Part 46 (1/2)

At just five o'clock the idlers stiffened to attention. King's figure was seen to turn the corner of Merchant Street into Montgomery. Head bent, he walked toward the corner of the Bankers' Exchange, the men on the corner watching him. When nearly at that point he turned to cross the street diagonally.

At the same instant Casey stepped forward from behind the wagon, throwing back his cloak.

LII

The same afternoon Johnny Fairfax and Keith were sitting together in the Monumental's reading-room. They happened to be the only members in the building with the exception of Bert Taylor, who was never anywhere else. Of late Keith had acquired the habit of visiting the reading-room at this empty hour. He was beginning to shrink from meeting his fellowmen. Johnny Fairfax was a great comfort to him, for the express rider was never out of spirits, had a sane outlook, and entertained a genuine friends.h.i.+p for the young lawyer. Although yet under thirty years of age, he was already an ”old-timer,” for he had come out in '49, and knew the city's early history at first hand.

”This old bell of yours is historical,” he told Keith. ”Its tolling called together the Vigilantes of '51.”

They sat gossiping for an hour, half sleepy with reaction from the fatigues of the day, smoking slowly, enjoying themselves. Everything was very peaceful--the long slant of a sunbeam through dust motes, the buzz of an early bluebottle, the half-heard activities of some of the servants in the pantry beyond, preparing for the rush of the c.o.c.ktail hour. Suddenly Johnny raised his head and p.r.i.c.ked up his ears.

”What the deuce is that!” he exclaimed.

They listened, then descended to the big open engine-room doors and listened again. From the direction of Market Street came the dull sounds of turmoil, shouting, the growl and roar of many people excited by something. Across the Plaza a man appeared, running. As he came nearer, both could see that his face had a very grim expression.

”Here!” called Johnny, as the man neared them. ”Stop a minute! Tell us what's the matter!”

The man ceased running, but did not stop. He was panting but evidently very angry. His words came from between gritted teeth.

”Fight,” he said briefly. ”Casey and James King of William. King's shot.”

At the words something seemed to be stilled in Keith's mind. Johnny seized the man by the sleeve.

”Hold on,” he begged. ”I know that kind of a fight. Tell us.”

”Casey went up close to King, said 'come on,' and instantly shot him before King knew what he was saying.”

”Killed?”

”Fatally wounded.”

”Where's Casey?”

”In jail--of course--where he's safe--with his friends.”

”Where you headed for?”

”I'm going to get my gun!” said the man grimly, and began again to run.

They watched his receding figure until it swung around the corner and disappeared. Without warning a white-hot wave of anger swept over Keith. All the little baffling, annoying delays, enmities, technicalities, chicaneries, personal antagonisms, evasions that had made up the Cora trial were in it. He seemed to see clearly the inevitable outcome of this trial also. It would be another Cora-Richardson case over again. A brave spirit had been brutally blotted out by an outlaw who relied confidently on the usual exoneration. With an exclamation Keith darted into the engine house to where hung the rope ready for an alarm. An instant later the heavy booming of the Monumental's bell smote the air.

LIII

Having given this alarm. Keith, Johnny at his elbow, started toward the centre of disturbance, From it arose a dull, menacing roar, like the sound of breakers on a rocky coast. Many people, with much excitement, shouting, and vituperation, were converging toward the common centre.

As this was approached, it became more difficult, at last impossible, to proceed. The streets were packed, jammed. All sorts of rumours were abroad--King, was dead--King was only slightly hurt--Casey was not in jail at all--Casey had escaped down the Peninsula--the United States wars.h.i.+ps had anch.o.r.ed off the foot of Market Street and were preparing to bombard the city. There was much rus.h.i.+ng to and fro without cause.

And over all the roar could be distinguished occasionally single cries, as one may catch fragments of conversation in a crowded room, and all of these were sinister: ”Hang him!” ”Where is he?” ”Run him up on a lamp post!” ”Bring him out!” ”He'll get away if left to the officers!”

And over all the cries, the shouts, the curses, the noise of shuffling feet, the very sound of heavy breathing--that--the numbers of the mob magnified to a m.u.f.fled, formidable undernote, pealed louder and louder the Monumental bell, which now Bert Taylor--or some one else--was ringing like mad.