RICHARDSON AND CORA
Business went on with at least a surface calm of new stability. Politics
brought forth occasional eruptions, mostly twixt the Abolitionists and
Slavery parties. Each claimed California. Broderick more than ever held
the reins of state and city government. But the latter proved a
fractious steed. For all his dauntless vigor and political astuteness,
Destiny as yet withheld from Broderick the coveted United States
senatorship. At best he had achieved an impasse, a dog-in-the-manger
victory. By preventing the election of a rival he had gained little and
incurred much censure for depriving the State of national
representation. Benito and Alice tried to rouse him from a fit of
moodiness as he dined with them one evening in November. Lately he had
made a frequent, always-welcome third at their evening meal.
"Cheer up, Dave," Benito rallied, as he raised a glass of wine. "We'll
be reading your speeches in the Washington reports before many years
have gone by. Come," he said to his wife, "let's drink to the future of
'The Gentleman from California.'"
Broderick smiled; his glass clinked against those of his two companions.
He gazed a moment musingly at both; then quaffed his liquor with a
touch of haste.
Alice Windham's eyes were troubled. "David," she was hesitant, yet
earnest. "It is really necessary to associate with people such as--well,
you know ... James Casey, Billy Mulligan, McGowan?"
He answered her with a vehemence close to anger. "Politicians cannot
choose their weapons. They must fight fire with fire ... or lose." For a
moment the talk lagged. Then Benito, with his sprightly gossip, sent it
rolling on. "Sherman has turned Jim Casey and his _Sunday Times_ out of
the Turner-Lucas building ... for attacking the banks."
"He threatened to, some time ago," said Broderick.... "How goes it with
your law, Benito?"
"Well enough," said Windham, as his wife rose. She left them to attend
the child, which had awakened. Broderick stared after her, a brooding
hunger in his eyes. Presently, he, too, arose, and despite Benito's
urging, departed.
It was dusk when he reached the Blue Wing saloon, where "Judge" McGowan
awaited him. A burly, forceful man, with bushy eyebrows, a walrus
moustache perpetually tobacco-stained, and an air of ruthless command.
"Where've you been?" he asked, impatiently, but did not wait for an
answer. "Casey's in trouble again."
"What's the matter now?" asked Broderick with a swift, half anxious
uplift of the chin.
"Oh, not his fault exactly," said the other. "Five of Gwin's men
attacked him. Tried to kill him probably. But Jim's a tough lad. He laid
one out, took his pistol and shot another. The rest vamoosed. Jim's in
jail ... for disturbing the peace," he added, chuckling grimly.
"Well, Billy Mulligan will let him out," responded Broderick. "If not,
see Scannell. Do you need bail?" He reached into his pocket and took out
a roll of banknotes. "You'll attend to it, Ned?" he asked hurriedly.
"Yes, yes," returned the tall man. "That's all right.... I wish it
hadn't happened, though. We're none too strong ... with seven murderers
in the jail.... They'll bring up Casey's prison record at the
examination. See if they don't."
Broderick turned away.
At the bar he greeted "General" Billy Richardson, deputy United States
Marshal. They had a drink together.
"James King of William's crusading with The Bulletin," said Richardson,
"he threatens to run all the crooks out of town. It's making a good
deal of talk."
"But King's not a newspaper man," retorted Broderick, puzzled. "He's a
banker. How's he going to run a journal? That takes money--experience."
"Quien sabe?" Richardson vouchsafed. "Sinton of Selover and Sinton's his
financial backer. Jim Nesbitt helps with the writing. You know Nesbitt,
don't you? Slings a wicked pen. But King writes his own editorials I'm
told. He's got a big job on his hands--cleaning up San Francisco.... You
ought to know, Dave Broderick," he laughed meaningly. "Here's to
him, anyhow."
"Don't know if I should drink to that or not," Broderick ruminated,
smiling. "May get after me. I'll take a chance, though. King's straight.
I can always get on with a straight man." He raised his glass.
A friend of Richardson's came up. Broderick did not know him, but he
recognized at his side the well-groomed figure of Charles Cora, gambler
and dandy. "Wancha t'meet Charley," said the introducer, unsteadily, to
Richardson. "Bes' li'l man ever lived." Richardson held out his hand a
bit reluctantly. Cora's sort were somewhat declassé. "Have a drink?"
he invited.
Broderick left them together. Later he saw Richardson quit the gambler's
presence abruptly. The other took a few steps after him, then fell back
with a shrug. Broderick heard the deputy-marshal mutter: "Too damned
fresh; positively insulting," but he thought little of it. Richardson
was apt to grow choleric while drinking. He often fancied himself
insulted, but usually forgot it quickly. So Broderick merely smiled.
On the following day he chanced again upon Richardson, who, to
Broderick's astonishment, still brooded over Cora's "impudent remark."
He did not seem to know just what it was, but the offensive flavor of
it lingered.
"Wonder where he is?" he kept repeating. "Deserves to be thrashed.
Confound his impertinence. May do it yet."
He was drinking. Broderick glanced apprehensively about. The gambler's
sleek form was not in evidence. McGowan came in with Casey and Mulligan.
Casey, too, had been drinking. He was in an evil humor, his usually
jovial face sullen and vengeful.
"Damn the newspapers," he exploded. "They've printed the Sing Sing yarn
on me again. It was brought out at the arraignment."
"Confound it, Broderick, haven't you any influence at all? Can't you
keep such stuff out of type?"
"Sometimes--if I know about it in advance. I'm sorry, Jim."
"They tell me King of William's going to print it in the _Bulletin_.
Better see him."
"No use," put in McGowan, "that fellow's so straight (he sneered the
word) that he leans over backward. Somebody'll fix him though ... you'll
see." The trio wandered off to Broderick's relief, making their exit
just as Cora entered the door. The gambler approached Richardson. They
had a drink together, some rather loud, conversation. Broderick feared
it would develop into a quarrel, but evidently they patched a truce
between them, for soon they went out arm in arm.
His thought turned to Alice Windham. In a kind of reverie he left the
Blue Wing, walking without sense of direction. It was getting dark; a
chilling touch of fog was in the air--almost, it seemed to Broderick,
like a premonition. On Clay, near Montgomery, he passed two men standing
in a doorway; it was too dark to see their faces. Some impulse bade him
stop, but he repressed it. Later he heard a shot, men running. But his
mood was not for street brawls. He went on.