The Gray Dawn

S >> Stewart Edward White >> The Gray Dawn

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Keith's eyes had become grim and inscrutable, and his mouth had settled
into a hard, straight line. Johnny's interest had at first centred in the
mob, but after a few curious glances at his companion he transferred it
entirely to him, Johnny Fairfax was a judge of men and of crises; and now
he was invaded with a great curiosity to see how the one and the other were
here to work out. With a determination that would not be gainsaid, Keith
thrust himself through the crowd until he had gained an elevated coping.
Here he stood watching. Johnny, after a glance at his face, joined him.

Suddenly in the entrance of Dunbar Alley, next the city jail, a compact
group of men with drawn pistols appeared. They made their way rapidly to a
carriage standing near, jumped in, and the driver whipped up his horses.
With a yell of rage the crowd charged down, but recoiled instinctively
before the presented pistols. The horses reared and plunged, and before
anybody had gathered his wits sufficiently to seize the bridles, the whole
equipage had disappeared around the corner of Kearney Street.

"I must say that was well done," said Johnny.

"North and Charles Duane, with Casey, inside," commented Keith, as
dispassionately as though reading from a catalogue. "Billy Mulligan and his
deputies outside. That is to be remembered."

A great mob had surged after the disappearing vehicle, but at least fifty
yards in the rear. The remainder were following at a more leisurely pace.
Almost immediately the street was empty. Keith climbed slowly down from his
coping.

"What do you intend doing?" asked Johnny curiously.

"Nothing yet."

"But they're getting him away!"

"No," said Keith, out of his local knowledge. "They're merely taking him to
the county jail; it's stronger."

They followed the crowd to the wide open space below the county jail. The
latter was at that period a solidly built one-story building situated atop
a low bluff. Below it the marshal had drawn up his officers. They stood
coolly at ease. The mob, very excited, vociferated, surged back and forth.
North and his men, busily and coolly, but emphatically, were warning them,
over and over again, not to approach nearer. A single, concerted rush would
have overwhelmed the few defenders; but the rush was not made.
Nevertheless, it could not be doubted that this time the temper of the
people was very determined. The excitement was growing with every minute.
Cries again took coherence.

"Hang him!" "Arrest the officers!" "Good, that's it!" "Let's take the
jail!"

A man burst through the front ranks, clambered up the low bluff on which
stood the jail, turned, and attempted to harangue the crowd. He was
instantly torn down by the officers. He fought like a wild cat, and the
crowd, on the hair trigger as it was, howled and broke forward. But Marshal
North, who really handled the situation intelligently, sharply commanded
his men to desist, and instantly to release the orator. He knew better than
to allow the matter to come to an issue of strength. Intensely excited, the
man shouldered his way through the crowd, and, assisted by many hands,
mounted the balcony of a two-story house. Thence he began to harangue, but
so great was the confusion that he could not be heard.

"Who is he?" "Who is that man?" voices cried from a dozen points.

George Frank, a hotel keeper, possessed of a great voice, shouted back:

"That is Thomas King--"

An officer seized Frank hastily by the collar. "Stop or I'll arrest you!"
he threatened.

"--brother of James King of William!" bellowed Frank, undaunted.

"Bully for you!" muttered Johnny Fairfax, whose eyes were shining.

Keith was watching the whole scene from beneath the brim of his hat, his
eyes sombre and expressionless. Johnny glanced at him from time to time,
but said nothing.

From the balcony Thomas King continued to harangue the crowd. Little of
what he said could be heard, but he was at a white heat of excitement, and
those nearest him were greatly aroused. An officer made a movement to
arrest him, but a hasty message from the sapient North restrained that.

At that moment a great cheer burst out from the lower end of the street.
Over the heads of the crowd could be distinguished the glint of file after
file of bayonets.

"That's the ticket!" cried an enthusiast near Keith and Johnny. "Here come
the militia boys! Now we'll soon have the jail!"

The bayonets bobbed steadily through the crowd, deployed in front of the
jail, and turned to face the mob. A great groan went up.

"Sold!" cried the enthusiast.

These were volunteers from the Law and Order party, hastily armed from the
militia armouries, and thrown in front of the jail for its protection.

Immediately they had taken position the jail door opened, and there
appeared a rather short, carefully dressed man, with side whiskers,
carrying his hat in his hand. He stood for a moment, appealing for
attention, one arm upraised. Little by little the noise died down.

"Who is that?" inquired Johnny.

He received no reply from Keith, but the enthusiast informed him:

"That's our beloved mayor--Van Ness," said he.

When quiet had at length been restored, Van Ness addressed them:

"You are here creating an excitement," he said, "which may lead to
occurrences this night which will require years to wipe out. You are now
labouring under great excitement, and I advise you quietly to disperse. I
assure you the prisoner is safe. Let the law have its course and justice
will be done."

Up to this point Van Ness had been listened to with respect, but at the
last word he received such a chorus of jeers and cat calls that he retired
hastily.

"How about Richardson?" they demanded of him. "Where's the law in Cora's
case?" "To hell with such justice!"

"Not the popular orator," observed Johnny Fairfax.

More soldiers came, and then more, at short intervals, until the square was
filled with shining bayonets. Johnny was frankly disgusted. As a man of
action he too well understood that this particular crisis was practically
over. From this mob the jail was safe.

"They lost their chance talking," he said. "They ought to have rushed the
jail first pop. Now the whole thing will fizzle out slowly. Let's go get
supper."

Without reply Keith descended from his perch. They hunted some time for a
restaurant. All were closed for the sufficient reason that their staffs
were on the streets. Finally they discovered a Chinese chop house prepared
to serve them, and here they ate. Johnny was voluble in his scorn for the
manner in which a golden opportunity had been allowed to slip by. Keith was
very taciturn.

"Let's get out of here," he said abruptly at last. "Let's get some news."

They learned that King was still alive, though badly wounded in the left
breast; that he could not be moved; that he was attended by Dr. Beverly
Cole and a half score of the best surgeons of the city; that a mass meeting
had been called at the Plaza. Indeed, there could be no doubt that the
centre of excitement had been shifted to the Plaza. Men by thousands, all
armed, were marching in that direction. Johnny and Keith found the square
jammed, but the latter led the way by devious alleys to the rear of the
Monumental headquarters, and so out to a little second-story balcony.

Below them the faces of the packed mass of humanity showed white in the dim
light from the street lamps and the buildings. Arms gleamed. Every roof
top, every window, every balcony was crowded. From the latter vehement
orators held forth. All wanted to talk at once. Some of these people were,
as our chronicler of the time quaintly expresses it, "considerably tight."
Keith looked them all over with an appraising eye, listening at the same
time to incendiary speeches advising the battering down of the jail and the
hanging of all its inmates. Occasionally one of the cooler headed would get
in a few words, but invariably was interrupted by some well-meaning hot
head.

There seemed to be a great diversity of opinion both among the people on
the balcony and those below. Keith listened attentively for a time, then,
with the abruptness that had characterized his movements and decisions
since the moment he had heard the news of King's assassination, he turned
away.

"Let's go," he said briefly.

"Oh, hold on!" cried Johnny, aghast. "It's just the shank of the evening!
We'll miss all the fun."

"There'll be nothing done," said Keith with decision.

"I'm more in hopes," persisted Johnny. "I'll bet there are ten thousand men
here, armed and angry, and getting angrier every minute. They could fairly
eat up that lot at the jail."

"They won't," said Keith.

"I'll bet one good man could turn them loose in a minute."

Suddenly Keith's dour taciturnity broke. "You're perfectly right," he
conceded; "but the point is that good men won't lead a rabble. If we're to
have good leaders we must have something for them to lead. If we're to cure
these conditions, we must do things in due order. This cannot be remedied
by mere excitement nor by deeds done under excitement. I have not yet seen
anything that promises either satisfaction or reform."

"What do you propose doing, then?" asked Johnny, his intuitions again
satisfying him that here was the man to tie to.

"Walk about," replied Keith.

They walked about. In the course of the evening they looked in on a dozen
meetings of which they had news--in the Pioneer Club, in rooms over the old
Bella Union, in a saloon off Montgomery Street, at the offices of various
merchants. Keith looked carefully over the personnel of each of these
various meetings, listened a minute or so, and went out. By some of the men
so gathered Johnny was quite impressed, but Keith shook his head.

"These meetings are being held by clubs or cliques," he explained his
disbelief in them. "They influence a certain following, but not a general
following. This must be a general movement or none at all. The right people
haven't taken hold."

About midnight he unexpectedly announced that he was going home and to
bed. Johnny was frankly scandalized,

"I think nothing will happen in this matter," said Keith,

"The time for mob violence has passed. If an attack were now to be made, I
should consider it unfortunate, and should not want to be mixed up in it,
anyway. A mob attack is nothing but a manifestation of sheer lawlessness."

"And you're keen for the dear law, of course," said Johnny with sarcasm.

"There is a difference between mere laws and the law. There is a time--
either here or coming soon--when laws may be broken that justice may be
done. But no popular movement will succeed unless it has behind it the
solemn, essential human law. Good-night."

LIV

On this same afternoon of King's assassination Nan Keith, was expecting
Sansome in for tea. Afternoon tea was then an exotic institution,
practically unknown in California society. Ben Sansome was about the only
man of Nan's acquaintance who took it as a matter of course, without either
awkwardness, embarrassment, or ill-timed jest. The day had been fine, and
several times she had regretted her promise as she cast an eye at the glow
over the gilt-edged tops of the western hills. The sunset through the
Golden Gate must to-day be very fine.

And Ben Sansome had failed her! She had made certain little especial
preparations--picked flowers, herself cut the sandwiches thin, put on her
most becoming tea gown. As time passed she became more and more annoyed.
She was disappointed not so much at the absence of Ben Sansome as a person
as at the waste of her efforts.

But at six o'clock, when she had given him up, and was about to change from
her tea gown, he came in, full of apologies, very flustered, and bursting
with news.

"King was shot on the street by Casey," he told her, trying not
unsuccessfully for his habitual detached manner. "I stopped to get the news
for you. King is not dead, but probably fatally wounded. Casey is in jail.
There is a great public excitement--a mob is forming. I've been expecting
something of the sort. King has been pretty free with his comments."

At seven o'clock Nan jumped to her feet in a sudden panic.

"Why, I wonder where Milton is!" she cried. "He's never been so late as
this before!"

"He's probably stayed downtown to follow the course of the excitement.
Naturally he would. He may not get home to supper at all."

Wing Sam announced supper. He was unheeded. Even Gringo, his ears cocked,
watched the door, getting up uneasily, whining, sniffing inquiringly, and
lying down again. At half-past seven Sansome firmly intervened.

"You're going to make yourself ill," he insisted, "if you don't eat
something. I am hungry, anyway, and I'm not going to leave you until he
comes back."

"Oh, you must be starved! How thoughtless I am!" she cried.

Sansome, who, it must be confessed, had been somewhat chagrined at the
apparent intensity of her anxiety, was, within the next two hours,
considerably reassured. Nan never did things halfway. For the moment she
had forgotten her guest. He was certainly very kind, very thoughtful--as
always--to stay here with her. She must not oppress his spirits. But the
inner tension was terrible. She felt that shortly something must snap. And
after supper, when they had returned to the drawing-room, a queer, low,
growling, distant roar, borne on a chance shift of wind, broke one of her
sentences in the middle.

"What's that?" she cried, but before Sansome had replied, she knew what It
was, the roar of the mob! And Milton was somewhere there!

Suddenly a wave of reaction swept her, of anger. Why was he there? Why
wasn't he at home? Why had he made no attempt to relieve her cruel anxiety?
A messenger--it would have been very simple! And Ben Sansome was so kind--
as always. She turned to him with a new decision.

"I know you are dying to go see what is going on," she said. "You simply
must not stay here any longer on my account. I insist! Indeed, I think I'll
go to bed." But Ben Sansome, his manner becoming almost caressingly
protective, would not listen.

"It isn't safe to leave you alone," he told her. "All the worst elements of
the city will be out. No woman should be left alone in times of such
danger. I should feel most uneasy at leaving you before your husband comes
in."

His words were correct enough, but he managed to convey his opinion that he
was only fulfilling what should have been Keith's first and manifest duty.
She made no reply. The conversation languished and died. They sat in the
lamplight opposite each other, occasionally exchanging a word or so.
Sansome was content and enjoying himself. He conceived that the stars were
fighting for him, and he was enjoying the hour. Nan, a prey alternately to
almost uncontrollable fits of anxiety and flaming resentment, could hardly
sit still.

About midnight Gringo pricked up his ears and barked sharply. A moment
later Keith came in.

He was evidently dead tired and wholly preoccupied. He hung up his hat
absently. Nan had sprung to her feet.

"Oh, how could you!" she cried, the pent exasperation in her voice. "I've
been so anxious! I didn't know what might have happened!"

"I'm all right," replied Keith briefly. "Sorry you were worried. No chance
to send you word."

His apparent indifference added fuel to Nan's irritation.

"If it hadn't been for Ben, I should have been stark, staring crazy, here
all alone!".

Keith for the first time appeared to notice Sansome's presence. He nodded
at him wearily.

"Mighty good of you," said he. "I appreciate it."

"I thought _some_ man ought to be in the house at a time of such public
excitement," rejoined Sansome significantly.

Keith failed to catch, or elected not to notice, the implication. Nan's
cheeks turned red.

Without further remark Keith walked across to lock the window; returning,
he extinguished a small lamp on the side table. He was tired out, knew he
must be up early, and wanted above everything to get to bed. The hint was
sufficiently obvious. Sansome rose. Nan's flush deepened with
mortification.

"Well, I'll just run along," said Sansome cheerfully. He did not ask for
news of the evening, nor did Keith volunteer it. Keith nodded at him
briefly and indifferently. He did not mean to be rude, but his wearied mind
was filled to the exclusion of everything else with the significance of
this day.

Nan, feeling that she must make amends, followed Sansome into the hall. Her
anxiety for Keith's safety relieved, her whole reaction was indignantly
toward Sansome.

"I'm sorry to have you go," she said, with a feeling that other
circumstances could not have called out, "I don't know what I'd have done
without you!"

Sansome's sensitive intuitions thrilled to the feeling.

"Your husband is here to take care of you--now," he murmured. "I must be
off." He took her hand, and bent over her, gazing into her eyes with the
concentration of a professional hypnotist, "Good-night," he said, with a
world of unexpressed meaning. "Try to get some sleep--Nan," He said her
name in a lower tone, almost lingeringly, then turned abruptly and went
out.

Nan stood looking for a moment at the closed door. The effect of his
personality was on her spirit, the mantle of his care for her, his
consideration for her every mood, wrapped her about gratefully.

She found the lights all out, and Keith already half undressed.

"I must say, Milton," she said, "you might have been a little less rude to
Mr. Sansome. It would have only been decent after he had sat up here until
all hours."

Keith, whose wide eyes would have showed him to be wholly preoccupied with
some inner vision or problem, answered impatiently from the surface of his
mind:

"What in the world did I do to Sansome?"

"You didn't do anything, that's the trouble. Do you realize he waited here
over six hours for you to come in?"

"Oh, I guess he'll pull through," said Keith a little contemptuously.

Nan became indignant.

"At least," she retorted, "you ought to be grateful that he stayed to
protect the place!"

"The place was in no danger," said Keith, yawning.

She checked herself, and made a fresh start.

"What's it all about? What's happened? Where have you been?" she asked.

Keith roused himself with an effort.

"I've been a little of everywhere. Lord, I'm tired! There's a mob about
trying to get up nerve to hang Casey. I suppose you've heard that Casey
shot King this afternoon?"

"Yes, I heard that."

"Well, when I saw nothing was going to happen, I came home, though I'm not
sure the trouble is over."

Having said this, Keith fell gratefully to his pillow. Nan was nervous,
wide-awake, curious. She asked a number of questions. Keith answered with
extreme brevity. He was temporarily exhausted. Shortly he fell asleep
between two sentences.

LV

The following morning Keith woke early, slipped to the kitchen where he was
fed by Wing Sam, and was downtown before Nan, who had not so promptly
fallen asleep, had yet stirred. Even at that hour the streets were crowded.
Many--and the majority of these were "considerably tight," or otherwise
looking the worse for wear--had been up all night, unable to tear
themselves away from the fascinating centres of excitement. The majority,
however, had, like Keith, snatched some repose, and now were out eager to
discover what a new day might bring forth.

The morning newspapers had been issued. Each man held a copy of one of them
open at the editorial column, and others tucked away under his arm. Never
had there been such a circulation; and in the case of the _Herald_ never
would so many be sold again. For that ill-starred sheet, mistaking utterly
the times, held boldly along the way of its sympathies. It spoke of the
assassination as an "affray"; held forth violently against the mob spirit
of the evening before; and stated vehemently its opinion that, now that
"Justice is regularly administered" there was no excuse for even the threat
of public violence. If there had been any doubt as to the depth to which
public opinion was at last stirred, the reception of the _Herald's_
editorial would have settled it. Actually, for the moment, indignation
seemed to run more strongly against that sheet than against Casey himself.

Keith glanced over this editorial with a half smile, tossed the paper in
the gutter, and opened the _Alta_ for news. King, still living, had been
removed from the office of the Express Company to a room in the Montgomery
Block. There, attended by his wife, Dr. Beverly Cole, and a whole corps of
volunteer physicians, he was making a fight for life. The bullet had
penetrated his left breast. That was all that was to be reported at
present. Keith glanced at the third page. His eye was caught by this
notice:

THE VIGILANCE COMMITTEE

The members of the Vigilance Committee in good standing will please meet at
No. 105-1/2 Sacramento Street, this day, Thursday, 15th instant, at nine
o'clock A.M.

By order of the

COMMITTEE OF THIRTEEN.

While he was still gazing thoughtfully at this Johnny Fairfax, fresh as the
morning, appeared at his elbow.

"Hello, wise man," he greeted him cheerily. "You were a good prophet--and
you got some sleep. I hung around all night, but nothing new was done."

"Look here," said Keith, placing his finger on the notice, "do you suppose
this genuine?"

Johnny read the notice.

"Couldn't say."

"Because if this is actually the old Committee of '51, it means business."

"There's one way to find out."

"How's that?"

"Go and see," advised Johnny.

Number 105-1/2 Sacramento Street proved to be a big three-storied barnlike
structure that had been built by a short-lived political party called the
Know Nothings. Already the hall was packed to its full capacity, the
entrance ways jammed, and a big crowd had gathered in the streets.

"Fine chance we have here!" observed Johnny ruefully.

They stood well free of the press for a few moments, watching. More men
were coming from all directions. But Johnny was resourceful, and likewise
restless.

"Let's prowl around a little," he suggested to his companion.

They prowled to such good purpose that they discovered, at the rear of the
building, opening into a blind alley, a narrow wooden stairway. It was
unguarded and untenanted.

"Here we are," pronounced Johnny.

They ascended it, and immediately found themselves In a small room back of
the stage or speaker's platform, It contained about a score of men. Their
aspect was earnest, serious, grave. Although there was a sufficiency of
chairs, they were all afoot, gathered in a loose group, in whose centre
stood William Coleman, his massive shoulders squared, his large bony, hands
clenched at his side, his florid complexion even more flushed than usual,
his steady eye travelling slowly from one face to another, Again the
strange contradictions in, his appearance struck Keith with the impact of a
distinct shock--the low smoothed hair, the sweeping blue-black moustache,
the vivid colour, and high cheek bones of the typical gambler--the clear
eye, firm mouth, incisive, deliberate speech, the emanation of personality
that inspired confidence. Next him, talking earnestly, stood Clancey
Dempster, a small man, mild of manner, blue eyed, with light, smooth hair,
the last man in the room one would have picked for great firmness and
courage, yet destined to play one of the leading roles in this crisis. The
gigantic merchant, Truett, towered above him, he who had calmly held two
fighting teamsters apart by their collars; and homely, stubborn, honest
Farwell, direct, uncompromising, inspired with tremendous single-minded
earnestness, but tender as a girl to any under dog; and James Dows, rough
and ready, humorous, blasphemous, absolutely direct, endowed with "horse
sense," eccentric, but of fundamentally good judgment: Hossfros of '51; Dr.
Beverly Cole, high spirited, distinguished looking, courtly; the excitable,
active, nervous, talkative, but staunch Tom Smiley, Isaac Blucome whose
signature as "33, Secretary" was to become terrible; fiery little George
Ward, willing--but unable--to whip his weight in wild cats. As Keith
recognized these men, and others of their stamp, he nodded his head
contentedly.

Johnny Fairfax must have caught the same impression, for he leaned across
to whisper to Keith, his eyes shining:

"We've hit it!"

Their entrance had passed unnoticed in the absorption of discussion.
Coleman was speaking, evidently in final decision.

"It is a serious business," said he. "It is no child's play. It may prove
very serious. We may get through quickly, so safely, or we may so involve
ourselves as never to get through."

"The issue is not of choice, but of expediency," urged Dempster. "Shall we
have vigilance with order or a mob with anarchy?"

Coleman pondered a moment, then threw up his head.

"On two conditions I will accept the responsibility--absolute obedience,
absolute secrecy."

Without waiting for a reply to this he threw open a door, and followed by
the others, stepped out on the platform. A roar greeted their appearance.
Johnny and Keith, remaining modestly in the background, lingered near the
open door.

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