
"The place was in no danger," said Keith, yawning.
She checked herself, and made a fresh start.
"What's it all about? What's happened? Where have you been?" she asked.
Keith roused himself with an effort.
"I've been a little of everywhere. Lord, I'm tired! There's a mob about trying to get up nerve to hang Casey. I suppose you've heard that Casey shot King this afternoon?"
"Yes, I heard that."
"Well, when I saw nothing was going to happen, I came home, though I'm not sure the trouble is over."
Having said this, Keith fell gratefully to his pillow. Nan was nervous, wide-awake, curious. She asked a number of questions. Keith answered with extreme brevity. He was temporarily exhausted. Shortly he fell asleep between two sentences.
LV
The following morning Keith woke early, slipped to the kitchen where he was fed by Wing Sam, and was downtown before Nan, who had not so promptly fallen asleep, had yet stirred. Even at that hour the streets were crowded. Many—and the majority of these were "considerably tight," or otherwise looking the worse for wear—had been up all night, unable to tear themselves away from the fascinating centres of excitement. The majority, however, had, like Keith, snatched some repose, and now were out eager to discover what a new day might bring forth.
The morning newspapers had been issued. Each man held a copy of one of them open at the editorial column, and others tucked away under his arm. Never had there been such a circulation; and in the case of the Herald never would so many be sold again. For that ill-starred sheet, mistaking utterly the times, held boldly along the way of its sympathies. It spoke of the assassination as an "affray"; held forth violently against the mob spirit of the evening before; and stated vehemently its opinion that, now that "Justice is regularly administered" there was no excuse for even the threat of public violence. If there had been any doubt as to the depth to which public opinion was at last stirred, the reception of the Herald's editorial would have settled it. Actually, for the moment, indignation seemed to run more strongly against that sheet than against Casey himself.
Keith glanced over this editorial with a half smile, tossed the paper in the gutter, and opened the Alta for news. King, still living, had been removed from the office of the Express Company to a room in the Montgomery Block. There, attended by his wife, Dr. Beverly Cole, and a whole corps of volunteer physicians, he was making a fight for life. The bullet had penetrated his left breast. That was all that was to be reported at present. Keith glanced at the third page. His eye was caught by this notice:
THE VIGILANCE COMMITTEE
The members of the Vigilance Committee in good standing will please meet at No. 105-1/2 Sacramento Street, this day, Thursday, 15th instant, at nine o'clock A.M.
By order of the
COMMITTEE OF THIRTEEN.
While he was still gazing thoughtfully at this Johnny Fairfax, fresh as the morning, appeared at his elbow.
"Hello, wise man," he greeted him cheerily. "You were a good prophet—and you got some sleep. I hung around all night, but nothing new was done."
"Look here," said Keith, placing his finger on the notice, "do you suppose this genuine?"
Johnny read the notice.
"Couldn't say."
"Because if this is actually the old Committee of '51, it means business."
"There's one way to find out."
"How's that?"
"Go and see," advised Johnny.
Number 105-1/2 Sacramento Street proved to be a big three-storied barnlike structure that had been built by a short-lived political party called the Know Nothings. Already the hall was packed to its full capacity, the entrance ways jammed, and a big crowd had gathered in the streets.
"Fine chance we have here!" observed Johnny ruefully.
They stood well free of the press for a few moments, watching. More men were coming from all directions. But Johnny was resourceful, and likewise restless.
"Let's prowl around a little," he suggested to his companion.
They prowled to such good purpose that they discovered, at the rear of the building, opening into a blind alley, a narrow wooden stairway. It was unguarded and untenanted.
"Here we are," pronounced Johnny.
They ascended it, and immediately found themselves In a small room back of the stage or speaker's platform, It contained about a score of men. Their aspect was earnest, serious, grave. Although there was a sufficiency of chairs, they were all afoot, gathered in a loose group, in whose centre stood William Coleman, his massive shoulders squared, his large bony, hands clenched at his side, his florid complexion even more flushed than usual, his steady eye travelling slowly from one face to another, Again the strange contradictions in, his appearance struck Keith with the impact of a distinct shock—the low smoothed hair, the sweeping blue-black moustache, the vivid colour, and high cheek bones of the typical gambler—the clear eye, firm mouth, incisive, deliberate speech, the emanation of personality that inspired confidence. Next him, talking earnestly, stood Clancey Dempster, a small man, mild of manner, blue eyed, with light, smooth hair, the last man in the room one would have picked for great firmness and courage, yet destined to play one of the leading rÔles in this crisis. The gigantic merchant, Truett, towered above him, he who had calmly held two fighting teamsters apart by their collars; and homely, stubborn, honest Farwell, direct, uncompromising, inspired with tremendous single-minded earnestness, but tender as a girl to any under dog; and James Dows, rough and ready, humorous, blasphemous, absolutely direct, endowed with "horse sense," eccentric, but of fundamentally good judgment: Hossfros of '51; Dr. Beverly Cole, high spirited, distinguished looking, courtly; the excitable, active, nervous, talkative, but staunch Tom Smiley, Isaac Blucome whose signature as "33, Secretary" was to become terrible; fiery little George Ward, willing—but unable—to whip his weight in wild cats. As Keith recognized these men, and others of their stamp, he nodded his head contentedly.
Johnny Fairfax must have caught the same impression, for he leaned across to whisper to Keith, his eyes shining:
"We've hit it!"
Their entrance had passed unnoticed in the absorption of discussion. Coleman was speaking, evidently in final decision.
"It is a serious business," said he. "It is no child's play. It may prove very serious. We may get through quickly, so safely, or we may so involve ourselves as never to get through."
"The issue is not of choice, but of expediency," urged Dempster. "Shall we have vigilance with order or a mob with anarchy?"
Coleman pondered a moment, then threw up his head.
"On two conditions I will accept the responsibility—absolute obedience, absolute secrecy."
Without waiting for a reply to this he threw open a door, and followed by the others, stepped out on the platform. A roar greeted their appearance. Johnny and Keith, remaining modestly in the background, lingered near the open door.
The hall was filled to its utmost capacity. Every inch of floor space was occupied, and men perched on sills, clung to beams. Coleman raised his hand and obtained an immediate dead silence.
"In view of the miscarriage of justice in the courts," he announced briefly, "it has been thought expedient to revive the Vigilance Committee. An Executive Council was chosen by a representative of the whole body. I have been asked to take charge. I will do so, but must stipulate that I am to be free to choose the first council myself. Is that agreed?"
A roar of assent answered him.
"Very well, gentlemen. I shall request you to vacate the hall. In a short time the books will be open for enrollment."
He turned and reËntered the anteroom followed by the others. In so doing he came face to face with the intruders.
"This is not your place, gentlemen," he told them courteously.
They retired down the narrow back stairs and joined the huge throng that filled the streets, waiting patiently and quietly, its eyes fixed on the closed doors of the hall. In a remarkably short time these doors were thrown open. Those nearest surged forward. Inside the passage were twelve men, later to be known as the Executive Committee. These held back the rush, admitting but one man at a time. The crowd immediately caught the idea. There was absolutely no excitement. Every man was grimly in earnest. Cries of "Order! Order! Line up!" came from different parts of the throng. A rough quadruple queue was formed extending down the street. There was no talk nor smiles, none of the usual rough joking. Each waited his turn without impatience.
Johnny Fairfax and Keith, owing to the chance that they had, entered the crowd from the nearby alley and found themselves close to the head of the line. As they neared the entrance, and so could hear what was there going on, they found that each applicant was being closely scrutinized and interrogated. The great majority passed this ordeal, but several men were peremtorily turned back with a warning not to try again.
Keith's turn came. He was conscious of the scrutiny of many eyes; he heard the word "pass" pronounced by some one in the background, and climbed the stairs. At the top he was directed to an anteroom at the left. Here behind a table sat Coleman, Dempster, and a third man unknown to him. To them he repeated the words of an oath of secrecy, and then was passed into another room where Isaac Bluxome sat behind a ledger. In this he wrote his name.
"Your number is 178," said Bluxome to him, "By that number, and not by your name, you are henceforth to be known here. Never use names, always their numbers, in referring to other members."
Thence Keith was directed to the main hall where were those already admitted. These were gathered in groups discussing the situation. In a moment Johnny Fairfax joined him.
"179, I am," said Johnny. His eyes swept the hall. "Not much mob spirit about this; it looks like business."
They hung around for an hour. The hall slowly filled. Finally, learning that nothing further was to be done until the enrollment had finished, they wandered out again into the street. The unbroken lines of applicants extended as far down the street as the eye could see.
All that day the applicants, orderly and grim with purpose, were passed through in line. By mid-day it was seen that the Know-Nothing Hall was going to be too small for the meeting that would later take place. Therefore, a move was made to the Turnverein Hall. After enrolling, no man departed from the vicinity for long. Short absences for hastily snatched meals were followed by hurried returns lest something be missed. From time to time reports were circulated as to the activities of the Executive Committee, which had been in continuous session since its appointment. Thus it was said that an Examining Committee had been appointed to scrutinize the applicants; that the members of the Executive Committee had been raised to twenty-six, that Oscar Smith had been appointed chief of police. The latter rumour was immediately verified by the energetic activities of that able citizen. He, or his messengers, darted here and there searching for individuals wanted as doorkeepers, guards, or police officers. His regulations also began to be felt. By evening only registered members of the committee were allowed on the floor of the hall, even the expostulating reporters being gently but firmly ejected.
Nobody manifested the least excitement or impatience. At eight o'clock Coleman came out of one of the side rooms, and, mounting a table, called for order.
"A military organization is deemed necessary," he said crisply. "Numbers one to one hundred will please assemble in the southwest corner of the room; numbers one hundred and one to two hundred will take the first window; numbers two hundred and one to three hundred the second window, and so on." He hesitated and looked over the assembly. "Que les FranÇais, se mettent au centre," he ended.
This command in a foreign language was made necessary by the extraordinary number of Frenchmen who had first answered the call of gold in the El Dorado of '49; and then with equal enthusiasm responded to this demand for essential justice.
Coleman waited while the multitude shifted here and there. When the component parts had again come to rest he made his next announcement:
"Now each company will elect its own officers, but those officers are subject to the orders of the Executive Committee."
Numbers one hundred and one to two hundred inclusive, the company in which Keith and Johnny Fairfax found themselves, were for the most part strangers to one another, They exchanged glances, hesitating as to how to begin. Then a small, spectacled, man spoke up.
"Gentlemen," said he, "we must get organized as rapidly as possible, Mr. Coleman is waiting. We need for a leader a man who is experienced in active life. I nominate John Fairfax as captain of this company."
Johnny gasped and turned red.
"Who's your little friend?" Keith whispered.
"Never saw him before in my life," replied Johnny.
The announcement was received with indecision. Nobody immediately replied or commented aloud on the nomination, but men were asking each other in undertones. The little spectacled man saw this, and spoke up again:
"Perhaps I should say that Mr. Fairfax is better known as Diamond Jack."
Faces cleared, heads nodded. A murmur of recognition replaced the puzzled frowning, "Good man," "The express rider," "Danny Randall's man," they told each other.
"I do not know Mr. Fairfax," the spectacled man was saying, "but I saw his name just before mine on the register."
"This is Fairfax," said Keith, thrusting the reluctant Johnny forward.
He was elected to the post by acclamation.
"Nominations for a lieutenant?" suggested the spectacled man, but Keith interrupted.
"If you all have as much confidence in Mr. Fairfax as I have," said he, "perhaps you'll give him free hand and let him pick his own officers."
This seemed a good idea, and was instantly adopted.
"Well, I thank you, gentlemen," said Johnny, "and we'll do our best to become efficient. Report your names and addresses to this gentleman here—"
"Willey," supplied the little man.
"We shall drill to-morrow at eight sharp. Bring whatever weapons——"
But Coleman was again speaking and on this very subject:
"The committee have arranged with George Law," he was saying, "to supply or hire muskets to the number of several thousands. These weapons will be at this hall to-morrow morning early. Company captains can then make their requisitions."
A murmur of inquiry swept the hall. "George Law? Where did he get several thousand muskets?" And the counter current of information making its way slowly—they were only flintlocks, perfectly efficient though, had bayonets—superseded government arms—brought out some time ago by Law to arm some mysterious filibustering expedition that had fizzled.
In this manner, without confusion, an organization of two thousand men was formed, sixteen military companies officered and armed.
Shortly after Coleman dismissed the meeting. Its members dispersed to their homes. Absolute quiet descended on the city, which slept under the moon.
LVI
To the thoughtful bystander all this preparation had its significance and its portent, which became the stronger when he contemplated the dispositions of the Law and Order party. The latter had been not less vigorous, and its strength could not be doubted. The same day that marked the organization of the Vigilantes saw the regular police force largely increased. In addition, the sheriff issued thousands of summonses to citizens, calling on them for service on a posse. These were in due form of the law. To refuse them meant to put one's self outside the law. A great many of them were responded to, for this reason only, by men not wholly in sympathy with either side. Once the oath was administered, these new deputies were confronted by the choice between perjury and service. To be sure the issuance of these summonses forced many of the neutral minded into the ranks of the Vigilantes. The refusal to act placed them on the wrong side of the law; and they felt that joining a party pledged to what practically amounted to civil war was only a short step farther. The various military companies were mustered, reminded of their oaths, called upon solemnly to fulfil their sworn duty, and marched to various strategic points about the jail and elsewhere. Parenthetically, their every appearance on the streets was well hissed by the populace. The governor was informally notified of a state of insurrection, and requested to send in the State militia. By evening all the forces of organized society were under arms. The leaders of the Law and Order party were jubilant. Their position appeared to be impregnable. They felt that back of them was all the weight of constituted authority, reaching, if need be, to the Federal Government at Washington. Opposed to them was lawlessness. Lawlessness had occasionally become dignified revolution, to be sure, but only when a race took its stand on a great issue; never when a handful espoused a local quarrel. Civil war it might be; but civil war, the wise politicians argued, must spread to become effective; and how could a civil war based on the shooting of an obscure editor in a three-year-old frontier town spread anywhere? Especially such an editor as James King of William.
For King had made many bitter enemies. In attacking individual members of a class he had often unreasonably antagonized the whole class. Thus he had justly castigated the Times and other venal newspapers; but in so doing had by his too general statements drawn the fire of every other journal in town. He had with entire reason attacked a certain scalawag of a Roman Catholic priest—a man the church itself must soon have taken in hand—but had somehow managed to offend all Roman Catholics in doing so; likewise, there could be no question that his bitter scorn for "the chivalry" was well justified, but the manner of its expression offended also the decent Southerners. And all these people saw the Vigilantes, not as a protest against a condition that had become intolerable, but as the personal champions of King. The enemies of King, many of them worthy citizens, quite out of sympathy with the present methods of administering the law, became the enemies of the Vigilantes.
No wonder the Law and Order party felt no uneasiness. They did not underestimate the determination of their opponents. It was felt that fighting, severe fighting, was perhaps inevitable. The Law and Order party loved fighting. They had chosen as their commander William Tecumseh Sherman, later to gain his fame as a great soldier. His greatness in a military capacity seems to have been exceeded only by his inability to remember facts proved elsewhere by original historical documents. This is the only possible explanation for the hash of misstatements comprising those chapters in his "Memoirs" dealing with this time. In writing them the worthy general evidently forgot that original documents existed, or that statements concerning historical events can often be checked.
And as a final source of satisfaction, the Vigilantes had placed themselves on record. Every man could be apprehended and made to feel the weight of the law. A mob is irresponsible and anonymous. These fools had written down their names in books!
