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!