THE TRUCE IS BROKEN
On the Garvez ranch, at sunset, the 17th of May, David Broderick found a
gracious interval of peace. It seemed almost incredible to be dining in
the patio with Benito and Alice against a background of fragrant
honeysuckle and early roses. The long sloping mesas were bright with
golden poppies; fleecy white clouds bedecked the azure of a western sky,
flushing now with carmine tints. Cowbells tinkled musically faint with
distance and from the vaquero quarters came a herder's song, a woman's
laughter, the tinkle of a guitar.
"What are you dreaming of, my friend?" asked Alice Windham, gently.
"It is very like a dream," he smiled at her, "this place of yours. So
near the city. Yet so far removed in its enchantment....
"Down there," he pointed toward the town, where lights were springing up
out of the dusk, "a man lies dying ... and a mob plots vengeance."
"Oh, come," Benito voiced a protest, "we're not a mob, Dave. You know
that." He laid a hand upon the other's arm. "I understand how hard it's
been for you.... You're suffering for the sins of underlings unfit to
lace your boots."
"Against whom you warned me not long since," said Broderick to Alice.
"Casey, Mulligan. Yes, I remember ... you resented it a little, didn't
you?"
"No," he said, his eyes upon her with that eager look, repressed and
yearning, which she could not always meet. "No, dear lady; it was not
resentment.... But it hurt."
Alice turned from him to her husband. "Tell me what they've done today,
Benito."
Windham's eyes shone. "You should see Will Coleman. Ah, he's a leader
incomparable. We've got nearly 6,000 men. Infantry, artillery, cavalry.
A police force, too, for patrolling the streets day and night."
"And what is the other side doing?" Alice asked.
"They've got the Governor wobbling," said Benito. "Sooner or later he'll
call out the militia...."
"But they've got no ammunition, no guns, I understand," responded
Broderick. "Sherman tried to commandeer those flintlock muskets from the
Mexican war--several thousand of them--but Coleman got them first."
"Yes," affirmed Benito. "The Sheriff's seized some scattered arms. But
that is not what Coleman fears. It's Federal interference. They're
trying to get General Wool to give them rifles from the arsenal at
Benicia, perhaps a gunboat from the navy yard."
"That means--civil warfare," Broderick said, aghast.
Alice Windham rose and the two men with her. She took an arm of each.
"Come," she pleaded, "let us put it all away--this turmoil of men's
hatred ... let us walk here in the sweet-scented evening and forget."
"I wish we might," said Broderick quickly. "What will happen in the next
few days may never be forgotten."
Swiftly, Alice turned to him; looked up into his face. "Do you think,"
she asked, so low that he could scarcely catch the words, "do you think,
Dave, that you're safe?"
Broderick caught his breath. Involuntarily his eyes strayed toward
Benito. But the latter was so patently absorbed in sunset splendors that
Broderick sighed as if relieved. It seemed as though some holy thing had
passed between him and this woman. In her look, her simple question lay
a shadowy, half-spoken answer to his heart's unuttered prayer. For a
moment the world seemed aglow with some strange, quiet glory. Then he
said, quite calmly: "I? Oh, yes, I'm safe enough."
* * * * *
Saturday passed without much change in King's condition. He was sinking
slowly, despite his rugged strength, his will to live and the unceasing
efforts of the city's best physicians.
The Law and Order Party was being organized out of various elements that
viewed alarmedly the Vigilantes' growing power. Religious, political,
social elements combined in this new faction. In it were men of note,
distinction, undisputed honor; and rascals of the worst degree.
Ned McGowan, it was rumored, had gone into hiding. Broderick kept to
himself and took no sides, yet. Many sought him for support and for
advice, but he repulsed them tactfully, remaining in his room to read;
walking silently about at twilight. He had a way of standing on a
hilltop, losing count of minutes, even hours. Thus Adrian surprised him
one evening gazing down on San Francisco's winking street lamps as the
night came down.
"Hello, Dave," he said, "why so pensive?"
Quietly as he spoke the other started. "I was wondering about
tomorrow...."
"Why tomorrow?"
Broderick looked around to satisfy himself that there was no one else to
hear. "Coleman will withdraw his Vigilante guard from the jail on Sunday
morning.... Oh, yes," he added, as the other seemed surprised, "I have
my agents in the Committee's camp. Not to harm them. I don't hold with
spies and treachery.... But I have to keep informed."
Adrian looked at his friend, astonished. This was news to him.
Broderick went on: "The Governor's indirectly forced their hand. Coleman
knows that violent forces are at work to overthrow his Vigilantes; that
the Governor's aiding them. So he's decided to strike."
"Tomorrow, eh!" said Adrian thoughtfully. "That means bloodshed,
probably."
Broderick turned a gloomy countenance toward him. "I don't know," he
answered, and resumed his gazing. Adrian went on. He looked back after
he had gone a hundred yards. The other man remained there, immobile and
silent as a statue.
Governor J. Neely Johnson paced up and down the confines of his suite at
the International Hotel. In a chair sprawled Mayor Van Ness, his fingers
opening and shutting spasmodically upon the leather upholstery. Volney
Howard leaned in a swaggering posture against the mantelpiece, smoking a
big cigar and turning at intervals to expectorate out of one corner of
his mouth.
"Well," said Howard, "the President's turned us down. We get no Federal
aid, I understand. What next?"
Johnson stopped his pacing. "I fancy Coleman will have to answer that
question. Our cue is to wait."
"'He also serves who stands and waits'," quoted Howard sardonically.
There came a knock at the door. Van Ness, arising quickly, answered it.
A uniformed page stood on the threshold bearing a silver platter on
which reposed two letters. Something about the incident again aroused
Howard's sense of humor. "Like a play," he muttered. "'My Lord, the
carriage waits.'"
With an exclamation of annoyance the Governor stepped forward, took the
two envelopes, displacing them with a bit of silver, and dismissed the
boy. He opened both missives before examining either. Then he stood for
a moment, a rectangle of paper in either hand, frowning.
Van Ness, peering over the Governor's shoulder, read:
We have given up hope for Mr. King's recovery. His death is a matter of
days, perhaps hours.
DR. HAMMOND.
We beg to inform your Excellency that the Vigilance
Committee's guard at the county jail has been withdrawn.
33, SECRETARY.