The Gray Dawn

S >> Stewart Edward White >> The Gray Dawn

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"By God, Tal!" cried Major Miles in astonishment, "ye' don't mean to tell
me yo're linin' yourself up on the side of that blackleg!"

"Well," put in a new voice, a very cheerful voice, "I don't pretend to be
neutral, and I'd just as lief fight duels as not, and I'm willing to state
to you all that though I don't know a damn thing about this case nor its
merits, I like this man's style. And I'm ready to state that I'll take his
place and fight any--or all of you--right here and now. You, Major?"

All eyes turned to him. He was a dark, eager youth, standing with his
slouch hat in his hand, his head thrown back, his mop of shiny black hair
tossed from his forehead, his eyes glowing. The major hummed and fussed.

"I have absolutely no quarrel with you, suh!" he said.

"Nor with my friend yonder?" insisted the newcomer.

"I should esteem it beneath my dignity to fight with a craven and a coward,
suh!" the major saved his face.

The stranger glanced at Keith, an amused light in his eyes.

"We'll let it go at that," he conceded. "Anybody else?" he challenged,
eying them.

Every one seemed busy getting ready to go home, and appeared not to hear
him. After a moment he put on his felt hat and joined Keith and Ward, who
were walking slowly toward the landing.

"Well," remarked a rough-looking Yankee--our old friend Graves of the
Eurekas to his friend Carter--"I didn't know anything would cool off the
major like that!"

"I reckon the major knew who he was talking to," replied Carter.

"Who is the cuss? I never saw him before."

"Don't you know him? I reckon you must have heard of him, anyway. He's just
down from the Sierra. That's the express rider, Johnny Fairfax--Diamond
Jack, they call him."

Graves whistled an enlightened whistle.

XLVIII

Johnny Fairfax accompanied Keith all the way back to his office, although
Talbot Ward said good-bye at the wharves. He bubbled over with conversation
and enthusiasm, and seemed to have taken a great fancy to the lawyer. The
theme of his glancing talk was the duel, over which he was immensely
amused; but from it he diverged on the slightest occasion to comment on
whatever for the moment struck his notice.

"That was certainly the rottenest shooting I ever saw!" he exclaimed over
and over, and then would go off into peals of laughter. "I don't see how
twelve shots at that distance could miss! After the second exchange I
concluded even the side line wasn't safe, and I got behind a tree. Pays to
be prompt In your decision; there were a hundred applicants for that tree a
moment later, The bloodless duel as a parlour amusement! You ought to have
charged that large and respectable audience an admission fee! That's a good
idea; I'll present it to you! If you ever have another due, you must have a
good manager! There's money in it!"

Keith laughed a trifle ruefully,

"I suppose it was funny," he acknowledged.

"Now don't get huffy," begged Johnny Fairfax. "What you ought to do is to
learn to shoot. You'll probably need to know how if you keep on living
around here," His eye fell on a shooting gallery. "Come in here," he urged
impulsively.

The proprietor was instructed to load his pistols and for a dozen shots
Keith was coached vehemently in the elementals of shooting--taught at least
the theory of pulling steadily, of coordinating various muscles and
psychological processes that were not at all used to cooerdination. He
learned that mere steady aiming was a small part of it.

"Anybody can do wonderful shooting with an empty pistol," said Johnny
contemptuously. "And anybody can hold as steady as a rock--until he pulls
the trigger."

"It's interesting," conceded Keith; "mighty interesting. I didn't know
there was so much to it."

"Of course it's interesting," said Johnny. "And you're only at the
rudiments. Look here!"

And, to the astonishment of Keith, the worshipful adoration of the
shooting-gallery proprietor, and the awe of the usual audience that
gathered at the sound of the reports, he proceeded to give an exhibition of
the skill that had made him famous. The shooting galleries of those days
used no puny twenty-twos. Derringers, pocket revolvers, and the huge
"navies" were at hand--with reduced loads, naturally--for those who in
habitual life affected these weapons. Johnny shot with all of them,
displaying the tricks of the gunman with all the naive enthusiasm of youth.
His manner throughout was that engaging mixture of modesty afraid of being
thought conceited and eager pride in showing his skill so attractive to
everybody. At first he shot deliberately, splitting cards, hitting marbles,
and devastating whole rows of clay pipes. Then he took to secreting the
weapons in various pockets from which he produced and discharged them in
lightning time. His hand darted with the speed and precision of a snake's
head.

"I've just been fooling with shooting things tossed in the air," he said,
exuberant with enthusiasm. "But I'm afraid we can't try that here."

"I'm afraid not," agreed the proprietor regretfully.

"It really isn't very hard, once you get the knack."

"Oh, no," said the proprietor with elaborate sarcasm. "Say," he went on
earnestly, "I suppose it ain't no use trying to hire you--"

Johnny shook his head, smiling.

"I was afraid not," observed the proprietor disappointedly. "You'd be the
making of this place. Drop in any time you want practice. Won't cost you a
cent. Would you mind telling me your name?"

"Fairfax," replied Johnny, gruffly embarrassed.

"Not Diamond Jack?" hesitated the proprietor.

"I'm sometimes called that," conceded Johnny, still more gruffly. "How much
is it?"

"Not one gosh-danged continental red cent," cried the man, "and I'm pleased
to meet you."

Johnny shook his extended hand, mumbled something, and bolted for the
street. Keith followed, laughing.

"It seems you're quite a celebrity," he observed.

But Johnny refused to pursue that subject.

"You come with me and buy you a pistol," he growled. "You ought not to be
allowed loose. You're as helpless as a baby."

Johnny picked out a small .31 calibre revolver and a supply of ammunition.

"Now you practise!" was his final warning and advice.

Keith went home with a new glow at his heart. He was ripe for a friend.

Johnny seemed to have little to do for the moment. He never volunteered
information as to his business or his plans, and Keith never inquired. But
the young express rider fell into the habit of dropping in at Keith's
office. He was always very apologetic and solicitous as to whether or no he
was interrupting, saying that he had stopped for only ten seconds; but he
invariably ended in the swivel chair with a good cigar. Keith was at this
time busy; but he was never too busy for Johnny Fairfax. The latter was a
luxury to which he treated himself. Johnny was not only welcome because he
was practically Keith's only friend, but also his frank and engaging
comments on men and things were gradually giving the harassed lawyer a new
point of view on the society in which he found himself. Keith, as a
newcomer in a community already established, had naturally accepted the
prominent figures in that community as he would have accepted prominent
figures anywhere: that is, as respectable, formidable, admirable, solid,
unquestioned pillars of society. He was of a modest disposition and
disinclined to question. He respected them as any modest young man respects
those older and more successful than himself. For the same reason he
accepted their views and their authority; or, if he questioned them, he did
so sadly, almost guiltily, with many heart-searchings.

But Johnny Fairfax held no such attitude. Not he! The city's great names
had scant respect from him! Not for an instant did he hesitate to criticise
or analyze the most renowned. It was not long before he learned all about
the Cora trial and Keith's subsequent efforts to discipline McDougall and
his associates.

"I hope you get 'em!" said he; "the whole lot! I don't know much about this
McDougall; but I do know his friends, and most of 'em aren't worth thinkin'
about. They're big people here, but back where I came from, in old
Virginia, the best of 'em wouldn't be overseers on a plantation. That's why
they like it so much out here. Look at that gang! Casey has been in the
penitentiary, Rowlee ran some little blackleg sheet down South until they
run him out---I tell you, sir, as a Southerner I'm not proud of the
Southerners out here. They're a cheap lot, most of 'em. They were a cheap
lot home. The only difference is that back there everybody knew it, and out
here everybody thinks they're great people because they get up on their
hind legs and say so out loud. That old bluff, Major Miles, he was put out
of a Richmond club, sir, for cheatin' at cards--I know that for a fact!"

Somehow, this frank criticism was like a breeze of fresh air to Keith: it
put new courage into him. Johnny Fairfax had no interests in the city; he
had no fear; his viewpoint was free from all sham; he was newly in from the
outside. Through his eyes things fell into perspective. Suddenly San
Francisco upper society became to Keith what it really was: a welter of
cheap, bragging, venal, self-seeking men, with here and there an honest
fine character standing high above. And he began, but dimly, to see that
the real men of the place were not--as yet--well known. Probably one of the
most impressive and typical figures of the time was Justice of the Supreme
Court Terry. In the eyes of those too close to events to have a clear sense
of proportion, he was one of the great men of his period. Courtly,
handsome, with haughty manners, of aristocratic bearing, fiercely proud,
touchily quarrelsome on "points of honour," generous but a bitter hater, he
and his equally handsome, proud, and fiery wife were considered by many
people of the time as embodying the ideal of Southern chivalry. But Johnny
Fairfax would have none of it.

"He a typical Southern gentleman!" he laughed, "As being born in the South
myself, I repudiate that! I know too much about Terry. Why, look here: he's
a good sport, and he's got ability, and he makes friends, and he isn't
afraid of anything, But then you stop. He's not a gentleman! It shows most
particularly when he gets mad. Then he'll throw over anything--anything--to
have his own way. He's a big man now, but he won't be knee-high to a June
bug before he gets done."

Johnny's prediction was long in fulfilment, but a score of years later it
came to pass, and Judge Terry's reputation has sunk almost to the level of
that of his brother on the bench--Judge "Ned" McGowan.

"They're all a bad lot," Johnny finished, "and I hope you lick them! You
don't know all the good folks in this town yet!"

XLIX

Calhoun Bennett dropped the matter, and contented himself with cutting
Keith dead whenever they happened to meet. Jimmy Ware and Black were men of
a different sort; indeed McDougall had made them his associates mainly
because of their knowledge of the city's darker phases and their
unscrupulousness. In the admirable organization thus sketched Calhoun
Bennett had acted as a sort of go-between.

After the duel these two precious citizens held many anxious consultations.
They could not tell just how much evidence Keith had succeeded in
gathering, but they knew that plenty of it existed. If the matter came to
an issue, they suspected the consequences might be serious. Either Keith or
his evidence must in some way be got rid of. Black, who was inclined by
instinct and training to be direct, was in favour of the simple expedient
of hiring assassins.

"Won't do," negatived the more astute Ware. "The thing will be traced back
to us--not legally, of course, but to a moral certainty, and while they
won't be able to prove anything on us, the state of the public mind is such
that hell would pop."

"He says he won't fight another duel," said Black doubtfully.

"No."

"We've got to kill him in a street quarrel, then."

"He's got to be killed in a street quarrel," amended Ware, "that's certain;
but nobody even remotely connected with this Cora trial must seem to have
anything to do with it. It must have the appearance of a private quarrel
from away outside. Otherwise----"

"Got anybody in mind?" asked the practical Black.

"Yes, and he ought to be here at any moment."

As though Jimmy Ware's words had been the cue for which he waited, Morrell
here entered the room.

L

At three o'clock in the afternoon of May 14, 1856, the current issue of the
_Bulletin_ was placed on sale. A very few minutes later a copy found its
way into the hands of James Casey. Casey at that time, in addition to his
political cares, was editor of a small sheet he called the _Sunday Times_.
With this he had strenuously supported the extreme wing of the Law party,
which, as has been explained, comprised also the gambling and lawless
element. It was suspected by some that his paper was more or less
subsidized for the purpose, though the probability is that Casey found his
reward merely in political support. This Casey it was who, to his own vast
surprise, had at a previous election been returned as elected supervisor;
although he was not a candidate, his name was not on the ticket, and no man
could be found who had voted for him. Indeed, he was not even a resident of
the district. However, Yankee Sullivan, who ran the election, said
officially the votes had been cast for him; so elected he was proclaimed.
Undoubtedly he proved useful; he had always proved useful at elections
elsewhere, seldom appearing in person, but adept at selecting suitable
agents. His methods were devious, dishonest, and rough. He was head of the
Crescent Fire Engine Company, and was personally popular. In appearance he
was a short, slight man, with a bright, keen face, a good forehead, a thin
but florid countenance, dark curly hair, and light blue eyes, a type of
unscrupulous Irish adventurer with a dash of romantic ideals. Like all the
gentlemen rovers of his time, he was exceedingly touchy on the subject of
"honour."

In the _Bulletin_ of the date mentioned James Casey read these words,
apropos of the threat of one Bagby to shoot Casey on sight:

It does not matter how bad a man Casey had been, or how much benefit
it might be to the public to have him out of the way, we cannot accord
to any one citizen the right to kill him, or even beat him, without
justifiable provocation. The fact that Casey has been an inmate of
Sing Sing prison in New York is no offence against the laws of this
State; nor is the fact of his having stuffed himself through the
ballot box, as elected to the Board of Supervisors from a district
where it is said he was not even a candidate, any justification for
Mr. Bagby to shoot Casey, however richly the latter may deserve to
have his neck stretched for such fraud on the public.

Casey read this in the full knowledge that thousands of his fellow-citizens
would also read it. His thin face turned white with anger. He crumpled the
paper into a ball and hurled it violently into the gutter, settled his hat
more firmly on his head, and proceeded at once to the _Bulletin_ office
with the full intention of shooting King on sight. Probably he would have
done so, save for the accidental circumstance that King happened to be busy
at a table, his back squarely to the door. Casey could not shoot a man in
the back without a word. He was breathless and stuttering with excitement.
King was alone, but an open door into an adjoining office permitted two
witnesses to see and hear.

"What do you mean by that article?" cried Casey in a strangled voice.

King turned slowly, and examined his visitor for a moment.

"What article?" he inquired at last.

"That which says I was formerly an inmate of Sing Sing!"

King gazed at him with a depth of detached, patient sadness in his dark
eyes.

"Is it not true?" he asked finally.

"That is not the question," retorted Casey, trying again to work himself up
to the rage in which he had entered. "I do not wish my past acts rated up:
on that point I am sensitive."

A faint smile came and went on King's lips.

"Are you done?" he asked still quietly; then, receiving no reply, he
turned in his chair and leaned forward with a sudden intensity. His next
words hit with the impact of bullets: "There's the door! Go! Never show
your face here again!" he commanded.

Casey found himself moving toward the open door. He did not want to do
this, he wanted to shoot King, or at least to provoke a quarrel, but he was
for the moment overcome by a stronger personality. At the door he gathered
himself together a little.

"I'll say in my paper what I please!" he asserted, with a show of bravado.

King was leaning back, watching him steadily.

"You have a perfect right to do so," he rejoined. "I shall never notice
your paper."

Casey struck himself on the breast.

"And if necessary I shall defend myself!" he cried.

King's passivity broke. He bounded from his seat bristling with anger.

"Go!" he commanded sharply, and Casey went.

LI

People had already read King's article in the _Bulletin_. People had seen
Casey heading for the _Bulletin_ office with blood in his eye. The news had
spread. When the Irishman emerged he found waiting for him a curious crowd.
His friends crowded around asking eager questions. Casey answered with
vague but bloodthirsty generalities: he wasn't a man to be trifled with,
and egad some people had to find that out! blackmailing was not a healthy
occupation when it was aimed at a gentleman! He left the impression that
King had recanted, had apologized, had even begged--there would be no more
trouble. Uttering brags of this sort, Casey led the way to the Bank
Exchange, a fashionable bar near at hand. Here he set up the drinks, and
was treated in turn. His bragging became more boastful. He made a fine
impression, but within his breast the taste of his interview with King
curdled into dangerous bitterness. Casey could never stand much alcohol.
The well-meant admiration and sympathy of his friends served only to
increase his hidden, smouldering rage. His eyes became bloodshot, and he
talked even more at random.

In the group that surrounded him was our old acquaintance, Judge Edward
McGowan--Ned McGowan--jolly, hard drinking, oily, but not as noisy as
usual. He was watching Casey closely. The Honourable Ned was himself a
fugitive from Pennsylvania justice. By dint of a gay life, a happy
combination of bullying and intrigue, he had made himself a place in the
new city, and at last had "risen" to the bench. He was apparently all on
the surface, but his schemes ran deep. Some historians claim that he had
furnished King the documents proving Casey an ex-convict! Now, when he
considered the moment opportune, he drew Casey from the noisy group at the
bar.

"All this talk is very well," he said contemptuously to the Irishman, "but
I see through it. What are you going to do about it?"

"I'll get even with the----, don't you worry about that!" promised Casey,
still blustering.

This McGowan brushed aside as irrelevant. "Are you armed?" he asked. "No,
that little weapon is too uncertain. Take this." He glanced about him, and
hastily passed to Casey a big "navy" revolver. "You can hide it under your
cloak--so!" He fixed Casey's eyes with his own, and brought to bear on the
little man all the force of his very vital personality, "Listen: King comes
by here every evening. Everybody knows that, and everybody knows what has
happened."

He stared at Casey significantly for a moment, then turned abruptly away.
Casey, become suddenly quiet, his blustering mood fallen from him, his face
thoughtful and white, his eyes dilated, said nothing. He returned to the
bar, took a solitary drink, and walked out the door, his right hand
concealed beneath his long cloak. McGowan watched him intently, following
to the door, and looking after the other's retreating form. Casey walked
across the street, but stopped behind a wagon, where he stood, apparently
waiting. McGowan, with a grunt of satisfaction, sauntered deliberately to
the corner of the Bank Exchange. There he leaned against the wall, also
waiting.

For nearly an hoar the two thus remained: Casey shrouded in his cloak,
apparently oblivious to everything except the corner of Merchant and
Montgomery streets, on which he kept his eyes fixed; McGowan lounging
easily, occasionally speaking a low word to a passerby. Invariably the
person so addressed came to a stop. Soon a little group had formed, idling
with Judge McGowan. A small boy happening by was commandeered with a
message for Pete Wrightman, the deputy sheriff, and shortly Pete arrived
out of breath to join the group.

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 friendship 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 cocktail hour. Suddenly Johnny
raised his head and pricked 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 warships had anchored off the
foot of Market Street and were preparing to bombard the city. There was
much rushing 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 muffled, formidable undernote,
pealed louder and louder the Monumental bell, which now Bert Taylor--or
some one else--was ringing like mad.

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