Port O' Gold Part 24

"I appoint Judge Shattuck and--er--Hall McAllister as counsel for the defendants."

There was a murmur of interest. Judge Shattuck, dignified, a trifle ponderous, came forward, spectacles in hand. He put them on, surveyed his clients with distaste, and took his place composedly at the table.

Hall McAllister, dapper, young and something of a dandy, advanced with less a.s.surance. He would have preferred the other side of the case, for he did not like running counter to the people.

Amid a stir the prisoners were led forward to the dock. Judge Spence, looking down at them over his spectacles, read the charges. "Are you guilty or not guilty?" he asked.

Windred, the younger, with a frightened glance about the court room, murmured almost inaudibly, "Not guilty." The other, in a deep and penetrating voice, began a sort of speech. It was incoherent, agonized.

Benito thought it held a semblance of sincerity.

"Always, your honor," he declared, "I am mistaken for that scoundrel; that Stuart.... I am a decent man ... but what is the use? I say it's terrible...."

"Judge" Spence removed his eyegla.s.ses and wiped them nervously; "does anyone in the courtroom recognize this man as Thomas Berdue?"

There was silence. Then a hand rose. "I do," said the voice of a waterfront merchant. "I've done business with him under that name."

Immediately there was an uproar. "A confederate," cried voices. "Put him out." A woman's voice in the background shrieked out shrilly, "Hang him, too!"

McAllister rose. "There must be order here," he said, commandingly and the tumult subsided. McAllister addressed Berdue's sponsor. "Can you bring anyone else to corroborate your testimony?"

The merchant, red and angry, cried: "It's nothing to me; hang him and be d.a.m.ned--if you don't want the truth. I'm not looking for trouble." He turned away but the prisoner called to him piteously. "Don't desert me.

Find Jones or Murphy down at the long wharf. They'll identify me....

Hurry! Hurry! ... or they'll string me up!"

"All right," agreed the other reluctantly. He left the court room and Judge Shattuck moved a postponement of the case.

"Your honor," William Coleman now addressed the court, "this is no ordinary trial. Ten thousand people are around this courthouse. They are there because the public patience with legal decorum is exhausted; however regular and reasonable my colleague's plea might be in ordinary circ.u.mstances, I warn you that to grant it will provoke disorder."

Judge Shattuck, startled, glanced out of the window and conferred with Hall McAllister.

"I withdraw my pet.i.tion," he said hurriedly. The case went on.

Witnesses who were present when the prisoners were identified by Jansen gave their testimony. There was little cross-examination, though McAllister established Jansen's incomplete recovery of his mental faculties when the men were brought before him. Coleman pointed out the striking appearance of the older prisoner; there was little chance to err he claimed in such a case. The record of James Stuart was then dwelt upon; a history black with evil doing, red with blood. The jury retired with the sinister determined faces of men who have made up their minds.

Meanwhile, outside, the crowd stood waiting, none too patiently. Now and then a messenger came to the balcony and shouted out the latest aspect of the drama being enacted inside. The word was caught up by the first auditor, pa.s.sed along to right and left until the whole throng knew and speculated on each bit of information.

Adrian, caught in the outer eddies of that human maelstrom, found himself beside Juana Briones. "The jury's out," she told him. "Jury's out!" the word swept onward. Then there came a long and silent wait.

Once again the messenger appeared. "Still out," he bellowed, "having trouble." "What's the matter with them?" a score of voices shouted.

Presently the messenger returned. His face was angry, almost apoplectic.

One could see that he was having difficulty with articulation. He waved his hands in a gesture of impotent wrath. At last he found his voice and shouted, "Disagreed. The jury's disagreed."

An uproar followed. "Hang the jury!" cried an irate voice. A rush was made for the entrance. But two hundred armed, determined men opposed the onslaught. The very magnitude of the human press defeated its own ends.

Men cried aloud that they were being crushed. Women screamed.

Soon or late the defenders must have fallen. But now a strange diversion occurred. On the balcony appeared General Baker, noted as the city's greatest orator. In his rich, sonorous tones, he began a political speech. It rang even above the excited shouts of the mob. Instantly there was a pause, an almost imperceptible let-down of the tension.

Those who could not see asked eagerly of others, "What's the matter now?

Who's talking?"

"It's Ed Baker making a speech."

Someone laughed. A voice roared. "Rah for Ed Baker." Others took it up.

Impulsive, variable as the wind, San Francisco found a new adventure. It listened spellbound to golden eloquence, extolling the virtues of a favored candidate. Meanwhile Acting Sheriff Townes rushed his prisoners to the county jail without anyone so much as noticing their departure.

Presently three men came hurrying up and with difficulty made their way into the court room.

"Good G.o.d! Are we too late?" the leader of the trio asked, excitedly. He was the waterfront merchant who had recognized Berdue.

"Too late for the trial," returned Coleman; "it's over; the jury's dismissed. Disagreed."

"And what are they doing outside?" cried the other, "are they hanging the prisoners?"

"No, the prisoners are safe," returned Coleman, "though they had a close enough shave, I'll admit." He laid a hand upon Benito's shoulder and there came a twinkle to his eyes. "Our young friend here had an inspiration--better than a hundred muskets. He sent Ed Baker out to charm them with his tongue."

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

THE RECKONING

It was June on the rancho Windham. Roses and honeysuckle climbed the pillars and lattices of the patio; lupin and golden poppies dotted the hillsides. Cloud-plumes waved across the faultless azure of a California summer sky and distant to the north and east, a million spangled flecks of sunlight danced upon the bay.

David Broderick sat on a rustic bench, his eyes on Alice Windham. He thought, with a vague stirring of unrecognized emotion that she seemed the spirit of womanhood in the body of a fay.

"A flower for your thoughts," she paraphrased and tossed him a rose.

Instinctively he pressed it to his lips. He saw her color rise and turned away. For a moment neither spoke.

"My thoughts," he said at length, "have been of evil men and trickery and ambition. I realize that, always, when I come here--when I see you, Alice Windham. For a little time I am uplifted. Then I go back to my devious toiling in the dark."

A shadow crossed her eyes, but a smile quickly chased it away. "You are a fine man, David Broderick," she said, "brave and wonderful and strong.

Why do you stoop to--"

"To petty politics?" his answering smile was rueful. "Because I must--to gain my ends. To climb a hill-top often one must go into a valley.

That is life."

"No, that is sophistry," her clear, straight glance was on him searchingly. "You tell me that a statesman must be first a politician; that a politician must consort with rowdies, ballot-box stuffers, gamblers--even thieves. David Broderick, you're wrong. Women have their intuitions which are often truer than men's logic." She leaned forward, laid a hand half shyly on his arm. "I know this much, my friend: As surely as you climb your ladder with the help of evil forces, just so surely will they pull you down."

It was thus that Benito came upon them. "Scolding Dave again?" He questioned merrily, "What has our Lieutenant-Governor been doing now?"

"Consorting with rowdies, gamblers, ballot-box stuffers--not to mention thieves, 'twould seem," said Broderick with a forced laugh. Alice Windham's eyes looked hurt. "He has accused himself," she said with haste.

"You're always your own worst critic, Dave," Benito said. "I want to tell you something: The Vigilance Committee forms this afternoon."

The other's eyes flashed. "What is that to me?" he asked, with some asperity.

"Only this," retorted Windham. "The committee means business; it's going to clean up the town--" Broderick made as if to speak but checked his utterance. Benito went on: "I tell you, Dave, you had better cut loose from your crowd. Some of them are going to get into trouble. You can't afford to have them running to you--calling you their master."

He took from his pocket a folded paper. "We've been drafting a const.i.tution, Hall McAllister and I." He read the rather stereotyped beginning. Broderick displayed small interest until Benito reached the conclusion: