The new coherence in society began to manifest itself in one important way: public gambling declined. In the "old days" it was said that everybody but clergymen frequented the big gambling halls. They were a sort of club. But now the most influential citizens began to stay away. Probably they gambled as much as ever, but they took such pleasures in private. Two or three only of the larger places remained in business. Save for them, open gambling was confined to the low dives near the water front. There was no definite movement against the practice. It merely fell off gradually.
During these busy years the Sherwoods had quite methodically continued to lead their customary lives. He read his morning paper on the veranda of the Bella Union, talked his leisurely politics, drove his horses, and in the evening attended to his business. She drove abroad, received her men friends, gave them impartial advice and help in their difficulties, dressed well, and carried on a life of many small activities. The Sherwoods were always an attractive looking and imposing couple, whenever they appeared. About three or four times a year they drove into the residential part of town and made a half-dozen formal calls--on the Keiths among others. Probably their lives were more nearly ordered on a routine than those of any other people in the new city.
One afternoon Sherwood came in at the usual hour, deposited his high hat carefully on the table, flicked the dust off his boots, and remarked casually:
Patsy, I've sold the business.
Mrs. Sherwood was pinning on her hat. She stopped short, her hand halfway to her head, as though turned to marble. After a moment she asked in a quick, stifled voice:
What do you mean?
Well, replied Sherwood, continuing methodically to readjust his dress, "I've been thinking for some time that times were changing. The gambling business is losing tone. I don't see the same class of people I used to see. Public sentiment--of the very best people, I mean--is drifting away from it. In the future, in my judgment, it's not going to pay as it ought. I've been thinking these things for some time. So when a bona fide purchaser came along----"
But he got no further. With a smothered cry she let her arms drop. Her customary poise had vanished. She flung herself on him, laughing, crying, gasping.
Why, Patsy! Patsy! he cried, patting her small, sleek head as it pressed against his shoulder. "What is it, dearie? Tell me? What's wrong?"
He was vastly perturbed and anxious, for she was not at all the type that loses control readily.
Nothing! nothing! she gasped. "I'll be all right in a minute. Don't mind me. Just let me alone. Only you told me so suddenly----"
Don't you want me to sell? he asked, utterly bewildered.
Gradually he gathered from her disjointed exclamations that this was just the one thing she had wanted, secretly, for years; the thing she had schooled herself not to hope for; the last thing in the world she had expected. And to his astonishment he gathered further that now she was free she could take her place with the other women----
But I hadn't the slightest idea you wanted to! he interrupted at this point. "You've never showed any signs of paying the slightest attention to them before!"
She was drying her eyes, and looking a little happily foolish.
I knew better than to give them a chance to snub me, she told him. "Now I'm respectable."
But at this Sherwood reared his crest.
Respectable! he snorted, "What do you mean? Haven't you always been respectable? I'd like to see anybody who would hint--"
You're a dear, but you're a man, she broke in more calmly. "Don't you know that a gambler's wife isn't respectable--in their sense of the word?"
But every mother's son of them gambles! cried Sherwood. "It's a perfectly legal and legitimate occupation!"
The men do; we'd always get along if it was only a question of the men. But the women make distinctions--
Look here! he broke out wrathfully. "There's Dick Blatchford mixed up in dirty work for dirty money I wouldn't lay my fingers on; and Terry, or Brannan, or McGowan, or all the rest of the boodling, land-grabbing, pettifogging crew! Why, if I made my living or spare cash the way that gang of pirates and cutthroats do I'd carry a pair of handcuffs for myself. Honest! Respectable! I've got no kick on their methods; it's, none of my business. But their wives are all right. I don't see it!"
It's all names, I acknowledge, she soothed, "just names, I attach no more weight to them than you do. Don't you suppose I'd have said something if I had thought you were doing anything wrong? But that's the way they play the game, and it is their game. If we play it we've got to accept their rules. Don't you see?"
Well, it's a mighty poor game, grumbled Sherwood, "and they strike me as an exceptionally stupid lot of women. They'd drive me to drink. I don't see what you want to bother with them for."
They are, she agreed. "They won't amuse me much--you couldn't understand --it's just the _idea_ of it--But I won't be looked down on, even by my inferiors! Tell me, Jack, when we sell the business are we going to be wealthy, will we have plenty of money?"
A hurt look came into his fine, straightforward eyes.
Haven't you always had all you wanted, Patsy? he inquired.
Of course I have, you old goose! But I want to know what our resources are before I plan my campaign.
Going in up to your neck, are you? he commented ruefully.
She nodded. Her eyes were bright, and a spot of colour glowed in either cheek.
Course I am. What can I spend?
You can have whatever you want.
That's too vague, too indefinite. How rich--or poor--are we going to be?
We'll be rich enough.
Very?
Well--yes, very. The business has paid, investments have panned out. I got a good cash purchase price.
How much can I spend a year? she persisted. "It doesn't matter whether it's much or little, but I want to know."
What a mercenary little creature! he cried facetiously, then sobered as he saw by the expression of her face that this, apparently trivial thing meant a great deal to her. "Oh, fifty thousand or so won't cripple us."
A year? she breathed, awed.
He nodded.
Oh! she cried rapidly. "Then we'll have a house--a house built for our very own selves, our very own plans!"
Why, I thought we were very comfortable here! he protested, a little dismayed. "Haven't we room enough? I'll make Rebinot cut a door----"
No! no! no! a house of my own! She was on fire with excitement, walking restlessly up and down. He watched her a moment or so. His slower imagination was kindling. He was beginning to grasp the symbolism of it, what it meant to her, the release of long-pent secret desires. As she passed him, he seized her and drew her gently to his knee.
Patsy! he cried contritely, "I didn't realize! I didn't guess you weren't perfectly contented here!"
She brushed his cheek with hers.
Of course you didn't, she reassured him.
If you'd the slightest----
She threw her head back proudly, her breast swelled.
I married you to lead your life. Jack, whatever it was, she told him, "to be your _help_mate."
You're the game little sportsman in this town! he cried. "And if you want to make those flub-dubs crawl, by God you sail in! I'll back you!"
Ten minutes later she asked him:
What are you going to do, yourself, Jack? Somehow, I can't imagine you idle.
Well, said Sherwood, "the boys are organizing a stock exchange, and it struck me that it might be a good idea if I went into that."
She began to laugh softly, in affectionate amusement.
Stop it! he commanded indignantly. "I know that laugh, What have I done now?"
I was just thinking what a nice, _respectable_ gambler you are going to be now, she said, "It's in your blood, Jack, and I love it--but it's funny!"
But now, at the very sources, the full flood of the somewhat turbid tide of prosperity was beginning to fail. The ebb had not yet reached the civic consciousness. It would have required a philosopher, and a detached philosopher at that, to have connected cause and effect, to have forecast the inevitable trend of events. If there were any philosophers they were not detached! Nobody had discovered the simple truth that extravagance, graft, waste, cost money; and that the money must come from somewhere. Realization on its property and taxes were the twin sources of the city's revenues. The property was now about all sold or swindled away. Remained the taxes. And it is a self-evident truth that people will pay high taxes cheerfully only so long as they themselves are making plenty of money easily.
Up to this period such had been the case. Prices had been high, wages had been high, opportunities had been many. Enormous profits had been the rule. Everybody had invariably made money. These conditions upset the mental balance of the shipping merchants back East. A madness seemed to obsess them for sending goods to California. The mere rumour of a want or a lack was answered by immense shipments of that particular commodity. The first cargo to arrive supplied the want; all the rest simply broke the market. It was a gamble as to who should get there first. The immediate and picturesque consequence was a fleet of beautiful clipper ships, built like racing yachts, with long clean lines and snowy sails. They made extraordinarily fast voyages, and they promptly condemned to death the old- fashioned, slow freight carriers. Indeed, four-hundred odd of these actually rotted at anchor in the bay; it had not paid to move them! Some of these clippers gained vast reputations: the _Flying Cloud_, the _White Squall_, the _Typhoon_, the _Trade Wind_. The markets were continually in a state of glut with goods sold at auction. This condition tightened the money market, which in turn reacted on other branches of industry. Again, the great fires of '49-'53 resulted in the erection of too many fireproof buildings. Storage was needed, and rentals were high, so everybody plunged on storehouses. By '54 many hundreds of them stood vacant, representing loss. At that period the first abundance of the placers began to fall off.
Agriculture was beginning to be undertaken seriously; and while this would be an ultimate source of wealth, its immediate effect was to diminish the demand for imported foodstuffs--another blow to a purely mercantile city.
All this made for excitement, some immediate gain, but a sure ultimate loss. Markets fluctuated wildly. A ship in sight threw operators into a fever. No one knew what she might be carrying, or how she would, affect prices. It was, therefore, positively unsafe to keep-many goods is stock. Quick, immediate sales were the rule. And failures were many.
Now in these middle fifties the pinch was beginning at last to itself felt. Everybody was a little vague about it all, and nobody had gone so far as to formulate his dissatisfactions or his remedies. The tangible result was the formation of two as yet inchoate elements, representing the extremes of ideas and of interests.
The first of these elements--that can with equal justice be called the parasitic or the middleman class--consisted in itself of several sorts of people. The nucleus was a small, intellectually honest set of men who believed, in the law _per se_, in the sacredness of formal institutions in the constitution, and in the subservience of the individual to the institution. This was temperamental. Behind them were many much larger groups of those needed either the interpretation or the protection of the law for their private interests. These were of all sorts from honest literal-minded dealers, through shady contractors and operators, down to grafters and the very lowest type of strong-arm bullies. The tone and respectability came from the first, the practical results from the second. The first class had a genuine intellectual contempt for men whose minds could not see--or at least would not accept--the same subtleties that it did. Its members were fond of such phrases as the "lawless mob," or the "subversion of time-honoured institutions." This small, subjectively honest, conservative, specially trained element must not be forgotten in the final estimate of what later came to be known as the "Law and Order" party.
On the other hand was first of all an equally small nucleus of thinking men whose respect for the law, merely as law, was not so profound; men who were, reluctantly, willing to admit that when law completely broke down in encompassing justice, individualism was justified in stepping in. Behind them was a vast body of more or less unthinking men who recognized the indubitable facts that the law had become a farce, that justice had degenerated to tricks, and who were, therefore, instinctively against law, lawyers, and everybody who had anything to do with them.
Strangely enough this made for lawlessness on both sides. Those who believed in "law and order" committed crime or misdemeanour or mere injustice, sure of escape through some technicality. Those who distrusted courts administered justice illegally with their own hands! Nor was this merely in theory. San Francisco at that time was undoubtedly the most corrupt and lawless city in the world. Street shootings, duels, robberies, ballot-box stuffing, bribery, all the crimes traceable to a supine police and venal or technical courts were actually so commonplace as to command but two or three lines in the daily papers. Justice was completely smothered under technicalities and delays.
The situation would have been intolerable to any people less busy than the people of that time. For political corruption in a vigorous body politic is not, as pessimists would have us believer an indication of incipient decay, but only an indication that a busy people are willing to pay that price to be left alone, to be relieved of the administration of their public affairs, When they get less busy, or the price in corruption becomes too high, then they refuse to pay. The price Francisco was paying becoming very high, not only in money, but in other and spiritual things. She could still afford to pay it; but at the least pressure she would no longer afford it. Then she would act.
In the second year of his residence Keith had a minor adventure that shifted a portion of his activities to other fields. He was in attendance at a council meeting, following the interests of certain clients. The evening was warm, the proceedings dull. Opened windows let in the sounds from the Plaza and a night air that occasionally flared the smoky lamps. The clerk's voice was droning away at some routine when the outer door opened and a most extraordinary quartette entered the chamber. Three of these were the ordinary, ragged, discouraged, emaciated, diseased "bums," only too common in that city. In early California a man either succeeded or he failed into a dark abyss of complete discouragement; the new civilization had little use for weaklings. The fourth man can be no better described than in the words of a chronicler of the period. Says the worthy diarist:
He was a man of medium stature, slender but very graceful, with almost effeminate hands and feet--the former scrupulously kept, the latter neatly shod--and with a certain air of fragility; very soft blue eyes with sleepy lids; a classically correct nose; short upper lip; rosy, moist lips. His clothes: a claret-coloured coat, neither dress nor frock, but mixed of both fashions, with a velvet collar and brass buttons; a black vest, double breasted; iron-gray pantaloons; fresh, well-starched, and very fine linen; plain black cravat, negligently tied; a cambric handkerchief; and dark kid gloves. He wore gold spectacles, and carried a malacca cane.
Instead of slipping into the seats provided for spectators, this striking individual marched boldly to the open space before the mayor's chair, followed, shamefaced and shambling, by the three bums.
Your honours and gentlemen, he cried in a clear, ringing voice, to the scandal of the interrupted legislators, "we are very sick and hungry and helpless and wretched. If somebody does not do something for us, we shall die; and that would be bad, considering how far we have come, and how hard it was to get here, and how short a time we have been here, and that we have not had a fair chance. All we ask is a fair chance, and we say again, upon our honour, gentlemen, if somebody does not do something for us, we shall die, or we shall be setting fire to the town first and cutting all our throats."
He stood leaning lightly against his malacca cane, surveying them through his sleepy blue eyes. The first astonishment over, they took up a collection, after the customary careless, generous fashion. The young man saluted with his cane, and herded his three exhibits out.
Keith, much struck, followed them, overtaking the quartette on the street.
My name is Keith, he said, "I should like to make your acquaintance."
Mine is Krafft, replied the unknown, "and I am delighted to accept your proffer."
He said nothing more until he had marshalled his charges, into a cheap eating-house, ordered and paid for a supper, and divided the remainder of the amount collected. Then he dusted his fingers daintily with a fine handkerchief, and sauntered out into the street, swinging his malacca cane.
Incidents of that sort restore one's faith in the generosity of our people, Keith remarked, in order to say something.
Nobody has been generous, denied Krafft categorically, "and no particular good has been accomplished. Filled their bellies for this evening; given them a place to sleep for this night; that's all."
That's something, ventured Keith. "It helps."
The only way to help we have not undertaken. We have done nothing toward finding out why there are such creatures--in a place like this. That's the only way to help them: find out why they are, and then remove the why.
This commonplace of modern charity was then a brand-new thought. Keith had never heard it expressed, and he was much interested.
I suppose there are always the weak and the useless, he said vaguely.
If those men were wholly weak and useless, how did they get out here? countered Krafft. "To compass such a journey takes a certain energy, a certain sum of money, a certain fund of hope. The money goes, the energy drains, the hope fades. Why?"
They stopped at a corner.
I live just near here, said Krafft. "If you will honour me."
He led the way down a narrow dark alley, along which they had fairly to grope their way. It debouched, however, into the forgotten centre of the square. All the edges had been built close with brick stores, warehouses, and office buildings. But in the very middle had been left a waste piece of ground, occupied only by a garden and a low one-room abode, with a veranda and a red-tiled roof. Under the moonlight and the black shadows from the modern buildings it slept amid its bright flowers with the ancient air of another world. Krafft turned a key and lighted a lamp. Keith found himself in a small, neat room, with heavy beams, fireplace, and deep embrasured windows. An iron bed, two chairs, a table, a screen, a shelf of books, and a wardrobe were its sole furnishings. In the fireplace had been laid, but not lighted, a fire of sagebrush roots.
Krafft touched a match to the roots, which instantly leaped into eager and aromatic flames. From a shelf he took a new clay pipe which he handed to Keith.
Tobacco is in that jar, he said.
He himself filled and lighted a big porcelain pipe with wexelwood stem.
What would you do about it? asked Keith, continuing the discussion.
What would you most want, if you were those poor men? retorted Krafft, blowing a huge cloud.
Keith laughed.
Drink, food, clothes, bed, he stated succinctly.
And work wherewith to get them, supplemented Krafft.
Keith laughed again.
Not if I know their sort! Work is the one thing they _don't_ want.
Krafft leaned forward, and tapped the table with one of his long forefingers,
The lazy part of them, the earthen part of them, the dross of them--yes, perhaps. But let us concede to them a spark that smoulders, way down deep within them--a spark of which they think they are ashamed, which they do not themselves realize the existence of except occasionally. What is the deep need of them? It is to feel that they are still of use, that they amount to something, that they are men. That more than mere food and warmth. Is it not so?
I believe you're right, said Keith, impressed.
Then, said Krafft triumphantly, "it _is_ work they want, work that is useful and worth paying for."
But there's plenty of work to be had, objected Keith, after a moment. "In fact, there's more work in this town than there are men to do it."
True, But it is the hard work these men have failed at. It is too hard. They try; they are discouraged; they fall again, and perhaps they never get up. Such men must be led, must be watched, must be stopped within their strength.
Who's there to do that sort of dry nursing of bums? demanded Keith with a half laugh.
He who would help, said Krafft quietly.
They smoked for some time in silence; then Keith arose to go.
It is a big idea; it requires thought, said he ruminativeiy. "You are a recent arrival, Mr. Krafft? What is your line of activity?"
The slight, elegant little man smiled.
I am one of the--what is it you called, them--bums of whom we talk. I try to do what is within my power, within my strength-lest I, too, become discouraged, lest I, too, fall again--and not get up.
I have not seen you about anywhere, said Keith, puzzled by this speech.
I do not go anywhere; I should be eaten. You do not understand me, and I am a poor host to talk in riddles. I am a philosopher, not a man of action; egotist, not an egoist; one who cannot swim in your strong waters. As I said, one of that same class whom your bounty helped this evening.
Good Lord, man! cried Keith, looking about the little room. "You're not in want?"
Krafft laughed gently.
In your sense, no. I have my meals. Enough of me. Go, and think of what I say.
Keith did so, and the result was the first organized charity in San Francisco. Since 1849 men had always been exceptionally generous in responding to appeals for money. Huge sums could easily be raised at any time. Hospitals and almshouses dated from the first. But having given, these pioneers invariably forgot. The erection of the buildings cost more than they should, and management being venal, conditions soon became disgraceful. Alms reached the professional pauper. The miner or immigrant, diseased, discouraged, out of luck, more often died--either actually or morally.
So much had this first interview caught his interest that Keith dropped in on his new acquaintance quite often. It soon became evident that Krafft lived in what might be called decent poverty. The one fine rig-out in which he made his public appearances was most carefully preserved. Indoors he always promptly assumed a dressing-gown, a skull cap with a gold tassel, and his great porcelain pipe. His meals he cooked for himself. Never did he leave his house until about three o'clock. Then, spick and span, exquisitely appointed, he sauntered forth swinging his malacca cane. After a promenade of several hours he returned again to his dressing-gown, his porcelain pipe, and his books. Keith enjoyed hugely his detached, reflective, philosophical, spectator-of-life conversation. They talked on many subjects besides sociology. At his fourth visit Krafft made a suggestion.
You shall come with me and see, said he.
He led the way to the water front under Telegraph Hill, the newest and the most squalid part of town. The shallow water was in slow process of being filled in by sand from the grading uptown and with all sorts of miscellaneous debris, Pending solidity, this sketchy real estate swarmed with squatters. There were lots sunken below the street level, filled with stagnant water, discarded garments, old boxes, ashes, and rubbish; houses huddled closely together with stale water beneath; there were muddy alleys; murderous cheap saloons; cheaper gambling joints; rickety, sagging tenements. The people corresponded to their habitations. All the low elements lurked here, the thugs, strong-arm men, the hold-ups, the heelers, the weaklings, the bums, the diseased. In ordinary times they here dwelt in a twilight existence; but at periods of excitement--as when the city burned--they swarmed out like rats for plunder.
Krafft held his way steadily to the wharves. There he left the causeway and descended to the level of the beach. Beneath the pilings, and above the high-water mark, was a little hut. It was not over six feet square, constructed of all sorts of old pieces of boxes, scraps of tin, or remnants of canvas. Overhead rumbled continuously the heavy drays, shaking down, through the cracks the dust of the roadway. Against one outside wall of this crazy structure an old man sat, chair tilted in the sun. Even the chair was a curiosity, miraculously held together by wires. The man was very old, and very feeble, his knotted hands clasping a short, black clay pipe. Inside the hut Keith, saw a rough bunk on which lay jumbled a quilt and a piece of canvas.
Well, John, greeted Krafft cheerfully, "I've brought a friend to see you."
The old man turned on Keith a twinkling blue eye.
Glad to see you, he said briefly.
Getting on? pursued Krafft.
Fine.
Here's a new kind of tobacco I want you to try. I should value your opinion.
Keith's hand wandered toward his pocket, but stopped at a sharp look from Krafft. After a moment's chat they withdrew.
What a pathetic old figure! What utter misery! cried Keith.
No! said Krafft positively. "There you are wrong. Old John is in no need of us. He has his house and his bed, and he gets his food. How, I do not know, but he gets it. The spark is burning clear and steady. He has not lost his grip. He gets his living with confidence. Let him alone."
But he must be very miserable--especially when it rains, persisted Keith.
Krafft shrugged his shoulders.
As to that, I know not, he returned indifferently. "That does not matter to the soul. I will now show you another man."
They retraced their steps. On a corner of Montgomery Street Krafft stopped before a one-armed beggar, the stump exposed, a placard around his neck.
Now here's another John, said Krafft. "What he wants is work, and somebody to see that he does it."
The one-armed beggar, who was fat, with a good-natured countenance, evidently considered this a joke. He grinned cheerfully.
Don't have to, guvenor, said he.
How much did you take in yesterday, John? asked Krafft; then, catching the beggar's look of suspicion, he added, "This is a friend of mine; he's all right."
Twenty-two dollars, replied the beggar proudly. "Pretty good day's wages!"
I'm afraid the spark is about out with you, John, said Krafft thoughtfully. He walked on a few steps, then turned back. "John," he asked, "what is your contribution to society?"
The beggar stared, uncertain of this new chaff.
The true theory of business, John, is that traffic which does not result In reciprocal advantages to buyer and seller is illegitimate, or at least abnormal.
They walked on, Keith laughing at the expression on the beggar's face.
That was considerably over his head, he observed.
Nothing more was said for half a block.
I wonder if it was over yours, then said Krafft, unexpectedly.
Eh? ejaculated Keith, bewildered.
These walks with Krafft finally resulted in the institution of a fund which Keith raised and put into Krafft's hands for intelligent use. The effects were so interesting that Keith, thoroughly fascinated, began to pester his friends for positions for some of his proteges. As he was well-liked and in earnest, these efforts were taken good-humourediy.
Here comes Milt Keith, said John Webb to Bert Taylor. "Bet you a beaver hat he's got a highly educated college professor that he wants a job for."
'A light job, not beyond his powers,' quoted Taylor.
Like cleaning genteel spittoons, supplemented Webb.
The engine house is full of 'em polishing brass, complained Taylor.
Well, he's a young felly, and I like him, concluded Webb heartily.
Of course many of the experiments failed, but fewer than might have been anticipated. Part of Krafft's task was to keep in touch with the men. His detached, philosophical method of encouragement and analysis of the situation seemed just the thing they needed.
These activities gave Keith just the required door out into a world other than his own. Were it not for something of the sort he might, like many modern corporation lawyers, have confined himself entirely to his own class. And this, of course, would eventually have meant narrowness.
But through Krafft, and especially through his desire to help Krafft's work, he came in contact with all sorts of people; and, what was more important, he found that he liked a great many of them. So it happened that when it seemed expedient to the ruling caste to put him in as Assistant District Attorney, his inevitable election met with wider approval than such elections usually enjoy.
For it must be understood that in the fifties any candidate selected by the ruling caste was absolutely sure of election. The machinery was thoroughly in their hands. Diplomacy in party caucuses, delicate manipulation at primaries, were backed by cruder methods if need be. Associations were semi-publically formed for the sale of votes; gangs of men were driven from one precinct to another, voting in all; intimidation, and, indeed, open violence, was freely used. Only the most adventurous or the most determined thought it worth while even to try to vote in the rough precincts. And if the first and second lines of defence failed, there was still the third to fall back on when the booths were dosed and the ballots counted: the boxes could still be "stuffed," the count could still be scientifically juggled to bring about any desired result.
This particular election was one of the worst in the history of the place. All day fighting was kept up, and the rowdies swaggered everywhere. Whiskey was to be had for the asking; and the roughs who surrounded the polls fired shots, and in some places started what might fairly be called riots. Yankee Sullivan returned James Casey as elected supervisor, which was probably a mistake, for Casey was not a candidate, his name was on none of the official ballots, and nobody could be found who had voted for him. Everybody was surprised, Casey most of all! The sixth ward count was delayed unconscionably, its returns being withheld until nearly morning. It was more than hinted that this delay was prolonged until the returns had been received from all other precincts, so that any deficiencies might be made up by the sixth. The "slate" went through unbroken.
Of all the candidates, Keith received the most votes, for the simple reason that his total included both the honest and dishonest ballots. Blanchford, Neil, Palmer, Adams, all the political overlords of the city were satisfied, as well they might be, for they had issued the fiat that he be chosen.
He's one of us, said they.
But what was more unusual, the rank and file of decent, busy, hard-working citizens approved, too.
Keith is not stuck up, they told each other. "He is the _commonest_ man in that bunch. And he's square."
The position carried some social as well as political significance. Society made another effort to take him up. His rare appearances were rather in the nature of concessions. They served to make him more regretted, for he had an easy, jolly way of moving from one group or one woman to another, of paying flattering, monopolizing, brief attention to each in turn, and then disappearing, very early! His bold rather florid countenance radiated energy and quizzical good humour; his tight, closely curled hair crisped with virile alertness; he carried himself taut and eager--altogether a figure to engage the curiosities of women or the interest of men.
Mrs. Sherwood alone was shrewd enough to penetrate to his true feelings. She had experienced no difficulty in pushing to a social leadership shared --indolently and indifferently--with Nan Keith. Already her past was growing dim in a tradition kept alive only by a few whisperers. Her wealth, her natural tact and poise, her calm assumption of the right to rule, her great personal charm, beauty, and taste were more than sufficient to get her what she wanted. The game was almost too easy, when one held the cards.
Yes, he's very charming, she told her husband, "but that manner of his does not impress me. As a matter of fact, he doesn't care a snap of his finger about any of them. He does it too well. It's a stencil. Only the outside of him does it. He's just as bad as you are; only _he_ doesn't hold up a corner of the doorway all the evening, and beam vaguely in general, like a good-natured, dear old owl."
A few clear-headed men--not the "chivalry," as the fire-eating professional politicians and lawyers from the South were almost uniformly designated-- were able to see exactly the problem that must eventually demand Keith's solution. Some of them talked it over while lounging and smoking in the Fire Queen reading-room. There were present Talbot Ward and his huge satellite, Munro; Coleman, quiet, grim, complacent, but looking, with his sweeping, inky moustache and his florid, complexion, like a flashy "sport"; Hossfros, soon to become an historic character; and the banker, James King of William.
The latter had recently come in for considerable public discussion. He had for some time conducted a banking business, but becoming involved in difficulties, he had turned over all his assets, all his personal fortune, even his dwelling-house, to another bank as trustee to take care of his debts. Almost immediately after, that bank had failed. Opinion in the community divided according to the interests involved. The majority considered that King had been almost quixotically conscientious in stripping himself; but there did not lack those who accused him of sharp practice. In the course of ensuing discussions and recriminations King was challenged to a duel. He declined to fight, basing his refusal on principle. As may be imagined, such an action at such a time was even more widely commented upon than even his refusal to take advantage of the bankruptcy laws. It was, as far as known, the first time any one had had the moral courage to refuse a duel. King had gone quietly about his business, taking an ordinary clerkship with Palmer, Cook & Co. In the eyes of the discriminating few he had gained prestige, but most people thought him down and out.
What do you think of our new Assistant District Attorney? Ward had begun the conversation.
He's a lawyer, growled Hossfros.
A pretty fairly honest one, I think, ventured King. "His training may be wrong, but his instincts are right."
Fat chance anything's got when it mixes up with legalities, supplemented Frank Munro.
Nevertheless, remarked Coleman seriously, "I believe plain justice has more of a chance with him in charge than with another."
What sort of justice? queried King. "Commercial?" He laughed in answer to his own question. "Criminal? I'd like to think it, gentlemen, but I cannot. You know as well as I do that any of us could this evening go into the streets, select our victim, and shoot him down secure in the knowledge that inconvenience is all the punishment we need expect--if we have money or friends. Am I not right, Coleman?"
Coleman smiled sardonically, lifting his blue-black moustache.
Were Herod for the slaughter of the Innocents brought before a jury of this town, he would be acquitted, he said half-seriously. "Judas Iscariot would pass unscathed so long as any portion of his thirty pieces of silver remained with him."
They laughed at this remarkable pronouncement, but with an undernote of seriousness.
No man, even exceptionally equipped as this young man seems to be, went on Coleman after a moment, "can accomplish _that_"--he snapped his fingers --"against organized forces such as those of 'Law and Order.'"
We can't stand this sort of thing forever! cried Hossfros hotly. "It's getting worse and worse!"
We probably shall not stand it forever, agreed Coleman equably, "but we are powerless--at present."
They looked toward him for explanation of this last.
When the people at large find that _they_ cannot stand it either, then we shall be no longer powerless. A single man can do something then--a single child!
What will happen then? asked Munro. "Vigilantes? '51 again?"
Coleman, the leader of the Vigilantes of '51, turned on him a grave eye.
God forbid! We were then a frontier community. We are now an organized, civilized city. We have rights and powers through the regular channels--at the ballot box for example.
Hossfros laughed skeptically.
It must wait, continued Coleman; "it must wait on public opinion."
Well, spoke up King, "it's all very well to wait, but public opinion left to itself is a mighty slow growth. It should be fostered. The newspapers--"
Don't let's lose our sense of humour, cut in Talbot Ward. "Can you see Charley Nugent or Mike Rowlee crusading for the right?"
But my point is good, insisted King. "An honest, fearless editor, not afraid to call a spade a spade--"
Would be shot, said Coleman briefly.
The chances of war, replied King.
They don't grow that kind around here, grinned Ward.
Well, concluded Coleman, "this young Keith probably won't help any, but he's going to be interesting to watch, just the same, to see what he'll do the first time they crack the whip over him. That's the vital point as far as he is concerned."
Keith's activities did not immediately confront him with anything in the nature of a test, however. His superiors confined him to the drawing of briefs and the carrying through of carefully selected cases. It was considered well to "work him in" a little before putting responsibility on him.
He enjoyed it, for now he had at his call all the civil and police resources of the city. This gave him a pleasant feeling of power. He was at the centre of things. And through his office he came into contact with ever-widening circles of people, all of whom were disposed, even anxious, to treat him well, to get in his good graces. Possibly most of these were what we would call the worst elements; and by that we would mean not only the roughnecks of the police or sheriff's offices, but also the punctilious, smooth-mannered Southerners who practically monopolized the political offices. These men would have been little considered in the South; in fact, in many cases, they had left their native states under a cloud or even with prison records; but their natural charm, their audacity, and their great punctilio as to "honour" deeply impressed the ordinary citizen. As one chronicler of the times puts it, they had "fluency in harangue, vigour in invective, ostentatious courage, absolute confidence about all matters of morals, politics, and propriety"--which is an excellent thumbnail sketch. Many of these ex-jailbirds rose to wealth and influence, so that to this day the sound of their names means aristocracy and birth to those ignorant of local history. Their descendants may be seen to-day ruffling it proudly on the strength of their "birth!"
They, and the classes they directly and indirectly encouraged, had at last brought the city fairly on the financial rocks. There was no more revenue. Everything taxable had been taxed. The poll tax was out of all reason; property paid 4 per cent. on an actual valuation; theatres, bankers, brokers, freight, miners, merchants, hotel, keepers, incorporations, every form of industry was levied upon heavily. Still that was not enough. Even labour was paid now in scrip so depreciated that the cost of the simplest public works was terrible.
And to heap up the measure, the year of 1855 was one of financial stringency. The season of '54-'55 had been one of drought. For lack of water most of the mining had ceased. The miners wanted to be trusted for their daily needs; the country stores had to have credit because the miners could not pay; and so on up to the wholesalers in the city. Goods were therefore sold cheap at auction, and the gold went East to pay at the source. Money, actual physical money, became scarce. The gold was gone, and there existed no institution legally entitled to issue the paper money that might have taken its place. All the banking was done by private firms. These took deposits, made loans, issued exchange, but could not issue banknotes.
Still, things had looked a bit squally many times before, but nothing had happened. Men had the habit of optimism. No one stopped to analyze the situation, to realize that the very good reason nothing had happened was that the city had always had behind it the strength of the mines, and that now the mines had withdrawn.
Out of a clear sky came the announcement that Adams & Co. had failed!
At first nobody believed it. Adams & Co. had occupied in men's minds from the start much the same position as the Bank of England. The confirmation of the news caused the wildest panic and excitement. If Adams & Co. were vulnerable, nobody was secure. Small merchants began to call in their credits. The city caught up eagerly every item of news. All the assets of the bankrupt firm were turned over to Alfred Cohen as receiver. Some interested people did not trust Cohen. They made enough of a fuss to get H. M. Naglee appointed in Cohen's place. Naglee, demanding the assets, was told they had been deposited with Palmer, Cook & Co. The latter refused to give them up, denying Naglee's jurisdiction in the matter. The case was brought into court. Then suddenly it was found that Palmer, Cook & Co. had mysteriously lost their paramount interest in the courts. They had counted on the case being brought before their own judges; but it was cited before Judges Hazen and Park, both of whom, while ultra-technical, were honest. The truth of the matter was that the rats suspected Palmer, Cook & Co. of sinking, too, and had deserted. Judges Hazen and Park called upon the firm to turn over to Naglee the assets of Adams & Co. They still refused. One of the partners, named Jones, and Cohen were imprisoned. Some where $269,000 was missing. Nobody knew anything about it. The books having to do with the transaction had mysteriously disappeared. Two days later an Irishman found them floating in the bay, and brought them to the court. But the crucial pages were missing. And then suddenly, while both Judge Hazen and Judge Park were out of town, application was made to the Supreme Court--of which Judge Terry was head--for the release of Jones and Cohen. The application was granted.
So an immense sum of money disappeared; nobody was punished; it was all strictly legal; and yet the dullest labourer could see that the whole transaction amounted to robbery under arms. Failures resulted right and left. Wells Fargo & Co. closed their doors, but resumed within a few days. A great many pocketbooks were hit. There was much talk and excitement.
On an evening in October, returning home at an early hour, Keith found Nan indignant and excited. She held in her hand a tiny newspaper, not half the usual size, consisting only of a single sheet folded.
Have you seen this? she burst out as Keith entered. "Isn't it outrageous!"
Keith was tired, and sank into an easy chair with a sigh of relaxation.
No, what is it? he asked, reaching his hand for the paper. "Oh, the new paper. I saw them selling it on the street yesterday."
It was the _Bulletin_, Vol. 1, No. 2. Like all papers of that day, and like some of the English papers now, its first page was completely covered with small advertisements. A thin driblet of short local items occupied a column on the third and fourth pages, a single column of editorial on the second.
Seems a piffling little sheet, he observed, "to be read in about eight seconds by any one not interested in advertisements. What is it that agitates you, Nan?"
Read that. She pointed to the editorial.
The article in question proved to be an attack on Palmer, Cook & Co. It said nothing whatever about the Cohen-Naglee robbery. Its subject was the excessive rentals charged the public by Palmer, Cook & Co. for postal boxes. But it mentioned names, recorded specific instances, avoided generalities, and stated plainly that this was merely beginning at the beginning in an expose of the methods of these "Uriah Heeps."
Why do they permit such things? cried Nan, scarcely waiting for Keith to finish his reading, "What is Mr. Palmer going to do about it?"
Survive, I guess, replied Keith, with a grin. "I take back my opinion of the paper. It certainly has life." He turned to the head of the page. "Hullo!" he cried in surprise. "James King of William running this, eh?" He whistled, then laughed. "That promises to be interesting, sure. He was in business with that crowd for some time. He ought to have information from the inside!"
Mrs. Palmer is simply furious, said Nan.
I'll bet she is. Are we invited out this evening?
The Thurstons' musicale. I thought you'd be interested in that.
Let me off, Nan, that's a good fellow, pleaded Keith, whose weariness had vanished. "I'd be delighted to go at any other time. But this is too rich. I must see what the gang has to say."
I suppose I could drop Ben Sansome a note, assented Nan doubtfully.
Do! Send the Chink around with it, urged Keith, rising. "I'll get a bite downtown and not bother you."
The gang--as indeed the whole city--took it as a great joke. Of those Keith met, only Jones, the junior partner, failed to see the humour, and he passed the affair off in cavalier fashion. That did not save him from the obligation of setting up the drinks.
I'm going to fix this thing up in the morning, he stated confidently. "Between you and me, there's evidently been a slip somewhere. Of course it ought never to have been allowed to go so far. I'll see this man King first thing in the morning, and buy him off. Undoubtedly that's about the only reason his paper exists. Wonder where he got the money to start it? He's busted. It can't last long."
If it keeps up the present gait, it'll last, said Judge Caldwell shrewdly. "Me--I'm going to send in a subscription tomorrow. Wouldn't miss it for anything."
It'll last as long as he does, growled Terry, "and that'll be about as long as a snowball in hell. What you ought to do, Jones, is what any man of spirit ought to do--call him out!"
He announces definitely that he won't fight duels, said Calhoun Bennett.
Then treat him like the cowardly hound he is, flared the uncompromising Terry. "Take the whip to him; and if that isn't effective, shoot him down as you would any other mad dog!"
Surely, that's a little extreme, Judge, expostulated Caldwell. "He hasn't done anything worse than stir up Jonesy a little."
But he will, sir, insisted Terry, "you mark my words. If you give him line, he'll not only hang himself, but he'll rope in a lot of bystanders as well."
I'll bet he sells a lot of papers to-morrow, anyhow, predicted Keith.
I hope so, bragged Jones. "There'll be the more to read his apology."
Evidently Jones fulfilled his promise, and quite as evidently Keith's prediction was verified. Every man on the street had a copy of the next day's _Bulletin_ within twenty minutes of issue.
A roar of delight went up. Jones's visit was reported simply as an item of news, faithfully, sarcastically, and pompously. There was no comment. Even the most faithful partisans of Palmer, Cook & Co. had to grin at the effectiveness of this new way of meeting the impact of such a visit,
It's clever journalism, Terry admitted, "but it's blackguardly; and I blame Jones for passing it over."
The fourth number--eagerly purchased--proved more interesting because of its hints of future disclosures rather than for its actual information. Broderick was mentioned by name. The attention of the city marshal was succinctly called to the disorderly houses and the statutes concerning them; and it was added, "for his information," that at a certain address a structure was actually building at a cost of $30,000 for improper purposes. Then followed a list of personal bonds and sureties for which Palmer, Cook & Co. were standing voucher, amounting to over two millions.
The expectations of disclosures, thus aroused, were not immediately gratified, except in the case of Broderick. His swindles in the matters of the Jenny Lind Theatre and the City Hall were traced out in detail. Every one knew these things were done, but nobody knew just how; so these disclosures made interesting reading if only as food for natural curiosity. However, the tension somewhat relaxed. It was generally considered that the coarse fibre of the ex-stone-cutter, the old Tammany heeler, and the thick skins of his political adherents could stand this sort of thing. Nobody with a sensitive honour to protect was assailed.
The position of the new paper was by now firmly established. It had a large subscription list; it was eagerly bought on the streets; and its advertising was increasing. King again turned his attention to Palmer, Cook & Co. Each day he treated succinctly, clearly, without rhetoric, some branch of their business. By the time he had finished with them he had not only exposed their iniquities, he had educated the public to an understanding of the financial methods of the times. His tilting at this banking firm had inevitably led him to criticism of certain of their subterfuges to avoid or take advantage of the law; and that as inevitably brought him to analysis and condemnation of the firm's legal advisers, James, Doyle, Barber & Boyd, a firm which had heretofore enjoyed a good reputation. Incidentally he called attention to duelling, venal newspapers, city sales, gambling, Billy Mulligan, Wooley Kearney, Casey, Cora, Yankee Sullivan, Martin Gallagher, Tom Cunningham, Ned McGowan, Charles Duane, and many other worthies, both of high and low degree. Never did he fear to name names and cite specific instances plainly. James King of William dealt in no innuendoes. He had found in himself the editor he had wished for, the man who would call a spade a spade.
The _Bulletin_ twice enlarged its form. It sold by the thousand. Its weapon of defence was the same as its weapon of offence--pitiless and complete publicity. Measures of reprisal, either direct or underhand, undertaken against him, King published often without comment.
At the first some of the cooler heads thought it might be well to reason with him.
The man has run a muck, said old Judge Girvin, "and while I am far from denying that In many--perhaps in most--cases his facts are correct, still his methods make for lawlessness among the masses. It might be well to meet him reasonably, and to expostulate."
I'd expostulate--with a blacksnake, growled the fiery Terry.
A number waited on King. Keith was among them. They found his office in a small ramshackle frame building, situated in the middle instead of alongside one of the back streets. It had probably been one of the early small dwelling-houses, marooned by a resurvey of the streets, and never since moved. King sat in his shirtsleeves before a small flat table. He looked up at them uncompromisingly from his wide-apart steady eyes.
Gentlemen, he greeted them tentatively.
Judge Girvin seated himself impressively, his fat legs well apart, his beaver hat and cane poised in his left hand; the others, grouped themselves back of him. The judge stated the moderate case well. "We do not deny any man the right to his opinion," he concluded, "but have you reflected on the effect such an expression often has on the minds of those not trained to control?"
King listened to him in silence.
It seems to me, sir, he answered, when Judge Girvin had quite finished, "that if abuses exist they should be exposed until they are remedied; and that the remedy should come from the law."
What is your impelling motive? asked the judge. "Why have you so suddenly taken up this form of activity? Do you feel aggrieved in any way-- personally?"
My motive in starting a newspaper, if that is what you mean, is the plain one of making an honest if modest living. And, incidentally, while doing so, I have some small idea of being of public use. I have no personal grievance; but I am aggrieved, as every decent man must be, at the way the lawyers, the big financial operators, and the other blackguards have robbed the city, stated King plainly.
Judge Girvin, flushing, arose with dignity,
I wish you good-day, sir, he said coldly, and at once withdrew.
Keith had been watching King with the keenly critical, detached, analytical speculation of the lawyer. He carried away with him the impression of a man inspired.
At the engine house, to which the discomfited delegation withdrew, there was more discussion.
The man is within his legal rights so far, stated Judge Girvin. "If any of his statements are libellous, it is the duty of the man so libelled to institute action in the courts."
He's too smooth for that, growled Jones.
He'll bite off more than he can chew, if he keeps on, said Dick Blatchford comfortably. "He's stirring up hornets' nests when he monkeys with men like Yankee Sullivan. He's about due for an awful scare, one of these days, and then he'll be good."
Do you know, I don't believe he'll scare, said Keith suddenly, with conviction.
As Keith surmised, intimidation had no effect. In such a city of fire- eaters it was promptly tried. A dozen publically announced that they thirsted for his blood, and intended to have it; and the records of the dozen were of determination and courage in such matters. In the gambling resorts and on the streets bets were made and pools formed on the probable duration of King's life. He took prompt notice of this fact. Said the _Bulletin's_ editorial column:
Bets are now being offered, we are told, that the editor of the _Bulletin_ will not be in existence twenty days longer, and the case of Doctor Hogan, of the Vicksburg paper, who was murdered by gamblers of that place, is cited as a warning. Pah! War, then, is the cry, is it? War between the prostitutes and gamblers on one side, and the virtuous and respectable on the other! Be it so, then! Gamblers of San Francisco, you have made your election, and we are ready on our side for the issue!
Keith read this over John Sherwood's shoulder at the Monumental. The ex-gambler, his famous benign spectacles atop his nose, chuckled over it.
He doesn't scare for a cent, does he? was his comment. "Strikes me I got out of the ranks of the ungodly just in time. If I were still gambling, I believe I'd take some of those bets he speaks of. He won't last--in this town. But I like his pluck--kind of. Only he's damn bad for business!"
Saying which, John Sherwood, late gambler but now sincerely believing himself a sound and conservative business man, passed the sheet over to Keith.
From vague threats the situation developed rapidly to the definite and personal. One Selover sent a challenge to King, which was refused. Selover then announced his intention of killing King on sight. The _Bulletin_ published this:
Mr. Selover, it is said, carries a knife. We carry a pistol. We hope neither will be required, but if this encounter cannot be avoided, why will Mr. Selover insist on imperilling the lives of others? We pass every afternoon, about half-past four to five o'clock, along Market Street from Fourth to Fifth streets. The road is wide, and not so much frequented as those streets farther in town. If we are to be shot or cut to pieces, for heaven's sake let it be done there. Others will not be injured, and in case we fall, our house is but a few hundred yards beyond, and the cemetery not much farther.
These detailed attacks and bold defiances had the effect of greatly angering those who were the specific objects of attention; of making very uneasy the class to which these victims belonged; of focussing on public matters a public sentiment that was just becoming conscious of itself because of the pinch of hard times; and of rendering contemptuously indignant all of "higher" society.
To this latter category Keith would undoubtedly have belonged--as did his wife and practically all his friends--had it not been for his association with Krafft. Through him the young lawyer came into intimate personal touch with a large class of people who would otherwise have been remote from him. He heard of their difficulties and problems at first hand, saw the actual effect of abuses that, looked at from above, were abstract or academic. Police brutality as a phrase carried little significance; police brutality as a clubbing of Malachi Hogan, who was brought in with his skull crushed, and whose blood stained Keith's new coat, meant something. Waste of public funds, translated before his eyes into eviction for nonpayment of taxes, took on a new significance. Keith saw plainly that a reform was needed. He was not, on that account, in the least sympathetic with King's methods. Like Judge Girvin, he felt them revolutionary and subversive. But he could not share the contempt of his class; rather he respected the editor as a sincere but mistaken man. When his name came up for discussion or bitter vituperation, Keith was silent. He read the _Bulletin_ editorials; and while he in no way endorsed their conclusions or recommendations, he could not but acknowledge their general accuracy. Without his knowing it, he was being educated. He came to realize the need for better administration by the city's officers and a better enforcement of the laws. Very quietly, deep down within himself, he made up his mind that in the Assistant District Attorney's office, at least, the old order of things should cease.
One afternoon Keith walked down Kearney Street deep in discussion of an important Federal case with his friend, Billy Richardson, the United States Marshal. Although both just and an official, Richardson was popular with all classes save those with whom his duty brought him into conflict. They found their way deliberately blocked, and came out of the absorption of their discussion to recognize before them Charles Cora, an Italian gambler of considerable prominence and wealth. Cora was a small, dark man, nervously built, dressed neatly and carefully in the height of gambler fashion. He seemed to be terribly excited, and at once launched a stream of oaths at Richardson.
What's the matter with you, Charley? asked the latter, as soon as he had recovered from his surprise.
Cora, evidently too incoherent to speak, leaped at the marshal, his fist drawn back. Keith seized him around the body, holding his arms to his sides.
Hold on; take it easy! he panted. "What's up, anyway?"
Cora, struggling violently, gritted out:
He knows damn well what's up.
I'll swear I don't! denied Richardson.
Then what do you mean telling every one that my Belle insulted your wife last night at the opera house? demanded Cora, ceasing to struggle.
Belle? repeated Richardson equably. "I don't know what you're talking about. Be reasonable. Explain yourself."
Yes, I got it straight, insisted the Italian. "Your wife says it insults her to sit next to my Belle, and you go everywhere telling it. What right you got to do that? Answer me that!"
Now look here, said Richardson. "I was with Jim Scott all last evening. My wife wasn't with me. If you don't believe me, go ask Scotty."
Cora had apparently cooled off, so Keith released him. He shook his head, grumbling, only half convinced. After a moment he moved away. The two men watched him go, half vexed, half amused.
He's crazy as a pup about that woman, observed Richardson.
Who is she? inquired Keith.
Why, Belle--you know Belle, the one who keeps that, crib up your way.
That woman! marvelled Keith.
He spent the afternoon in court and in his office. About half-past six, on his way home, he saw Cora and Richardson come out of the Blue Wing saloon together. They were talking earnestly, and stopped in the square of light from the window. Richardson was explaining, and Cora was listening sullenly. As Keith passed them he heard, the marshal say, "Well, is it all right?" and Cora reply, "Yes." Something caused him to look back after he had gone a dozen yards. He saw Cora suddenly seize Richardson's collar with his left hand, at the same time drawing a derringer with his right.
What are you going to do? cried Richardson loudly and steadily, without straggling, "Don't shoot; I am unarmed!"
Without reply Cora fired into his breast. The marshal wilted, but with iron strength Cora continued for several moments to hold up his victim by the collar. Then he let the body drop, and moved away at a fast walk, the derringer still in his right hand.
Keith ran to his friend, and with others carried him into a nearby drug store. The sound of the shot almost immediately brought out a crowd. Keith, bending over the body of the murdered man, could see them pressing about the windows outside, their faces showing white from the lamps in the drug- store window or fading into the darkness beyond. They crowded through the doorway until driven out again by some of the cooler heads. Conjectures and inquiries flew thick. All sorts of reports were current of the details, but the crowd had the main facts--Cora had shot Richardson, Richardson was dead, Cora had been taken to jail.
Then he's safe! they sneered savagely.
Men had been shot on the streets before, many men, some of them as well known and liked as Richardson; but not after public sentiment had been aroused as the _Bulletin_ had aroused it. The crowds continued to gather. Several men made violent street-corner speeches. There was some talk of lynching. A storm of yes and no burst forth when the question was put. Bells rang. A great mob surged to the jail, were firmly met by a strong armed guard, and fell back muttering.
Who will be the next victim? men asked. "What a farce!" cried some, in deep disgust. "Why, the jailer is Cora's especial crony!" stated others, who seemed to know. "If the jury is packed, hang the jury!" advised certain far-seeing ones. A grim, quiet, black-bearded man expressed the undercurrent of opinion: "Mark my words," said he, "if Charles Cora is left for trial, he will be let loose on the community to assassinate his third victim!" It seemed that Cora had been involved in a previous shooting scrape. But to swing a mob to action there must be determined men at its head, and this mob had no leaders. Sam Brannan started to say something in his coarse, roaring voice, and was promptly arrested for inciting a riot. Nobody cared enough seriously for the redoubtable Sam to object to this. The situation was ticklish, but the police handled it tactfully for once, opposing only a passive opposition, leaving the crowd to fritter its energies in purposeless cursing, surging to and fro, and in harmless threats.
Keith did not join the throngs on the streets. Having determined that Richardson was dead, he accompanied the body home. He was deeply stirred, not only by the circumstances of the murder, but also by the scene at which he had to assist when the news must be broken to Mrs. Richardson. From the house he went directly to King's residence, where he was told that the editor had gone downtown. After considerable search and inquiry he at last got sight of his man standing atop a wooden awning overlooking the Plaza in front of the jail. King nodded to him as he climbed out of the second-story window to take his position at the newspaper man's side.
The square was a wild sight, filled, packed with men, a crowd of men tossed in constant motion. A mumbling growl came from them continuously, and occasionally a shout. Many hands were upraised, and in some of them were weapons. Opposite, the blank front of the jail.
King's eyes were shining with interest and a certain quiet exultation, but he seemed not at all excited.
Will they storm the jail? asked Keith.
King shook his head.
No, these people will do nothing. But they show the spirit of the time. All it needs now is organization, cool, deliberate organization--to- morrow.
That's just what I've hunted you out to talk about, said Keith earnestly. "There is much talk of a Vigilance Committee. As you say, all it needs is the call. That means lawlessness, bloodshed."
Conditions at present are intolerable, said King briefly.
I agree with you, replied Keith. King stared. "But in this case I assure you the law will do its duty. It is an absolutely open and shut case. Acquittal is impossible. Why, I myself was witness of the affair."
King looked skeptical.
Hundreds of such cases have been acquitted, or the indictment quashed.
But this is entirely different. In the first place, the case will come before Judge Norton and Judge Hazen, both of whom you will acknowledge are honest. In the second place, this case will be in my hands as Assistant District Attorney. I myself shall do the prosecuting, and I promise you on my honour that every effort will be made for a deserved and speedy conviction. I acknowledge justice has sometimes gone wrong in the past; but that has not been the fault of the law, but of the administration of the law. If you have the least confidence in Judge Norton and Judge Hazen, and if you can be brought to believe me, you will see that this one case of all cases should not be taken from the constituted authorities or made the basis for a movement outside the law.
Well? said King, half convinced.
The _Bulletin_ has the greatest influence with these people. Use it. Give the law, the honest law, a chance. Do not get back of any Vigilante movement. In that way, I am convinced, you will be of the greatest public service.
Next day the _Bulletin_ came out vigorously counselling dependence on the law, expressing confidence in the integrity of Hazen and Norton, and enunciating a personal belief that the day had passed when it would be necessary to resort to arbitrary measures. The mob's anger had possessed vitality enough to keep it up all night; but the attitude of the _Bulletin_, backed by responsible men like Ward, Coleman, Hossiros, Bluxome, and others, averted a crisis. Nevertheless, King added a paragraph of warning:
Hang Billy Mulligan! That's the word! If Mr. Sheriff Scannell does not remove Billy Mulligan from his present post as keeper of the county jail, and Mulligan lets Cora escape, hang Billy Mulligan, and if necessary to get rid of the sheriff, hang him--hang the sheriff!
The popular excitement gradually died. It had no leaders. Coleman and men of his stamp, who had taken command of similar crises in former times, counselled moderation. They were influenced, partly by the fact that Richardson had been a public official and a popular one. Conviction seemed certain.
Keith applied himself heart and soul to the case. Its preparation seemed to him, at first an easy matter. It was open and shut. Although at the moment of the murder the street had not been crowded, a half-dozen eye-witnesses of the actual shooting were easily found, willing to testify to the essential facts. No defence seemed possible, but Cora remained undisturbed. He had retained one of the most brilliant lawyers of the time, James McDougall. This fact in itself might have warned Keith, for McDougall had the reputation of avoiding lost causes and empty purses. The lawyer promptly took as counsel the most brilliant of the younger men, Jimmy Ware, Allyn Lane, and Keith's friend, Calhoun Bennett. This meant money, and plenty of it, for all of these were expensive men. The exact source of the money was uncertain; but it was known that Belle was advancing liberally for her lover, and that James Casey, bound by some mysterious obligation, was active in taking up collections. Cora lived in great luxury at the jail. He had long been a personal friend of Sheriff Webb and his first deputy, Billy Mulligan.
Several months passed before the case could be forced to trial. All sorts of legal and technical expedients were used to defer action. McDougall and his legal assistants were skilful players at the game, and the points they advanced had to be fought out according to the rules, each a separate little case with plenty of its own technicalities. Some of Keith's witnesses were difficult to hold; they had business elsewhere, and naturally resented being compelled, through no fault of their own, to remain. Keith had always looked on this play of legal rapiers as a part--an interesting part--of the game; but heretofore he had always been on the obstructing side. He worried a great deal. At length, by superhuman efforts, he broke through the thicket of technicalities and brought the matter to an issue. The day was set. He returned home so relieved in spirit that Nan could not but remark on his buoyancy.
Yes, he responded, "I've managed to drive that old rascal, McDougall, into the open at last."
Nan caught at the epithet.
But you don't mean that--quite--do you? she asked. "The McDougalls are such delightful people."
No, of course not. Just law talk, said Keith, quite sincerely. "He's handled his case well up to now. I'm just exasperated on that account, that's all."
But setting the day irrevocably was only a beginning. The jury had to be selected. Sheriff Webb had in his hands the calling of the venire. While it was true that the old-time, "professional jurymen"--men who hung around the courthouse for no other purpose--were no longer in existence, it can be readily seen that Webb was able, if it were worth while, to exercise a judicious eye in the selection of "amenables." The early exhaustion of Keith's quota of peremptory challenges was significant, for McDougall rarely found it desirable to challenge at all! Keith displayed tremendous resource in last-moment detective work concerning the records of the panel. In this way he was enabled to challenge several for cause, after all his peremptory challenges had been used. At first he had great difficulty in getting results, for the police detectives proved supine. It was only after he had hired private agents, paying for them from his own pocket, that he obtained information on which he could act. The final result was a jury better than he had dared hope for, but worse than he desired. He had gone through a tremendous labour, and realized fully the difference between being for or against the powers.
The case came to trial, Keith presented six witnesses--respectable, one of them well-known. These testified to the same simple facts, and their testimony remained unshaken under cross-examination. McDougall offered the plea of self-defence. He brought a cloud of witnesses to swear that Cora had drawn his weapon only after Richardson had produced and cocked a pistol. By skilful technical delays Keith gained time for his detectives, and succeeded in showing that two of these witnesses had been elsewhere at the time of the killing, and therefore had perjured themselves. He recalled his own witnesses, and found two willing to swear that Richardson's hands had been empty and hanging at his sides, The defence did not trouble to cross-examine this statement.
At last, with a perfunctory judicial charge, the case went to the jury. Keith, weary to the bone, sat back in grateful relaxation. He had worked hard, against odds, and had done a good job. He was willing now to spare a little professional admiration for McDougall's skilful legal manoeuvring. There could be no earthly doubt of the result. He idly watched the big bland-faced clock, with its long second hand moving forward by spaced jerks. The jury was out a very long time for so simple a verdict, but that was a habit of California juries. It did not worry Keith. He was glad to rest. The judge stared at the ceiling, his hands clasped over his stomach. Cora's lawyers talked together in a low voice. Flies buzzed against dusty window-panes. The spectators watched apathetically. Belle, in a ravishing toilet, was there.
The opening of the door broke the spell almost rudely. Keith sat up, listening to the formal questions and answers. They had disagreed!
For a moment the import of this did not penetrate to Keith's understanding. Then he half rose, shouted "What!" and sank back stunned. His brain was in confusion. Only dimly did he hear the judge dismissing the jury, remanding Cora for retrial, adjourning court. Instantly Cora was surrounded by a congratulatory crowd. Keith sat alone. McDougall, gathering up his papers from the table assigned to counsel, made some facetious remark. Keith did not reply. McDougall looked at him sharply, and as he went out he remarked to Casey:
Keith takes this hard.
He does! cried Casey, genuinely astonished. "They were trying to tell me he was altogether too active in this matter; but I told them he was young and had his way to make, and was playing to the gallery."
He sauntered across the room.
Well, Milt, he cried in a jovial voice, but watching the young lawyer narrowly, "the Lord's on the side of true virtue, as usual."
Keith came to himself, scowled, started to say something, but refrained with an obvious effort.
Casey wandered back to McDougall.
You're right, Mac, he said. "I guess he's got the swell head. We'll have to call him off gently, or he'll make a nuisance of himself at the next trial. He makes altogether too much trouble."
But McDougall was tolerant.
Oh, let him alone, Jim. He's got his way to make. Let him alone. We can handle the situation.