The Gray Dawn

S >> Stewart Edward White >> The Gray Dawn

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The _Bulletin_ twice enlarged its form. It sold by the thousand. Its weapon
of defence was the same as its weapon of offence--pitiless and complete
publicity. Measures of reprisal, either direct or underhand, undertaken
against him, King published often without comment.

At the first some of the cooler heads thought it might be well to reason
with him.

"The man has run a muck," said old Judge Girvin, "and while I am far from
denying that In many--perhaps in most--cases his facts are correct, still
his methods make for lawlessness among the masses. It might be well to meet
him reasonably, and to expostulate."

"I'd expostulate--with a blacksnake," growled the fiery Terry.

A number waited on King. Keith was among them. They found his office in a
small ramshackle frame building, situated in the middle instead of
alongside one of the back streets. It had probably been one of the early
small dwelling-houses, marooned by a resurvey of the streets, and never
since moved. King sat in his shirtsleeves before a small flat table. He
looked up at them uncompromisingly from his wide-apart steady eyes.

"Gentlemen," he greeted them tentatively.

Judge Girvin seated himself impressively, his fat legs well apart, his
beaver hat and cane poised in his left hand; the others, grouped themselves
back of him. The judge stated the moderate case well. "We do not deny any
man the right to his opinion," he concluded, "but have you reflected on the
effect such an expression often has on the minds of those not trained to
control?"

King listened to him in silence.

"It seems to me, sir," he answered, when Judge Girvin had quite finished,
"that if abuses exist they should be exposed until they are remedied; and
that the remedy should come from the law."

"What is your impelling motive?" asked the judge. "Why have you so suddenly
taken up this form of activity? Do you feel aggrieved in any way--
personally?"

"My motive in starting a newspaper, if that is what you mean, is the plain
one of making an honest if modest living. And, incidentally, while doing
so, I have some small idea of being of public use. I have no personal
grievance; but I am aggrieved, as every decent man must be, at the way the
lawyers, the big financial operators, and the other blackguards have robbed
the city," stated King plainly.

Judge Girvin, flushing, arose with dignity,

"I wish you good-day, sir," he said coldly, and at once withdrew.

Keith had been watching King with the keenly critical, detached, analytical
speculation of the lawyer. He carried away with him the impression of a man
inspired.

At the engine house, to which the discomfited delegation withdrew, there
was more discussion.

"The man is within his legal rights so far," stated Judge Girvin. "If any
of his statements are libellous, it is the duty of the man so libelled to
institute action in the courts."

"He's too smooth for that," growled Jones.

"He'll bite off more than he can chew, if he keeps on," said Dick
Blatchford comfortably. "He's stirring up hornets' nests when he monkeys
with men like Yankee Sullivan. He's about due for an awful scare, one of
these days, and then he'll be good."

"Do you know, I don't believe he'll scare," said Keith suddenly, with
conviction.

XXXVIII

As Keith surmised, intimidation had no effect. In such a city of fire-
eaters it was promptly tried. A dozen publically announced that they
thirsted for his blood, and intended to have it; and the records of the
dozen were of determination and courage in such matters. In the gambling
resorts and on the streets bets were made and pools formed on the probable
duration of King's life. He took prompt notice of this fact. Said the
_Bulletin's_ editorial column:

Bets are now being offered, we are told, that the editor of the
_Bulletin_ will not be in existence twenty days longer, and the case
of Doctor Hogan, of the Vicksburg paper, who was murdered by gamblers
of that place, is cited as a warning. Pah! War, then, is the cry, is
it? War between the prostitutes and gamblers on one side, and the
virtuous and respectable on the other! Be it so, then! Gamblers of San
Francisco, you have made your election, and we are ready on our side
for the issue!

Keith read this over John Sherwood's shoulder at the
Monumental. The ex-gambler, his famous benign spectacles atop his nose,
chuckled over it.

"He doesn't scare for a cent, does he?" was his comment. "Strikes me I got
out of the ranks of the ungodly just in time. If I were still gambling, I
believe I'd take some of those bets he speaks of. He won't last--in this
town. But I like his pluck--kind of. Only he's damn bad for business!"

Saying which, John Sherwood, late gambler but now sincerely believing
himself a sound and conservative business man, passed the sheet over to
Keith.

From vague threats the situation developed rapidly to the definite and
personal. One Selover sent a challenge to King, which was refused. Selover
then announced his intention of killing King on sight. The _Bulletin_
published this:

Mr. Selover, it is said, carries a knife. We carry a pistol. We hope
neither will be required, but if this encounter cannot be avoided, why
will Mr. Selover insist on imperilling the lives of others? We pass
every afternoon, about half-past four to five o'clock, along Market
Street from Fourth to Fifth streets. The road is wide, and not so much
frequented as those streets farther in town. If we are to be shot or
cut to pieces, for heaven's sake let it be done there. Others will not
be injured, and in case we fall, our house is but a few hundred yards
beyond, and the cemetery not much farther.

These detailed attacks and bold defiances had the effect of greatly
angering those who were the specific objects of attention; of making very
uneasy the class to which these victims belonged; of focussing on public
matters a public sentiment that was just becoming conscious of itself
because of the pinch of hard times; and of rendering contemptuously
indignant all of "higher" society.

To this latter category Keith would undoubtedly have belonged--as did his
wife and practically all his friends--had it not been for his association
with Krafft. Through him the young lawyer came into intimate personal touch
with a large class of people who would otherwise have been remote from him.
He heard of their difficulties and problems at first hand, saw the actual
effect of abuses that, looked at from above, were abstract or academic.
Police brutality as a phrase carried little significance; police brutality
as a clubbing of Malachi Hogan, who was brought in with his skull crushed,
and whose blood stained Keith's new coat, meant something. Waste of public
funds, translated before his eyes into eviction for nonpayment of taxes,
took on a new significance. Keith saw plainly that a reform was needed. He
was not, on that account, in the least sympathetic with King's methods.
Like Judge Girvin, he felt them revolutionary and subversive. But he could
not share the contempt of his class; rather he respected the editor as a
sincere but mistaken man. When his name came up for discussion or bitter
vituperation, Keith was silent. He read the _Bulletin_ editorials; and
while he in no way endorsed their conclusions or recommendations, he could
not but acknowledge their general accuracy. Without his knowing it, he was
being educated. He came to realize the need for better administration by
the city's officers and a better enforcement of the laws. Very quietly,
deep down within himself, he made up his mind that in the Assistant
District Attorney's office, at least, the old order of things should cease.

XXXIX

One afternoon Keith walked down Kearney Street deep in discussion of an
important Federal case with his friend, Billy Richardson, the United States
Marshal. Although both just and an official, Richardson was popular with
all classes save those with whom his duty brought him into conflict. They
found their way deliberately blocked, and came out of the absorption of
their discussion to recognize before them Charles Cora, an Italian gambler
of considerable prominence and wealth. Cora was a small, dark man,
nervously built, dressed neatly and carefully in the height of gambler
fashion. He seemed to be terribly excited, and at once launched a stream of
oaths at Richardson.

"What's the matter with you, Charley?" asked the latter, as soon as he had
recovered from his surprise.

Cora, evidently too incoherent to speak, leaped at the marshal, his fist
drawn back. Keith seized him around the body, holding his arms to his
sides.

"Hold on; take it easy!" he panted. "What's up, anyway?"

Cora, struggling violently, gritted out:

"He knows damn well what's up."

"I'll swear I don't!" denied Richardson.

"Then what do you mean telling every one that my Belle insulted your wife
last night at the opera house?" demanded Cora, ceasing to struggle.

"Belle?" repeated Richardson equably. "I don't know what you're talking
about. Be reasonable. Explain yourself."

"Yes, I got it straight," insisted the Italian. "Your wife says it insults
her to sit next to my Belle, and you go everywhere telling it. What right
you got to do that? Answer me that!"

"Now look here," said Richardson. "I was with Jim Scott all last evening.
My wife wasn't with me. If you don't believe me, go ask Scotty."

Cora had apparently cooled off, so Keith released him. He shook his head,
grumbling, only half convinced. After a moment he moved away. The two men
watched him go, half vexed, half amused.

"He's crazy as a pup about that woman," observed Richardson.

"Who is she?" inquired Keith.

"Why, Belle--you know Belle, the one who keeps that, crib up your way."

"That woman!" marvelled Keith.

He spent the afternoon in court and in his office. About half-past six, on
his way home, he saw Cora and Richardson come out of the Blue Wing saloon
together. They were talking earnestly, and stopped in the square of light
from the window. Richardson was explaining, and Cora was listening
sullenly. As Keith passed them he heard, the marshal say, "Well, is it all
right?" and Cora reply, "Yes." Something caused him to look back after he
had gone a dozen yards. He saw Cora suddenly seize Richardson's collar with
his left hand, at the same time drawing a derringer with his right.

"What are you going to do?" cried Richardson loudly and steadily, without
straggling, "Don't shoot; I am unarmed!"

Without reply Cora fired into his breast. The marshal wilted, but with iron
strength Cora continued for several moments to hold up his victim by the
collar. Then he let the body drop, and moved away at a fast walk, the
derringer still in his right hand.

Keith ran to his friend, and with others carried him into a nearby drug
store. The sound of the shot almost immediately brought out a crowd. Keith,
bending over the body of the murdered man, could see them pressing about
the windows outside, their faces showing white from the lamps in the drug-
store window or fading into the darkness beyond. They crowded through the
doorway until driven out again by some of the cooler heads. Conjectures and
inquiries flew thick. All sorts of reports were current of the details, but
the crowd had the main facts--Cora had shot Richardson, Richardson was
dead, Cora had been taken to jail.

"Then he's safe!" they sneered savagely.

Men had been shot on the streets before, many men, some of them as well
known and liked as Richardson; but not after public sentiment had been
aroused as the _Bulletin_ had aroused it. The crowds continued to gather.
Several men made violent street-corner speeches. There was some talk of
lynching. A storm of yes and no burst forth when the question was put.
Bells rang. A great mob surged to the jail, were firmly met by a strong
armed guard, and fell back muttering.

"Who will be the next victim?" men asked. "What a farce!" cried some, in
deep disgust. "Why, the jailer is Cora's especial crony!" stated others,
who seemed to know. "If the jury is packed, hang the jury!" advised certain
far-seeing ones. A grim, quiet, black-bearded man expressed the
undercurrent of opinion: "Mark my words," said he, "if Charles Cora is left
for trial, he will be let loose on the community to assassinate his third
victim!" It seemed that Cora had been involved in a previous shooting
scrape. But to swing a mob to action there must be determined men at its
head, and this mob had no leaders. Sam Brannan started to say something in
his coarse, roaring voice, and was promptly arrested for inciting a riot.
Nobody cared enough seriously for the redoubtable Sam to object to this.
The situation was ticklish, but the police handled it tactfully for once,
opposing only a passive opposition, leaving the crowd to fritter its
energies in purposeless cursing, surging to and fro, and in harmless
threats.

Keith did not join the throngs on the streets. Having determined that
Richardson was dead, he accompanied the body home. He was deeply stirred,
not only by the circumstances of the murder, but also by the scene at which
he had to assist when the news must be broken to Mrs. Richardson. From the
house he went directly to King's residence, where he was told that the
editor had gone downtown. After considerable search and inquiry he at last
got sight of his man standing atop a wooden awning overlooking the Plaza in
front of the jail. King nodded to him as he climbed out of the second-story
window to take his position at the newspaper man's side.

The square was a wild sight, filled, packed with men, a crowd of men tossed
in constant motion. A mumbling growl came from them continuously, and
occasionally a shout. Many hands were upraised, and in some of them were
weapons. Opposite, the blank front of the jail.

King's eyes were shining with interest and a certain quiet exultation, but
he seemed not at all excited.

"Will they storm the jail?" asked Keith.

King shook his head.

"No, these people will do nothing. But they show the spirit of the time.
All it needs now is organization, cool, deliberate organization--to-
morrow."

"That's just what I've hunted you out to talk about," said Keith earnestly.
"There is much talk of a Vigilance Committee. As you say, all it needs is
the call. That means lawlessness, bloodshed."

"Conditions at present are intolerable," said King briefly.

"I agree with you," replied Keith. King stared. "But in this case I assure
you the law will do its duty. It is an absolutely open and shut case.
Acquittal is impossible. Why, I myself was witness of the affair."

King looked skeptical.

"Hundreds of such cases have been acquitted, or the indictment quashed."

"But this is entirely different. In the first place, the case will come
before Judge Norton and Judge Hazen, both of whom you will acknowledge are
honest. In the second place, this case will be in my hands as Assistant
District Attorney. I myself shall do the prosecuting, and I promise you on
my honour that every effort will be made for a deserved and speedy
conviction. I acknowledge justice has sometimes gone wrong in the past; but
that has not been the fault of the law, but of the administration of the
law. If you have the least confidence in Judge Norton and Judge Hazen, and
if you can be brought to believe me, you will see that this one case of all
cases should not be taken from the constituted authorities or made the
basis for a movement outside the law."

"Well?" said King, half convinced.

"The _Bulletin_ has the greatest influence with these people. Use it. Give
the law, the honest law, a chance. Do not get back of any Vigilante
movement. In that way, I am convinced, you will be of the greatest public
service."

Next day the _Bulletin_ came out vigorously counselling dependence on the
law, expressing confidence in the integrity of Hazen and Norton, and
enunciating a personal belief that the day had passed when it would be
necessary to resort to arbitrary measures. The mob's anger had possessed
vitality enough to keep it up all night; but the attitude of the
_Bulletin_, backed by responsible men like Ward, Coleman, Hossiros,
Bluxome, and others, averted a crisis. Nevertheless, King added a paragraph
of warning:

Hang Billy Mulligan! That's the word! If Mr. Sheriff Scannell does not
remove Billy Mulligan from his present post as keeper of the county jail,
and Mulligan lets Cora escape, hang Billy Mulligan, and if necessary to get
rid of the sheriff, hang him--hang the sheriff!

XL

The popular excitement gradually died. It had no leaders. Coleman and men
of his stamp, who had taken command of similar crises in former times,
counselled moderation. They were influenced, partly by the fact that
Richardson had been a public official and a popular one. Conviction seemed
certain.

Keith applied himself heart and soul to the case. Its preparation seemed to
him, at first an easy matter. It was open and shut. Although at the moment
of the murder the street had not been crowded, a half-dozen eye-witnesses
of the actual shooting were easily found, willing to testify to the
essential facts. No defence seemed possible, but Cora remained undisturbed.
He had retained one of the most brilliant lawyers of the time, James
McDougall. This fact in itself might have warned Keith, for McDougall had
the reputation of avoiding lost causes and empty purses. The lawyer
promptly took as counsel the most brilliant of the younger men, Jimmy Ware,
Allyn Lane, and Keith's friend, Calhoun Bennett. This meant money, and
plenty of it, for all of these were expensive men. The exact source of the
money was uncertain; but it was known that Belle was advancing liberally
for her lover, and that James Casey, bound by some mysterious obligation,
was active in taking up collections. Cora lived in great luxury at the
jail. He had long been a personal friend of Sheriff Webb and his first
deputy, Billy Mulligan.

Several months passed before the case could be forced to trial. All sorts
of legal and technical expedients were used to defer action. McDougall and
his legal assistants were skilful players at the game, and the points they
advanced had to be fought out according to the rules, each a separate
little case with plenty of its own technicalities. Some of Keith's
witnesses were difficult to hold; they had business elsewhere, and
naturally resented being compelled, through no fault of their own, to
remain. Keith had always looked on this play of legal rapiers as a part--an
interesting part--of the game; but heretofore he had always been on the
obstructing side. He worried a great deal. At length, by superhuman
efforts, he broke through the thicket of technicalities and brought the
matter to an issue. The day was set. He returned home so relieved in spirit
that Nan could not but remark on his buoyancy.

"Yes," he responded, "I've managed to drive that old rascal, McDougall,
into the open at last."

Nan caught at the epithet.

"But you don't mean that--quite--do you?" she asked. "The McDougalls are
such delightful people."

"No, of course not. Just law talk," said Keith, quite sincerely. "He's
handled his case well up to now. I'm just exasperated on that account,
that's all."

But setting the day irrevocably was only a beginning. The jury had to be
selected. Sheriff Webb had in his hands the calling of the venire. While it
was true that the old-time, "professional jurymen"--men who hung around the
courthouse for no other purpose--were no longer in existence, it can be
readily seen that Webb was able, if it were worth while, to exercise a
judicious eye in the selection of "amenables." The early exhaustion of
Keith's quota of peremptory challenges was significant, for McDougall
rarely found it desirable to challenge at all! Keith displayed tremendous
resource in last-moment detective work concerning the records of the panel.
In this way he was enabled to challenge several for cause, after all his
peremptory challenges had been used. At first he had great difficulty in
getting results, for the police detectives proved supine. It was only after
he had hired private agents, paying for them from his own pocket, that he
obtained information on which he could act. The final result was a jury
better than he had dared hope for, but worse than he desired. He had gone
through a tremendous labour, and realized fully the difference between
being for or against the powers.

The case came to trial, Keith presented six witnesses--respectable, one of
them well-known. These testified to the same simple facts, and their
testimony remained unshaken under cross-examination. McDougall offered the
plea of self-defence. He brought a cloud of witnesses to swear that Cora
had drawn his weapon only after Richardson had produced and cocked a
pistol. By skilful technical delays Keith gained time for his detectives,
and succeeded in showing that two of these witnesses had been elsewhere at
the time of the killing, and therefore had perjured themselves. He recalled
his own witnesses, and found two willing to swear that Richardson's hands
had been empty and hanging at his sides, The defence did not trouble to
cross-examine this statement.

At last, with a perfunctory judicial charge, the case went to the jury.
Keith, weary to the bone, sat back in grateful relaxation. He had worked
hard, against odds, and had done a good job. He was willing now to spare a
little professional admiration for McDougall's skilful legal manoeuvring.
There could be no earthly doubt of the result. He idly watched the big
bland-faced clock, with its long second hand moving forward by spaced
jerks. The jury was out a very long time for so simple a verdict, but that
was a habit of California juries. It did not worry Keith. He was glad to
rest. The judge stared at the ceiling, his hands clasped over his stomach.
Cora's lawyers talked together in a low voice. Flies buzzed against dusty
window-panes. The spectators watched apathetically. Belle, in a ravishing
toilet, was there.

The opening of the door broke the spell almost rudely. Keith sat up,
listening to the formal questions and answers. They had disagreed!

For a moment the import of this did not penetrate to Keith's understanding.
Then he half rose, shouted "What!" and sank back stunned. His brain was in
confusion. Only dimly did he hear the judge dismissing the jury, remanding
Cora for retrial, adjourning court. Instantly Cora was surrounded by a
congratulatory crowd. Keith sat alone. McDougall, gathering up his papers
from the table assigned to counsel, made some facetious remark. Keith did
not reply. McDougall looked at him sharply, and as he went out he remarked
to Casey:

"Keith takes this hard."

"He does!" cried Casey, genuinely astonished. "They were trying to tell me
he was altogether too active in this matter; but I told them he was young
and had his way to make, and was playing to the gallery."

He sauntered across the room.

"Well, Milt," he cried in a jovial voice, but watching the young lawyer
narrowly, "the Lord's on the side of true virtue, as usual."

Keith came to himself, scowled, started to say something, but refrained
with an obvious effort.

Casey wandered back to McDougall.

"You're right, Mac," he said. "I guess he's got the swell head. We'll have
to call him off gently, or he'll make a nuisance of himself at the next
trial. He makes altogether too much trouble."

But McDougall was tolerant.

"Oh, let him alone, Jim. He's got his way to make. Let him alone. We can
handle the situation."

XLI

Keith left the courtroom in a daze of incredulity. This was his first
serious defeat; and he could not understand it. The case was absolutely
open and shut, a mere question of fact to which there were sufficient and
competent witnesses. For the moment he was completely routed.

As he emerged to the busy crowds on Kearney Street a sudden repugnance to
meeting acquaintances overcame him. He turned off toward the bay, making
his way by the back streets, alleys, and slums of that unsavoury quarter.
But even here he was not to escape. He had not gone two blocks before he
descried Krafft's slight and elegant figure sauntering toward him. Keith
braced himself for the inevitable question.

"Well," it came, "how goes the trial?"

The words released Keith's pent flood of bitterness. Here was an outlet;
Krafft was "safe." He poured out his disappointment, his suspicion, his
indignation. The little man listened to him in silence, a slight smile,
sketching his full, red lips. When Keith had somewhat run down, Krafft,
without a word, took him by the arm and led him by devious ways down to the
water-front portion of the city. There he planted him near the entrance of
a dark alley.

"Now you wait here," Keith was told.

Keith obeyed. The interval was long, but he had much to occupy his mind.
After a time Krafft returned in company with a slouching, drink-sodden
bummer of powerful build and lowering mien, the remains of a forceful
personality. This individual shambled along in the wake of the dapper
little Krafft quite meekly and submissively.

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