Part 55 (1/2)

Cora, who was a plucky man, had recovered his wits. He must have realized that he was in a tight place, but he kept his head admirably.

His demeanour took on alertness, his manner throughout was respectful, and his voice low.

”Do I get no counsel?” he inquired.

”Counsel will be given you.”

He put in an earnest plea for counsel outside the tribunal--impartial counsel.

”Our members are impartial,” Coleman told him.

Cora hesitated; locking about him.

”If Mr. Truett will act for me,” he suggested; ”and I beg you earnestly, gentlemen, that the excitement of the time may not be prejudicial to my interests, that I may have a chance for my life!”

”Your trial will be fair,” he was a.s.sured.

”I shall undertake the defence,” Truett agreed briefly; ”and pet.i.tion that Mr. Smiley be appointed as my a.s.sistant.”

This being granted, the three men drew one side for a consultation. In a short time Truett handed to the sergeant-at-arms--the same man who had conducted Cora to the tribunal--a list of the witnesses Cora wished to summon. These were at once sought by a subcommittee outside. In the meantime, witnesses for the prosecution were one by one admitted, sworn, and examined. All ordinary forms of law were closely followed.

All essential facts were separately brought out. It was the historic Cora trial over again, with one difference--gone were the technical delays. By dusk Keith, who had been called at three, had all but completed the long tale of his testimony, had finished recounting, not only what he had seen of the quarrel and the subsequent shooting, but also a detailed account of the trial, the adverse influences brought to bear on the prosecution, and his investigations into the question of ”undue influence.” No attempt was made to confine the investigation to the technical trial.

Keith was the last witness for the prosecution. And the witnesses for the defence, where were they? Of the list submitted by Cora not one could be found! In hiding, afraid, the perjurers would not appear!

The dusk was falling in earnest now. The corners of the room were in darkness. Beneath Coleman's desk Bluxome, the secretary, had lighted an oil lamp the better to see his notes. In the interest of Keith's testimony the general illumination had not been ordered. Outside the tiny patch of yellow light the men of Vigilance sat motionless, listening, their shadows dim and huge against the wall.

The door opened, and Charles Doane, the Grand Marshal of the Vigilantes, advanced three steps into the room.

”Mr. President,” he said clearly, his voice cutting the stillness, ”I am instructed to announce that James King of William is dead.”

LXV

Thursday noon was set for the funeral of the man who had given his life that a city might live. In the room where he had made his brave fight against death he now lay in state. On Wednesday ten thousand people visited him there. Early Thursday morning his remains were transferred to the Unitarian Church where, early as it was, a great mult.i.tude had gathered to do him honour. Now through the long morning hours it sat with him silently. The church was soon filled to over-flowing; the streets in all directions became crowded with sober-faced men and women. They knew they would be unable to get into the church, to attend nearer his last communion with his fellowmen, but they stayed, feeling vaguely that their mere presence helped--as, indeed, perhaps it did.

Marching bodies from every guild or society in the city stood in rank after rank, extending down the street as far as the eye could reach.

Hundreds of hors.e.m.e.n, carriages, foot marchers, quietly, orderly, were already getting into line. They, too, were excluded from the funeral ceremonies by lack of room; they, too, waited to do honour to the cortege. This procession was over two miles in length. Each man wore a band of crepe around his left arm. The time set for the funeral ceremony was yet hours distant.

It seemed that all the city must be there. But those who, hurrying to the scene, had occasion to pa.s.s near the Vigilante headquarters found the vacant square guarded on all sides by a triple line of armed men.

The side streets, also, were filled with them. They stood in exact alignment, rigid, bayonets fixed, their eyes straight ahead. Three thousand of them were there. Hour after hour they stood, untiring, staring at the building, which gave no sign; just as the other mult.i.tude, only a few squares away, stood hour after hour, patiently waiting in the bright sun.

At quarter before one the upper windows of the headquarters building were thrown open, and small platforms, extending about three feet, were thrust from two of them. An instant later two heavy beams were shoved out from the flat roof directly over the platforms. From the ends of the beams dangled nooses of rope. A dead wait ensued. Across the silence could be heard faintly from the open windows of the distant church the chords of an organ, the rise and fall of a hymn, then the measured cadence of oration. The funeral services had begun.

As though this were a signal, the blinds that had partly closed the window openings were swung back, and Charles Cora was conducted to the end of one of the little platforms. His face was covered with a white handkerchief, and his arms and legs were bound with cords. The attendant adjusted the noose, then left him. An instant later Casey appeared. He had pet.i.tioned not to be blindfolded, so his face was bare. Cora stood bolt upright, motionless as a stone. Casey's nerve had left him; his face was pale and his eyes bloodshot. As the attendant placed the noose, the murderer's eyes darted here and there over the square. Did he still expect that the boastful promises of his friends would be fulfilled, did he still hope for rescue? If so, that hope must have died as he looked down on those set, grim faces staring straight ahead, on that sinister ring of steel. He began to babble.

”Gentlemen!” he cried at them, ”I am not a murderer! I do not feel afraid to meet my G.o.d on a charge of murder! I have done nothing but what I thought was right! To-morrow let no editor dare call me a murderer! Whenever I was injured I have resented it. It has been part of my education during twenty-nine years! Gentlemen, I forgive you this persecution! O G.o.d! My poor mother! O G.o.d!”

Not one word of contrition; not one word for the man who lay yonder in the church; not one syllable for the heartbroken wife kneeling at the coffin! He ceased. And his words went out into the void and found no echo against that wall of steel.