While he was still gazing thoughtfully at this Johnny Fairfax, fresh as
the morning, appeared at his elbow.
"Hello, wise man," he greeted him cheerily. "You were a good
prophet--and you got some sleep. I hung around all night, but nothing
new was done."
"Look here," said Keith, placing his finger on the notice, "do you
suppose this genuine?"
Johnny read the notice.
"Couldn't say."
"Because if this is actually the old Committee of '51, it means
business."
"There's one way to find out."
"How's that?"
"Go and see," advised Johnny.
Number 105-1/2 Sacramento Street proved to be a big three-storied
barnlike structure that had been built by a short-lived political party
called the Know Nothings. Already the hall was packed to its full
capacity, the entrance ways jammed, and a big crowd had gathered in the
streets.
"Fine chance we have here!" observed Johnny ruefully.
They stood well free of the press for a few moments, watching. More men
were coming from all directions. But Johnny was resourceful, and
likewise restless.
"Let's prowl around a little," he suggested to his companion.
They prowled to such good purpose that they discovered, at the rear of
the building, opening into a blind alley, a narrow wooden stairway. It
was unguarded and untenanted.
"Here we are," pronounced Johnny.
They ascended it, and immediately found themselves In a small room back
of the stage or speaker's platform, It contained about a score of men.
Their aspect was earnest, serious, grave. Although there was a
sufficiency of chairs, they were all afoot, gathered in a loose group,
in whose centre stood William Coleman, his massive shoulders squared,
his large bony, hands clenched at his side, his florid complexion even
more flushed than usual, his steady eye travelling slowly from one face
to another, Again the strange contradictions in, his appearance struck
Keith with the impact of a distinct shock--the low smoothed hair, the
sweeping blue-black moustache, the vivid colour, and high cheek bones
of the typical gambler--the clear eye, firm mouth, incisive, deliberate
speech, the emanation of personality that inspired confidence. Next
him, talking earnestly, stood Clancey Dempster, a small man, mild of
manner, blue eyed, with light, smooth hair, the last man in the room
one would have picked for great firmness and courage, yet destined to
play one of the leading rôles in this crisis. The gigantic merchant,
Truett, towered above him, he who had calmly held two fighting
teamsters apart by their collars; and homely, stubborn, honest Farwell,
direct, uncompromising, inspired with tremendous single-minded
earnestness, but tender as a girl to any under dog; and James Dows,
rough and ready, humorous, blasphemous, absolutely direct, endowed with
"horse sense," eccentric, but of fundamentally good judgment: Hossfros
of '51; Dr. Beverly Cole, high spirited, distinguished looking,
courtly; the excitable, active, nervous, talkative, but staunch Tom
Smiley, Isaac Blucome whose signature as "33, Secretary" was to become
terrible; fiery little George Ward, willing--but unable--to whip his
weight in wild cats. As Keith recognized these men, and others of their
stamp, he nodded his head contentedly.
Johnny Fairfax must have caught the same impression, for he leaned
across to whisper to Keith, his eyes shining:
"We've hit it!"
Their entrance had passed unnoticed in the absorption of discussion.
Coleman was speaking, evidently in final decision.
"It is a serious business," said he. "It is no child's play. It may
prove very serious. We may get through quickly, so safely, or we may so
involve ourselves as never to get through."
"The issue is not of choice, but of expediency," urged Dempster. "Shall
we have vigilance with order or a mob with anarchy?"
Coleman pondered a moment, then threw up his head.
"On two conditions I will accept the responsibility--absolute
obedience, absolute secrecy."
Without waiting for a reply to this he threw open a door, and followed
by the others, stepped out on the platform. A roar greeted their
appearance. Johnny and Keith, remaining modestly in the background,
lingered near the open door.
The hall was filled to its utmost capacity. Every inch of floor space
was occupied, and men perched on sills, clung to beams. Coleman raised
his hand and obtained an immediate dead silence.
"In view of the miscarriage of justice in the courts," he announced
briefly, "it has been thought expedient to revive the Vigilance
Committee. An Executive Council was chosen by a representative of the
whole body. I have been asked to take charge. I will do so, but must
stipulate that I am to be free to choose the first council myself. Is
that agreed?"
A roar of assent answered him.
"Very well, gentlemen. I shall request you to vacate the hall. In a
short time the books will be open for enrollment."
He turned and reëntered the anteroom followed by the others. In so
doing he came face to face with the intruders.
"This is not your place, gentlemen," he told them courteously.
They retired down the narrow back stairs and joined the huge throng
that filled the streets, waiting patiently and quietly, its eyes fixed
on the closed doors of the hall. In a remarkably short time these doors
were thrown open. Those nearest surged forward. Inside the passage were
twelve men, later to be known as the Executive Committee. These held
back the rush, admitting but one man at a time. The crowd immediately
caught the idea. There was absolutely no excitement. Every man was
grimly in earnest. Cries of "Order! Order! Line up!" came from
different parts of the throng. A rough quadruple queue was formed
extending down the street. There was no talk nor smiles, none of the
usual rough joking. Each waited his turn without impatience.
Johnny Fairfax and Keith, owing to the chance that they had, entered
the crowd from the nearby alley and found themselves close to the head
of the line. As they neared the entrance, and so could hear what was
there going on, they found that each applicant was being closely
scrutinized and interrogated. The great majority passed this ordeal,
but several men were peremtorily turned back with a warning not to try
again.
Keith's turn came. He was conscious of the scrutiny of many eyes; he
heard the word "pass" pronounced by some one in the background, and
climbed the stairs. At the top he was directed to an anteroom at the
left. Here behind a table sat Coleman, Dempster, and a third man
unknown to him. To them he repeated the words of an oath of secrecy,
and then was passed into another room where Isaac Bluxome sat behind a
ledger. In this he wrote his name.
"Your number is 178," said Bluxome to him, "By that number, and not by
your name, you are henceforth to be known here. Never use names, always
their numbers, in referring to other members."
Thence Keith was directed to the main hall where were those already
admitted. These were gathered in groups discussing the situation. In a
moment Johnny Fairfax joined him.
"179, I am," said Johnny. His eyes swept the hall. "Not much mob spirit
about this; it looks like business."
They hung around for an hour. The hall slowly filled. Finally, learning
that nothing further was to be done until the enrollment had finished,
they wandered out again into the street. The unbroken lines of
applicants extended as far down the street as the eye could see.
All that day the applicants, orderly and grim with purpose, were passed
through in line. By mid-day it was seen that the Know-Nothing Hall was
going to be too small for the meeting that would later take place.
Therefore, a move was made to the Turnverein Hall. After enrolling, no
man departed from the vicinity for long. Short absences for hastily
snatched meals were followed by hurried returns lest something be
missed. From time to time reports were circulated as to the activities
of the Executive Committee, which had been in continuous session since
its appointment. Thus it was said that an Examining Committee had been
appointed to scrutinize the applicants; that the members of the
Executive Committee had been raised to twenty-six, that Oscar Smith had
been appointed chief of police. The latter rumour was immediately
verified by the energetic activities of that able citizen. He, or his
messengers, darted here and there searching for individuals wanted as
doorkeepers, guards, or police officers. His regulations also began to
be felt. By evening only registered members of the committee were
allowed on the floor of the hall, even the expostulating reporters
being gently but firmly ejected.
Nobody manifested the least excitement or impatience. At eight o'clock
Coleman came out of one of the side rooms, and, mounting a table,
called for order.
"A military organization is deemed necessary," he said crisply.
"Numbers one to one hundred will please assemble in the southwest
corner of the room; numbers one hundred and one to two hundred will
take the first window; numbers two hundred and one to three hundred the
second window, and so on." He hesitated and looked over the assembly.
"_Que les Français, se mettent au centre_," he ended.
This command in a foreign language was made necessary by the
extraordinary number of Frenchmen who had first answered the call of
gold in the El Dorado of '49; and then with equal enthusiasm responded
to this demand for essential justice.
Coleman waited while the multitude shifted here and there. When the
component parts had again come to rest he made his next announcement:
"Now each company will elect its own officers, but those officers are
subject to the orders of the Executive Committee."
Numbers one hundred and one to two hundred inclusive, the company in
which Keith and Johnny Fairfax found themselves, were for the most part
strangers to one another, They exchanged glances, hesitating as to how
to begin. Then a small, spectacled, man spoke up.
"Gentlemen," said he, "we must get organized as rapidly as possible,
Mr. Coleman is waiting. We need for a leader a man who is experienced
in active life. I nominate John Fairfax as captain of this company."
Johnny gasped and turned red.
"Who's your little friend?" Keith whispered.
"Never saw him before in my life," replied Johnny.
The announcement was received with indecision. Nobody immediately
replied or commented aloud on the nomination, but men were asking each
other in undertones. The little spectacled man saw this, and spoke up
again:
"Perhaps I should say that Mr. Fairfax is better known as Diamond Jack."
Faces cleared, heads nodded. A murmur of recognition replaced the
puzzled frowning, "Good man," "The express rider," "Danny Randall's
man," they told each other.
"I do not know Mr. Fairfax," the spectacled man was saying, "but I saw
his name just before mine on the register."
"This is Fairfax," said Keith, thrusting the reluctant Johnny forward.
He was elected to the post by acclamation.
"Nominations for a lieutenant?" suggested the spectacled man, but Keith
interrupted.
"If you all have as much confidence in Mr. Fairfax as I have," said he,
"perhaps you'll give him free hand and let him pick his own officers."
This seemed a good idea, and was instantly adopted.
"Well, I thank you, gentlemen," said Johnny, "and we'll do our best to
become efficient. Report your names and addresses to this gentleman
here--"
"Willey," supplied the little man.
"We shall drill to-morrow at eight sharp. Bring whatever weapons----"
But Coleman was again speaking and on this very subject:
"The committee have arranged with George Law," he was saying, "to
supply or hire muskets to the number of several thousands. These
weapons will be at this hall to-morrow morning early. Company captains
can then make their requisitions."
A murmur of inquiry swept the hall. "George Law? Where did _he_ get
several thousand muskets?" And the counter current of information
making its way slowly--they were only flintlocks, perfectly efficient
though, had bayonets--superseded government arms--brought out some time
ago by Law to arm some mysterious filibustering expedition that had
fizzled.
In this manner, without confusion, an organization of two thousand men
was formed, sixteen military companies officered and armed.
Shortly after Coleman dismissed the meeting. Its members dispersed to
their homes. Absolute quiet descended on the city, which slept under
the moon.