Thursday noon was set for the funeral of the man who had given his life
that a city might live. In the room where he had made his brave fight
against death he now lay in state. On Wednesday ten thousand people
visited him there. Early Thursday morning his remains were transferred
to the Unitarian Church where, early as it was, a great multitude had
gathered to do him honour. Now through the long morning hours it sat
with him silently. The church was soon filled to over-flowing; the
streets in all directions became crowded with sober-faced men and
women. They knew they would be unable to get into the church, to attend
nearer his last communion with his fellowmen, but they stayed, feeling
vaguely that their mere presence helped--as, indeed, perhaps it did.
Marching bodies from every guild or society in the city stood in rank
after rank, extending down the street as far as the eye could reach.
Hundreds of horsemen, carriages, foot marchers, quietly, orderly, were
already getting into line. They, too, were excluded from the funeral
ceremonies by lack of room; they, too, waited to do honour to the
cortege. This procession was over two miles in length. Each man wore a
band of crèpe around his left arm. The time set for the funeral
ceremony was yet hours distant.
It seemed that all the city must be there. But those who, hurrying to
the scene, had occasion to pass near the Vigilante headquarters found
the vacant square guarded on all sides by a triple line of armed men.
The side streets, also, were filled with them. They stood in exact
alignment, rigid, bayonets fixed, their eyes straight ahead. Three
thousand of them were there. Hour after hour they stood, untiring,
staring at the building, which gave no sign; just as the other
multitude, only a few squares away, stood hour after hour, patiently
waiting in the bright sun.
At quarter before one the upper windows of the headquarters building
were thrown open, and small platforms, extending about three feet, were
thrust from two of them. An instant later two heavy beams were shoved
out from the flat roof directly over the platforms. From the ends of
the beams dangled nooses of rope. A dead wait ensued. Across the
silence could be heard faintly from the open windows of the distant
church the chords of an organ, the rise and fall of a hymn, then the
measured cadence of oration. The funeral services had begun.
As though this were a signal, the blinds that had partly closed the
window openings were swung back, and Charles Cora was conducted to the
end of one of the little platforms. His face was covered with a white
handkerchief, and his arms and legs were bound with cords. The
attendant adjusted the noose, then left him. An instant later Casey
appeared. He had petitioned not to be blindfolded, so his face was
bare. Cora stood bolt upright, motionless as a stone. Casey's nerve had
left him; his face was pale and his eyes bloodshot. As the attendant
placed the noose, the murderer's eyes darted here and there over the
square. Did he still expect that the boastful promises of his friends
would be fulfilled, did he still hope for rescue? If so, that hope must
have died as he looked down on those set, grim faces staring straight
ahead, on that sinister ring of steel. He began to babble.
"Gentlemen!" he cried at them, "I am not a murderer! I do not feel
afraid to meet my God on a charge of murder! I have done nothing but
what I thought was right! To-morrow let no editor dare call me a
murderer! Whenever I was injured I have resented it. It has been part
of my education during twenty-nine years! Gentlemen, I forgive you this
persecution! O God! My poor mother! O God!"
Not one word of contrition; not one word for the man who lay yonder in
the church; not one syllable for the heartbroken wife kneeling at the
coffin! He ceased. And his words went out into the void and found no
echo against that wall of steel.
They waited. For what? Across the intervening housetops the sound of
speaking ceased to carry. The last orator had given place. At the door
of the sanctuary was visible a slight, commotion: the coffin was being
carried out. It was placed in the hearse. Every head was bared. There
ensued a slight pause; then from overhead the great bell boomed once.
Another bell in the next block answered. A third, more distant, chimed
in. From all parts of the city tolled the solemn requiem.
At the first stroke the long cortège moved forward toward Lone
Mountain; at the first stroke the Vigilantes, as one man, presented
arms; at the first stroke the platforms dropped and Casey and Cora fell
into the abyss of eternity.