GABRIEL MEETS HIS LAWYER.
Gabriel's petition on behalf of Mr. Hamlin was promptly granted by the
sheriff. The waggon was at once put into requisition to convey the
wounded man--albeit screaming and protesting--to the Grand Conroy Hotel,
where, in company with his faithful henchman, he was left, to all
intents a free man, and a half an hour later a demented one, tossing in
a burning fever.
Owing to the insecure condition of the county jail at One Horse Gulch,
and possibly some belief in the equal untrustworthiness of the people,
the sheriff conducted his prisoner, accompanied by Olly, to Wingdam.
Nevertheless, Olly's statement of the changed condition of public
sentiment, or rather its pre-occupation with a calamity of more
absorbing interest, was in the main correct. The news of the recapture
of Gabriel by his legal guardian awoke no excitement nor comment. More
than this, there was a favourable feeling toward the prisoner. The
action of the Vigilance Committee had been unsuccessful, and had
terminated disastrously to the principal movers therein. It is possible
that the morality of their action was involved in their success. Somehow
the whole affair had not resulted to the business interests of the
Gulch. The three most prominent lynchers were dead--and clearly in
error! The prisoner, who was still living, was possibly in the right.
The _Silverpolis Messenger_, which ten days before had alluded to the
"noble spectacle of a free people outraged in their holiest instincts,
appealing to the first principles of Justice and Order, and rallying as
a single man to their support," now quietly buried the victims and their
motives from the public eye beneath the calm statement that they met
their fate "while examining the roof of the Court House with a view to
estimate the damage caused by the first shock of the earthquake." The
_Banner_ favoured the same idea a little less elegantly, and suggested
ironically that hereafter "none but experts should be allowed to go
foolin' round the statue of Justice." I trust that the intelligent
reader will not accuse me of endeavouring to cast ridicule upon the
general accuracy of spontaneous public emotion, nor the infallibility of
the true democratic impulse, which (I beg to quote from the
_Messenger_), "in the earliest ages of our history enabled us to resist
legalised aggression, and take the reins of government into our own
hands," or (I now refer to the glowing language of the _Banner_), "gave
us the right to run the machine ourselves and boss the job." And I trust
that the reader will observe in this passing recognition of certain
inconsistencies in the expression and action of these people, only the
fidelity of a faithful chronicler, and no intent of churlish criticism
nor moral or political admonition, which I here discreetly deprecate and
disclaim.
Nor was there any opposition when Gabriel, upon the motion of Lawyer
Maxwell, was admitted to bail pending the action of the Grand Jury, nor
any surprise when Mr. Dumphy's agent and banker came forward as his
bondsman for the sum of fifty thousand dollars. By one of those strange
vicissitudes in the fortunes of mining speculation, this act by Mr.
Dumphy was looked upon as an evidence of his trust in the future of the
unfortunate mine of which Gabriel had been original locator and
superintendent, and under that belief the stock rallied slightly. "It
was a mighty sharp move of Pete Dumphy's bailin' thet Gabe, right in
face of that there 'dropped lead' in his busted-up mine! Oh, you've got
to set up all night to get any points to show _him_!" And, to their
mutual surprise, Mr. Dumphy found himself more awe-inspiring than ever
at One Horse Gulch, and Gabriel found himself a free man, with a slight
popular flavour of martyrdom about him.
As he still persistently refused to enter again upon the premises which
he had deeded to his wife on the day of the murder, temporary lodgings
were found for him and Olly at the Grand Conroy Hotel. And here Mrs.
Markle, although exhibiting to Lawyer Maxwell the greatest concern in
Gabriel's trouble, by one of those inconsistencies of the sex which I
shall not attempt to explain, treated the unfortunate accused with a
degree of cold reserve that was as grateful, I fear, to Gabriel, as it
was unexpected. Indeed, I imagine that if the kind-hearted widow had
known the real comfort and assurance that the exasperating Gabriel
extracted from her first cold and constrained greeting, she would have
spent less of her time in consultation with Maxwell regarding his
defence. But perhaps I am doing a large-hearted and unselfish sex a deep
injustice. So I shall content myself with transcribing part of a
dialogue which took pace between them at the Grand Conroy.
Mrs. Markle (loftily, and regarding the ceiling with cold abstraction):
"We can't gin ye here, Mister Conroy, the French style and attention
ye're kinder habitooal to in your own house on the Hill, bein' plain
folks and mounting ways. But we know our place, and don't reckon to
promise the comforts of a home! Wot with lookin' arter forty reg'lar and
twenty-five transient--ef I don't happen to see ye much myself, Mr.
Conroy, ye'll understand. Ef ye ring thet there bell one o' the help
will be always on hand. Yer lookin' well, Mr. Conroy. And bizness, I
reckon" (the reader will here observe a ladylike ignoring of Gabriel's
special trouble), "ez about what it allers waz, though judging from
remarks of transients, it's dull!"
Gabriel (endeavouring to conceal a large satisfaction under the thin
glowing of conventional sentiment): "Don't let me nor Olly put ye out a
cent, Mrs. Markle--a change bein' ordered by Olly's physicians--and
variety bein', so to speak, the spice o' life! And ye're lookin' well,
Mrs. Markle; that ez" (with a sudden alarm at the danger of compliment),
"so to speak, ez peart and strong-handed ez ever! And how's thet little
Manty o' yours gettin' on? Jist how it was thet me and Olly didn't get
to see ye before ez mighty queer! Times and times ag'in" (with shameless
mendacity) "hez me and thet child bin on the p'int o' coming, and
suthin' hez jest chipped in and interfered!"
Mrs. Markle (with freezing politeness): "You do me proud! I jest dropped
in ez a matter o' not bein' able allers to trust to help. Good night,
Mister Conroy. I hope I see you well! Ye kin jest" (retiring with
matronly dignity), "ye kin jest touch onto that bell thar, if ye're
wantin' anything, and help'll come to ye! Good-night!"
Olly (appearing a moment later at the door of Gabriel's room, truculent
and suspicious): "Afore I'd stand thar--chirpin' with thet
crockidill--and you in troubil, and not knowin' wot's gone o' July--I'd
pizen myself!"
Gabriel (blushing to the roots of his hair, and conscience-stricken to
his inmost soul): "It's jest passin' the time o' day, Olly, with old
friends--kinder influencin' the public sentyment and the jury. Thet's
all. It's the advice o' Lawyer Maxwell, ez ye didn't get to hear, I
reckon,--thet's all!"
But Gabriel's experience in the Grand Conroy Hotel was not, I fear,
always as pleasant. A dark-faced, large-featured woman, manifestly in
mourning, and as manifestly an avenging friend of the luckless deceased,
in whose taking off Gabriel was supposed to be so largely instrumental,
presently appeared at the Grand Conroy Hotel, waiting the action of the
Grand Jury. She was accompanied by a dark-faced elderly gentleman, our
old friend Don Pedro--she being none other than the unstable-waisted
Manuela of Pacific Street--and was, I believe, in the opinion of One
Horse Gulch, supposed to be charged with convincing and mysterious
evidence against Gabriel Conroy. The sallow-faced pair had a way of
meeting in the corridors of the hotel and conversing in mysterious
whispers in a tongue foreign to One Horse Gulch and to Olly, strongly
suggestive of revenge and concealed _stilettos_, that was darkly
significant! Happily, however, for Gabriel, he was presently relieved
from their gloomy espionage by the interposition of a third party--Sal
Clark. That individual, herself in the deepest mourning, and
representing the deceased in his holiest affections, it is scarcely
necessary to say at once resented the presence of the strangers. The two
women glared at each other at the public table, and in a chance meeting
in the corridor of the hotel.
"In the name of God, what have we here in this imbecile and forward
creature, and why is this so and after this fashion?" asked Manuela of
Don Pedro.
"Of a verity, I know not," replied Don Pedro, "it is most possibly a
person visited of God!--a helpless being of brains. Peradventure, a
person filled with _aguardiente_ or the whisky of the Americans. Have a
care, little one, thou smallest Manuela" (she weighed at least three
hundred pounds), "that she does thee no harm!"
Meanwhile Miss Sarah Clark relieved herself to Mrs. Markle in quite as
positive language. "Ef that black mulattar and that dried-up old
furriner reckons they're going to monopolise public sentyment in this
yer way they're mighty mistaken. Ef thar ever was a shameless piece et's
thet old woman--and, goodness knows, the man's a poor critter enyway! Ef
anybody's goin' to take the word of that woman under oath, et's mor'n
Sal Clark would do--that's all! Who ez she--enyway? I never heard her
name mentioned afore!"
And ridiculous as it may seem to the unprejudiced reader, this positive
expression and conviction of Miss Clark, like all positive convictions,
was not without its influence on the larger unimpanelled Grand Jury of
One Horse Gulch, and, by reflection, at last on the impanelled jury
itself.
"When you come to consider, gentlemen," said one of those dangerous
characters--a sagacious, far-seeing juror--"when you come to consider
that the principal witness o' the prosecution and the people at the
inquest don't know this yer Greaser woman, and kinder throws off her
testimony, and the prosecution don't seem to agree, it looks mighty
queer. And I put it to you as far-minded men, if it ain't mighty queer?
And this yer Sal Clark one of our own people."
An impression at once inimical to the new mistress and stranger, and
favourable to the accused Gabriel, instantly took possession of One
Horse Gulch.
Meanwhile the man who was largely responsible for this excitement and
these conflicting opinions maintained a gravity and silence as
indomitable and impassive as his alleged victim, then slumbering
peacefully in the little cemetery on Round Hill. He conversed but little
even with his counsel and friend, Lawyer Maxwell, and received with his
usual submissiveness and gentle deprecatoriness the statement of that
gentleman that Mr. Dumphy had already bespoken the services of one of
the most prominent lawyers of San Francisco--Mr. Arthur Poinsett--to
assist in the defence. When Maxwell added that Mr. Poinsett had
expressed a wish to hold his first consultation with Gabriel privately,
the latter replied with his usual simplicity, "I reckon I've nowt to say
to him ez I hain't said to ye, but it's all right!"
"Then I'll expect you over to my office at eleven to-morrow?" asked
Maxwell.
"Thet's so," responded Gabriel, "though I reckon thet anything you and
him might fix up to be dumped onto thet jury would be pleasin' and
satisfactory to me."
At a few minutes of eleven the next morning Mr. Maxwell, in accordance
with a previous understanding with Mr. Poinsett, put on his hat and left
his office in the charge of that gentleman that he might receive and
entertain Gabriel in complete privacy and confidence. As Arthur sat
there alone, fine gentleman as he was and famous in his profession, he
was conscious of a certain degree of nervousness that galled his pride
greatly. He was about to meet the man whose cherished sister six years
ago he had stolen! Such, at least, Arthur felt was Gabriel's opinion.
_He_ had no remorse nor consciousness of guilt or wrongdoing in that
act. But in looking at the fact in his professional habit of viewing
both sides of a question, he made this allowance for the sentiment of
the prosecution, and putting himself, in his old fashion, in the
position of his opponent, he judged that Gabriel might consistently
exhibit some degree of indignation at their first meeting. That there
was, however, really any _moral_ question involved, he did not believe.
The girl, Grace Conroy, had gone with him readily, after a careful and
honourable statement of the facts of her situation, and Gabriel's
authority or concern in any subsequent sentimental complication he
utterly denied. That he, Arthur, had acted in a most honourable,
high-minded, and even weakly generous fashion towards Grace, that he had
obeyed her frivolous whims as well as her most reasonable demands, that
he had gone back to Starvation Camp on a hopeless quest just to satisfy
her, that everything had happened exactly as he had predicted, and that
when he had returned to her he found that _she_ had deserted
_him_--these--these were the facts that were incontrovertible! Arthur
was satisfied that he had been honourable and even generous--he was
quite convinced that this very nervousness that he now experienced, was
solely the condition of a mind too sympathetic even with the feelings of
an opponent in affliction. "I must _not_ give way to this absurd
Quixotic sense of honour," said this young gentleman to himself,
severely.
Nevertheless, at exactly eleven o'clock, when the staircase creaked with
the strong steady tread of the giant Gabriel, Arthur felt a sudden start
to his pulse. There was a hesitating rap at the door--a rap that was so
absurdly inconsistent with the previous tread on the staircase--as
inconsistent as were all the mental and physical acts of Gabriel--that
Arthur was amused and reassured. "Come in," he said, with a return of
his old confidence, and the door opened to Gabriel, diffident and
embarrassed.
"I was told by Lawyer Maxwell," said Gabriel slowly, without raising his
eyes, and only dimly cognisant of the slight, strong, elegant figure
before him--"I was told that Mr. Arthur Poinsett reckoned to see me
to-day at eleven o'clock--so I came. Be you Mr. Poinsett?" (Gabriel here
raised his eyes)--"be you, eh?--GOD A'MIGHTY! why, it's--eh?--why--I
want to know!--it can't be!--yes, it is!" He stopped--the recognition
was complete!
Arthur did not move. If he had expected an outburst from the injured man
before him he was disappointed. Gabriel passed his hard palm vaguely and
confusedly across his forehead and through his hair, and lifted and put
back behind his ears two tangled locks. And then, without heeding
Arthur's proffered hand, yet without precipitation, anger, or
indignation, he strode toward him, and asked calmly and quietly, as
Arthur himself might have done, "Where is Grace?"
"I don't know," said Arthur, bluntly. "I have not known for years. I
have never known her whereabouts, living or dead, since the day I left
her at a logger's house to return to Starvation Camp to bring help to
_you_." (Arthur could not resist italicising the pronoun, nor despising
himself for doing it when he saw that the full significance of his
emphasis touched the man before him.) "She was gone when I returned;
where, no one knew! I traced her to the Presidio, but there she had
disappeared."
Gabriel raised his eyes to Arthur's. The impression of nonchalant
truthfulness which Arthur's speech always conveyed to his hearer, an
impression that he did not prevaricate because he was not concerned
sufficiently in his subject, was further sustained by his calm, clear
eyes. But Gabriel did not speak, and Arthur went on--
"She left the logger's camp voluntarily, of her own free will, and
doubtless for some reason that seemed sufficient to her. She abandoned
me--if I may so express myself--left my care, relieved me of the
responsibility I held towards her relatives"--he continued, with the
first suggestion of personal apology in his tones--"without a word of
previous intimation. Possibly she might have got tired of waiting for
me. I was absent two weeks. It was the tenth day after my departure that
she left the logger's hut."
Gabriel put his hand in his pocket and deliberately drew out the
precious newspaper slip he had once shown to Olly. "Then thet thar
'Personal' wozent writ by you, and thet P. A. don't stand for Philip
Ashley?" asked Gabriel, with a hopeless dejection in his tone.
Arthur glanced quickly over the paper, and smiled. "I never saw this
before," he said. "What made you think _I_ did it?" he asked curiously.
"Because July--my wife that was--said that P. A. meant you," said
Gabriel, simply.
"Oh! _she_ said so, did she?" said Arthur, still smiling.
"She did. And ef it wasn't you, who was it?"
"I really don't know," returned Arthur, carelessly; "possibly it might
have been herself. From what I have heard of your wife, I think this
might be one, and perhaps the most innocent, of her various impostures."
Gabriel cast down his eyes and for a moment was gravely silent. Then the
look of stronger inquiry and intelligence that he had worn during the
interview faded utterly from his face, and he began again in his old
tone of apology. "For answerin' all my questions, I'm obliged to ye, Mr.
Ashley, and it's right good in ye to remember ol' times, and ef I hev
often thought hard on ye, ye'll kinder pass that by ez the nat'rel
allowin's of a man ez was worried about a sister ez hasn't been heerd
from sens she left with ye. And ye mustn't think this yer meetin' was o'
my seekin'. I kinder dropped in yer," he added wearily, "to see a man o'
the name o' Poinsett. He allowed to be yer at eleving o'clock--mebbee
it's airly yet--mebbee I've kinder got wrong o' the place!" and he
glanced apologetically around the room.
"_My_ name is Poinsett," said Arthur, smiling, "the name of Philip
Ashley, by which you knew me, was merely the one I assumed when I
undertook the long overland trip." He said this in no tone of apology or
even explanation, but left the impression on Gabriel's mind that a
change of name, like a change of dress, was part of the outfit of a
gentleman emigrant. And looking at the elegant young figure before him,
it seemed exceedingly plausible. "It was as Arthur Poinsett, the San
Francisco lawyer, that I made this appointment with you, and it is now
as your old friend Philip Ashley that I invite your confidence, and ask
you to tell me frankly the whole of this miserable business. I have come
to help you, Gabriel, for your own--for your sister's sake. And I think
I can do it!" He held out his hand again, and this time not in vain;
with a sudden frank gesture it was taken in both of Gabriel's, and
Arthur felt that the greatest difficulty he had anticipated in his
advocacy of Gabriel's cause had been surmounted.
"He has told me the whole story, I think," said Arthur, two hours later,
when Maxwell returned and found his associate thoughtfully sitting
beside the window alone. "And I believe it. He is as innocent of this
crime as you or I. Of that I have always been confident. How far he is
accessory _after_ the fact--I know he is not accessory _before_--is
another question. But his story, that to me is perfectly convincing, I
am afraid won't do before a jury and the world generally. It involves
too much that is incredible, and damning to him secondarily if believed.
We must try something else. As far as I can see, really, it seems that
his own suggestion of a defence, as you told it to me, has more
significance in it than the absurdity you only saw. We must admit the
killing, and confine ourselves to showing excessive provocation. I know
something of the public sentiment here, and the sympathies of the
average jury, and if Gabriel should tell them the story he has just told
me, they would hang him at once! Unfortunately for him, the facts show a
complication of property interests and impostures on the part of his
wife, of which he is perfectly innocent, and which are not really the
motive of the murder, but which the jury would instantly accept as a
sufficient motive. We must fight, understand, this very story from the
outset; you will find it to be the theory of the prosecution; but if we
can keep him silent it cannot be proved except by him. The facts are
such that if he had really committed the murder he could have defied
prosecution, but through his very stupidity and blind anxiety to shield
his wife, he has absolutely fixed the guilt upon himself."
"Then you don't think that Mrs. Conroy is the culprit?" asked Maxwell.
"No," said Arthur; "she is capable, but not culpable. The real murderer
has never been suspected nor his presence known to One Horse Gulch. But
I must see him again, and Olly, and you must hunt up a Chinaman--one Ah
Fe--whom Gabriel tells me brought him the note, and who is singularly
enough missing, now that he is wanted."
"But you can't use a Chinaman's evidence before a jury?" interrupted
Maxwell.
"Not directly; but I can find Christian Caucasians who would be willing
to swear to the facts he supplied them with. I shall get at the facts in
a few days--and then, my dear fellow," continued Arthur, laying his hand
familiarly and patronisingly on the shoulder of his senior, "and then
you and I will go to work to see how we can get rid of them."
When Gabriel recounted the events of the day to Olly, and described his
interview with Poinsett, she became furiously indignant. "And did that
man mean to say he don't know whether Gracey is livin' or dead? And he
pertendin' to hev bin her bo?"
"In coorse," explained Gabriel; "ye disremember, Olly, that Gracey never
hez let on to _me_, her own brother, whar she ez, and she wouldn't be
going to tell a stranger. Thar's them personals as she never answered!"
"Mebbe she didn't want to speak to him ag'in," said Olly, fiercely,
with a toss of her curls. "I'd like to know what he'd bin' sayin' to
her--like his impudence. Enny how he ought to hev found her out, and she
his sweetheart! Why didn't he go right off to the Presidio? What did he
come back for? Not find her, indeed! Why, Gabe, do you suppose as July
won't find _you_ out soon--why, I bet anythin' she knows jest whar you
are" (Gabriel trembled and felt an inward sinking), "and is on'y waitin'
to come forward to the trial. And yer you are taken in ag'in and fooled
by these yer lawyers!--you old Gabe, you. Let me git at thet
Philip--Ashley Poinsett--thet's all!"