Port O' Gold Part 29

"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 t.i.tle 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.

"h.e.l.lo, 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.

CHAPTER x.x.xIX

RICHARDSON AND CORA

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 impa.s.se, 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.sociate 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 his _Sunday Times_ out 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 gla.s.s.

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 decla.s.se. "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 d.a.m.ned 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.

"d.a.m.n 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 the _Bulletin_.

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 pa.s.sed 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.

CHAPTER XL

THE STORM GATHERS

It was Nesbitt who told Broderick of the murder. Nesbitt, of whom Richardson had said the night before, "he slings a wicked pen."

"My G.o.d, Jim, this is awful!" Broderick exclaimed. "You're sure there's no mistake ... I saw the two of them go out arm in arm."

"Mistake! I wish it were," cried Nesbitt angrily. "No, poor Billy Richardson is dead. Cora's in jail.... They say Cora laughed when he went to prison with Scannell.... Scannell and Mulligan!" He spat out the words with a savage distaste.

"Let me show you something, Dave. A reporter from the New York _Express_ was out here gathering data--crime statistics for the year. He showed it to me. Listen to this: Four hundred and eighty-nine murders in California during ten months. Six executions by sheriffs, forty-six hanged by mobs; that makes fifty-two in all."

He tapped the paper with his lean forefinger. "Probably two hundred of these killings were local.... And in the entire history of this city there's been exactly one legal execution. That was in 1852."