RETRIBUTION
Cora's trial was in progress. In the upper front room of Vigilante
headquarters sat the tribunal upon whose decision Cora's fate would
rest. They were grouped about a long table, twenty-nine men, the
executive committee. At their head sat William Coleman, grim and stern,
despite his clear complexion and his youthful, beardless mien. Near him,
Isaac Bluxome, keen-eyed, shrewd, efficient, made notes of the
proceedings.
Cora, affecting an air of nonchalance, and, as ever, immaculate in
dress, sat between his counsel, Miers F. Truett and Thomas J.L. Smiley,
while John P. Manrow acted as the prosecutor.
The gambler's eyes were fixed upon the trio when he was not searching
the faces of those other silent men about the board. They were dressed
in black. There was about them an air of impassivity almost removed from
human emotion, and Cora could not but contrast them with the noisy,
chewing, spitting, red-shirted jury at his previous trial, where Belle
Cora's thousands had proved efficacious in securing disagreement. There
would be no disagreement here. Instinctively, Cora knew that.
Marshal Doane entered. He held in his hand a folded paper. Coleman and
the others looked at him expectantly. "It is my great misfortune to
report that James King of William is dead," said Doane. There was a buzz
of comment, almost instantly stilled by Coleman's gavel. "Damn!" said
the gambler under his breath.
"Gentlemen, we will proceed with the trial," Coleman spoke. The
examination of witnesses went on. But there was a difference. Cora
noticed it. Sometimes, with an involuntary, shuddering gesture, he
touched the skin above his flowing collar.
Casey, when informed of King's death, trembled. "Your trial begins
tomorrow," Doane informed him. "They'll finish with Cora tonight."
* * * * *
Thursday morning carpenters were seen at work on the Vigilante building.
A stout beam was projected from the roof over two of the upper windows
facing Sacramento street; to these pulleys were attached.
Platforms were extended from the window sills. They were about three
feet long and were seen to be hinged at the sills. The ends were held up
by ropes fastened to the beams overhead.
Stouter ropes next appeared, one end passing through the pulleys
overhead, then they were caught up in nooses. The other ends were in the
committee rooms.
Men tested the platforms by standing on them; tried the nooses; found
them strong. Then the carpenters retired. The windows were closed.
A crowd below looked up expectantly, but nothing happened until noon,
when military companies formed lines along Sacramento, Front and Davis
streets. Cannon were placed to command all possible approaches. The
great alarm bell of the Vigilantes sounded.
By this time every roof near by was thronged with people. A cry went up
as the windows of Vigilante headquarters were opened. At each stood a
man, his arms pinioned. He advanced to the edge of the platform.
* * * * *
Bells were tolling. Black bunting was festooned from hundreds of doors
and windows. All the flags of the city were at half-mast, even those of
ships in the Bay.
From the Unitarian Church on Stockton street, between Clay and
Sacramento, came the funeral cortege on its way to the burial ground at
Lone Mountain. Everywhere along the route people stood with bared heads.
Little Joe King, a son of the murdered editor, 10 years of age, sat
stiff and stunned by the strangeness of it all in a carriage beside Mrs.
John Sime. Mr. and Mrs. Sime were great friends of his father and
mother, and Mrs. Sime, whom he sometimes called "Auntie," had taken him
into her carriage, since that of the widow was filled.
Little Joe did not know what to make of it all. He knew, somehow,
vaguely, that his father had been put into a long box that had silver
handles and was covered with flowers. He knew of that mystery called
death, but he had not visualized it closely heretofore. The thing
overwhelmed him. Just now he could only realize that his father was
being honored as no one had ever before been honored in San Francisco.
That was something he could take hold of.
As the carriage approached Sacramento street the crowd thickened. He
heard a high-pitched voice that seemed almost to be screaming. He made
out phrases faintly:
"... God!... My poor mother!... Let nobody call ... murderer ... God
save me ... only 29 ..."
Swiftly the screaming stopped. A strange silence fell on the crowd. They
turned their heads and looked down Sacramento street. Little Joe could
stand the curiosity no longer. He craned his neck to see. Far down the
street soldiers were standing before a building. Everybody watched them
open-mouthed. In front of the building on a high platform two men stood
as if they were making speeches. But they did not move their arms, and
their heads looked very queer ... as if they had bags over them.
Then, unexpectedly, Mrs. Sime forced him back. She pulled the curtain on
the left side of the carriage. Little Joe heard a half-suppressed roar
go up from the throng. For an instant the carriage halted. He was
grievously disappointed not to witness the thing which held the public
eye. Then the carriage went on.
* * * * *
Later, another funeral wended its way through the streets. It was at
night and ill attended. A handsome woman followed it with streaming
eyes; a woman who lived by an evil trade, and the inmates of whose house
were given over to sin. Early that morning she had married a murderer.
Now she was a widow with a broken heart--she whom many stigmatized as
heartless.
For many years she was to visit and to weep over the grave of a little
dark man who had touched her affections; who might, under happier
conditions, have awakened her soul. She was Mrs. Charles Cora, born
Arabella Ryan, and widely known as "Belle," the mistress of a
bawdy house.
A few members of Casey's fire engine company paid him final honors.
Shrived, before his execution, he was laid in holy ground, a stone
erected over his grave.
* * * * *
The city returned more or less to its normal activities. But the
Vigilante Committee remained in active session. It had avenged the
deaths of Richardson and King, but it had other work to do.
About this time, Yankee Sullivan, prize-fighter, ballot-box stuffer and
political plug-ugly, killed himself in Vigilante quarters, evidently mad
with fear.
Ned McGowan, made of different stuff, arch plotter, thought by many to
be the instigator of King's murder, went into hiding.
[Illustration: In front of the building on a high platform, two men
stood.... A half suppressed roar went up from the throng.]