Port O' Gold Part 35

A man came running out of the Montgomery Block. He seemed excited. His accelerated pace continued as he sped down Sacramento street. Presently another made his exit; ran like mad, uphill, toward the jail.

Dr. Hammond, looking very grim, came hurriedly out of the door and entered a closed carriage. It drove off instantly. Then everything went on as usual. The two men stood there, watchful, expectant. The town seemed unusually still. A flag on a two-story building flapped monotonously. Then a man across the street ran out of his store and pointed upward. A rope was thrown from an upper window of the Montgomery Block. Someone picked it up and carried it to The Bulletin Building, pulled it taut. On a strip of linen had been hastily inscribed the following 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 Vigilante headquarters sat the tribunal upon whose decision Cora's fate would rest. They were grouped about a long table, twenty-nine men, the executive 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 the proceedings.

Cora, affecting an air of nonchalance, and, as ever, immaculate in dress, 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 searching the faces of those other silent men about the board. They were dressed in black. There was about them an air of impa.s.sivity almost removed from human emotion, and Cora could not but contrast them with the noisy, chewing, spitting, red-shirted jury at his previous trial, where Belle Cora's thousands had proved efficacious in securing disagreement. There would be no disagreement here. Instinctively, Cora knew that.

Marshal Doane entered. He held in his hand a folded paper. Coleman and the others looked at him expectantly. "It is my great misfortune to report that James King of William is dead," said Doane. There was a buzz of comment, almost instantly stilled by Coleman's gavel. "d.a.m.n!" said the gambler under his breath.

"Gentlemen, we will proceed with the trial," Coleman spoke. The examination of witnesses went on. But there was a difference. Cora noticed it. Sometimes, with an involuntary, shuddering gesture, he touched the skin above his flowing collar.

Casey, when informed of King's death, trembled. "Your trial begins tomorrow," 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 windows facing Sacramento street; to these pulleys were attached.

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

Stouter ropes next appeared, one end pa.s.sing through the pulleys overhead, then they were caught up in nooses. The other ends were in the committee rooms.

Men tested the platforms by standing on them; tried the nooses; found them 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 Davis streets. Cannon were placed to command all possible approaches. The great alarm bell of the Vigilantes sounded.

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

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

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

Little Joe King, a son of the murdered editor, 10 years of age, sat stiff 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 and mother, and Mrs. Sime, whom he sometimes called "Auntie," had taken him into 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 silver handles and was covered with flowers. He knew of that mystery called death, but he had not visualized it closely heretofore. The thing overwhelmed him. Just now he could only realize that his father was being 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. He heard a high-pitched voice that seemed almost to be screaming. He made out phrases faintly:

"... G.o.d!... My poor mother!... Let n.o.body call ... murderer ... G.o.d save me ... only 29 ..."

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

Then, unexpectedly, Mrs. Sime forced him back. She pulled the curtain on the left side of the carriage. Little Joe heard a half-suppressed roar go up from the throng. For an instant the carriage halted. He was grievously disappointed not to witness the thing which held the public eye. Then the carriage went on.

Later, another funeral wended its way through the streets. It was at night and ill attended. A handsome woman followed it with streaming eyes; a woman who lived by an evil trade, and the inmates of whose house were 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 as heartless.

For many years she was to visit and to weep over the grave of a little dark man who had touched her affections; who might, under happier conditions, have awakened her soul. She was Mrs. Charles Cora, born Arabella Ryan, and widely known as "Belle," the mistress of a bawdy 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 stone erected over his grave.

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

About this time, Yankee Sullivan, prize-fighter, ballot-box stuffer and political plug-ugly, killed himself in Vigilante quarters, evidently mad with fear.

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

[Ill.u.s.tration: In front of the building on a high platform, two men stood.... A half suppressed roar went up from the throng.]

CHAPTER XLVII

HINTS OF CIVIL WAR

After the hanging a temporary reaction took place--a let-down from the hectic, fevered agitations of preceding days. Members of the Law and Order Party were secretly relieved by the removal of Casey and Cora.

"Now that they've shot their bolt, we'll have peace," said Hall McAllister to Broderick. But the latter shook his head. "They've only started, Mac," he answered, "don't deceive yourself. These Vigilantes are business men; they've a business-like organization. Citizens are still enlisting ... seven thousand now, I understand."

"d.a.m.n them!" said the lawyer, broodingly, "what d'ye think they'll be up to next?"

"Don't d.a.m.n them too much." Broderick's smile held a grim sort of humor.

"They're going to break up a political organization it's taken me years to perfect. That ought to please you a little."

McAllister laughed. The two men shook hands and parted. They were political enemies--McAllister of the Southern or "Chivalry" clan, which yearned to make a slave State out of California; Broderick an uncompromising Northerner and Abolitionist. Yet they respected one another, and a queer, almost secret friendship existed between them.

Farther down the street Broderick met Benito. "I've just been talking with your boss," he said.

"No longer," Windham informed him. "McAllister didn't like my Vigilante leanings. So we parted amiably enough. I'll study law on my own hook from now on. I've had a bit of good luck."

"Ah," said the other. "Glad to hear it. An inheritance?"