The Gray Dawn

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"All right!" he called encouragingly. "Keep cool! Take your time about it!"

"Ah, Mr. Dempster," they replied, "we've waited long! This is the clean
sweep!"

James Olney was lying in bed with a badly sprained ankle when the alarm
bell began to toll. He commandeered one boot from a fellow-boarder with
extremely large feet, and hobbled to the street. There he seized by force
of arms the passing delivery wagon of a kerosene dealer, climbed to the
seat, and lashed the astonished horse to a run. San Francisco streets ran
to chuck holes and ruts in those days, and the vehicle lurched and banged
with a grand rattle and scatteration of tins and measures. The terrified
driver at last mustered courage to protest.

"You are spilling my kerosene!" he wailed.

"Damn your kerosene, sir!" bellowed the general; then relenting: "I will
pay you for your kerosene!"

Up to headquarters he sailed full tilt, and how he got through the crowd
without committing manslaughter no one tells. There he was greeted by wild
cheering, and was at once lifted bodily to the back of a white horse, the
conspicuous colour of which made it an excellent rallying point.

Within an incredibly brief space of time they were off for the armoury; the
military companies marching like veterans; the artillery rumbling over the
rude pavements; the cavalry jogging along to cover the rear. A huge roaring
mob accompanied them, followed them, raced up the parallel streets to
arrive before the armoury at the same moment as the first files.

The armoury square was found to be deserted except for the intrepid Barry
and Bovee, who still marched back and forth before the closed door. No one
had entered or left the building.

Inside the armoury the first spirit of bravado and fight-to-the-last-ditch
had died to a sullen stubbornness. Nobody had much, to say. Terry was very
contrite as well he might be. A judge of the Supreme Court, who had no
business being in San Francisco at all, sworn to uphold the law, had
stepped out from his jurisdiction to commit as lawless and idiotic a deed
of passion as could have been imagined! Whatever chances the Law and Order
party might have had, could they have mobilized their forces, were
dissipated. Their troops were scattered in small units; their rank and file
were heaven knew where; their enemies, fully organized, had been mustered
by the alarm bell to full alertness and compactness. And Terry's was the
hand that had struck that bell! For the only time in his recorded history
David Terry's ungoverned spirit was humbled. Until he found that nothing
immediate was going to happen to him, and while under the silent but
scathing disapprobation of his companions, he actually talked of resigning!
Parenthetically, the fit did not last long, and he soon reared, his haughty
crest as high as ever. But now, listening to the roar of the mob outside,
peeping at the grim thousands of armed men deploying before the armoury, he
regretted his deed.

"This is very unfortunate; very unfortunate!" he said, "But you shall not
imperil your lives for me. It is I they want. I will surrender to them."

Instead of the prompt expostulation he expected, a dead silence greeted
these words.

"There is nothing else to do," agreed Ashe at last.

An officer was sent to negotiate.

"We will deliver up the armoury if you will agree not to give us over to
the mob," he told the committee.

"We hold, and intend to hold, the mob under absolute control. We have
nothing in common with mobs," was Coleman's reply.

The doors were then thrown open, and a company of the Vigilante troops
marched in. Within ten minutes, the streets were cleared. The six hundred
prisoners, surrounded by a solid body of infantry with cavalry on the
flanks, were marched to headquarters. The city was jubilant. This, at last,
was the clean sweep! Men went about with shining faces, slapping each other
on the back. And Coleman, the wise general, realizing that compromises were
useless, peace impossible, came to a decision. Shortly from headquarters
the entire Vigilante forces moved in four divisions toward the cardinal
points of the compass. From them small squads were from time to time
detached and sent out to right or left. The main divisions surrounded the
remaining four big armouries; the smaller squads combed the city house by
house for arms. In the early morning the armouries capitulated. By sun-up
every weapon in the city had been taken to Fort Gunnybags.

LXXI

Up to this time Nan Keith had undergone the experience of nine out of ten
married women in early California: that is, she had been neglected. Neglect
in some form or other was the common lot of the legally attached feminine.
How could it logically be otherwise? In the turbulent, varied, restless,
intensely interesting, deeply exciting life of the pioneer city only a
poor-spirited, bloodless, nerveless man would have thought to settle down
to domesticity. A quiet evening at home stands small chance, even in an
old-established community, against a dog fight on the corner or a fire in
the next block; and here were men fights instead, and a great, splendid,
conflagration of desires, appetites, and passions, a grand clash of
interests and wills that burned out men's lives in the space of a few
years. It was a restless time, full of neglected women. This neglect varied
in degree to be sure. Nan was lucky there. No other woman had thrust her
way in, no other attraction lured Keith from her, as had happened to so
many others. She possessed all his interest. But at present that interest
seemed so attenuated, so remote!

After her revulsion of feeing the afternoon the Vigilantes first rose in
their might, she withdrew within her pride. Nan was no meek and humble
spirit. But the scales had dropped from her eyes as to affairs about her.
San Francisco suddenly became something besides a crude collection of
buildings. For the first time she saw it as a living entity, strong in the
throes of growth. She devoured eagerly all the newspapers, collected avidly
all the rumours. Whenever possible, she discussed the state of affairs; but
this was difficult, for nearly every one was strongly partisan for one side
or another, and incapable of anything but excitement and vituperation. The
Sherwoods were a great comfort to her here. While approving of the new
movement, they nevertheless refused to become heated, and retained a spirit
of humour. Sherwood was not a member of the Committee of Vigilance, but he
had subscribed heavily--and openly--to its funds; he had assisted it with
his counsels; and it was hinted that, sub-rosa, he had taken part in some
of the more obscure but dangerous operations.

"I am an elderly, peace-loving, respectable citizen," he told Nan, "and I
stand unequivocably for law and order and for justice, for the orderly
doing of things; and against violence, mob spirit, and high-handedness."

"Why, John Sherwood!" cried Nan, up in arms at once. "I'd never have
believed you could be on the side of Judge Terry and that stripe."

"Oho!" cried Sherwood, delighted to have drawn her. "Now we have it! But
what made you think I was on that side?"

"Why--didn't you just say--"

"Oh," said Sherwood comfortably, "I was using real meanings, not just word
tags. In my opinion real law and order, orderly doing of things, _et
cetera_, are all on the other side."

"And the men--" cried Nan, aglow.

"The men are of course all noble, self-sacrificing, patriotic, immaculate
demigods who--" He broke off, chuckling at Nan's expression. "No,
seriously, I think they are doing a fine work, and that they'll go down in
history."

"You're an old dear!" cried Nan, impulsively kissing his cheek.

"Take care," he warned, "you're endangering my glasses and making my wife
jealous."

Nan drew back, a little ashamed at having shown her feelings; and rather
astonished herself at their intensity.

In the course of these conversations the pendulum with her began again to
quiver at the descent. Through the calmly philosophical eye of the ex-
gambler, John Sherwood, she partly envisaged the significance of what was
happening--the struggling forth of real government from the sham. Her own
troubles grew small by comparison. She began to feel nearer Keith in spirit
than for some time past, to understand him better, even--though this was
difficult--to get occasionally a glimpse of his relations toward herself.
It was all very inchoate, instinctive, unformed; rather an instinct than a
clear view. She became restless; for she had no outlet either for her own
excitement or the communicated excitement of the times. It was difficult to
wait, and yet wait she must. For what? She did not know!

On the crucial June evening she sat by the lamp trying in vain to
concentrate her attention on a book. The sound of the door bell made her
jump. She heard Wing Sam's shuffle, and his cheerful greeting which all her
training had been unable to eliminate. Wing Sam always met every caller
with a smiling "Hello!" A moment later she arose in some surprise as Mrs.
Morrell entered the room.

Relations between the women had never been broken off, though the pretence
of ordinary cordiality had long since been dropped. When Mrs. Morrell found
it expedient to make this call, she spent several hours trying to invent a
plausible excuse. She was unable to do so. Finally she gave it up in angry
despair.

"As long as it is not too bald, what difference does it make?" she said to
herself cynically.

And out of this desperation, and by no means from cleverness, she hit on
the cleverest thing possible. Instead of coming to make a friendly call,
she pretended to be on an errand of protest.

"It's about your dog," she told Nan, "he's a dear good dog, and a great
friend of ours. But cannot you shut him up nights? He's inclined to prowl
around under my windows, and just the sound of him there keeps me awake. I
know it's foolish; but I am so nervous these days--"

"Why, of course," said Nan with real contrition. "I'd no idea--"

Gringo was at the moment ingratiating himself with Wing Sam _in re_ one
soup bone of no use to anybody but dogs. If he could have heard Mrs.
Morrell's indictment, he would have been both grieved and surprised: Gringo
never prowled anywhere. Like most rather meaty individuals, he was a very
sound sleeper; and in the morning he often felt a little uneasy in his
conscience as to the matter of stray trespassing cats or such small fry. He
had every confidence that his instincts would warn him of really important
things, like burglars. Still, the important things are not all of life, nor
burglars all the duty of a dog.

Having slandered the innocent Gringo, Mrs. Morrell stayed for a chat.
Apparently she was always just on the point of departure, but never went.
Nan, being, as she thought, in the wrong as to the worthy Gringo, tried her
best to be polite, but was miserably conscious of being snippy.

At the end of an hour the door bell rang again. If Nan had been watching,
she might have seen Mrs. Morrell's body relax as though from a tension.
After a moment Wing Sam shuffled into the room carrying a soiled folded
paper.

"Man he tell you lead this chop-chop," said he.

Murmuring an apology, Nan opened the paper. With a cry she sprang to her
feet. Her face had gone white.

"What is it?" cried Mrs. Morrell in apparent anxiety.

Without a word Nan extended the paper. Written in pencil were these words:

MADAM: Your husband has been injured in an attempt at arrest. He wants
me to tell you he is at Jake's Place hurt bad. With respects. JOHN Q.
ALDER.

For an instant Mrs. Morrell did not dare look up. She was thoroughly angry
at what she thought to be her husband's stupidity.

"Why, that wouldn't deceive a child!" she thought contemptuously.

"How dreadful! Who is Alder?" she said, merely to say something.

Nan shook her head.

"I don't know," she replied rather wildly. "One of the Vigilantes, I
suppose. I must go out there. At once!"

She ran to the hall where she began to rummage for cloaks. Mrs. Morrell
followed her in wonderment. She was going to take this crude bait after
all! Mrs. Morrell had not the slightest idea Nan still loved her husband.

"You can't go alone!" she cried in apparent sympathy. "You poor child!
Jake's Place--at this time of night!"

"I'd go to hell if he needed me there!" cried Nan.

Mrs. Morrell became suddenly capable and commanding.

"Then I shall go with you," she announced firmly.

"Oh, you're good to me!" cried Nan, full of contrition, and feeling,
beneath her anxiety, that she had misjudged her neighbour's heart.

Mrs. Morrell took charge. She lit the lantern, led the way to the stable,
did the most toward harnessing the horse. They made rather a mess of it,
but the horse was gentle and reliable. When they had backed the buggy out
of the barn, she insisted on driving.

"You're in no fit condition," she told Nan, and Nan obediently climbed in
beside her.

The drive was made in silence, except that occasionally Nan urged hurry.
She sat bolt upright, her hands clasped in her lap, her figure rigid,
trying to keep hold of herself. At Jake's Place a surly hostler appeared
and led away their horse. Jake's Place was in darkness save for one lighted
room on the ground floor and a dimly illuminated bar at the other end.

It is but just to a celebrated resort that had seen and was still to see
much of life to say that it knew nothing of the plot. Sansome had engaged
the ground-floor parlour, and ordered a fire and drinks. Morrell had
commanded a little supper for later. Now two ladies appeared. This was all
normal. Without drinks, little suppers, and the subsequent appearance of
ladies, Jake's Place would soon have languished.

Nan leaped over the wheel to the ground as soon as the buggy had stopped,
and before the dilatory hostler had cramped aside the wheel.

"Where is he?" she demanded breathlessly. The hostler jerked a thumb at the
lighted windows. Without a word Nan ran up the steps and to the door. The
hostler looked after her flying figure, then grinned up at Mrs. Morrell.

"Yum! yum!" said he, "but she's the eager little piece!"

Mrs. Morrell gave him a coin, and as he moved away with the horse, she,
too, ran up the steps. Nan had entered the parlour door, leaving it open
behind her. Mrs. Morrell closed it again, and locked it. Then, with a
certainty that proved her familiarity with the place, she walked down the
length of the veranda to a hall, which she entered.

Nan had burst into a parlour with an open fire. Before it stood a small
table crowded with bottles and glasses. Sansome rose, rather unsteadily,
from one of the easy chairs. Nan uttered an exclamation of relief as she
recognized him.

"Oh, I'm glad you're here!" she cried. "This is kind! How is he? Where is
he?"

LXXII

Morrell had no easy day with Ben Sansome. He had been forced to spend the
whole of it with his protege, save for the hour he had devoted to seeing
Keith off on the piratical expedition. It was a terrible bore. In turn he
had played on the youth's pique, the supposed insult to his manhood, his
desire for the woman. Sansome was not naturally a valiant adventurer; but
he had an exceedingly touchy vanity, which, with a little coddling,
answered nearly as well. Morrell took the confident attitude that, of
course, Sansome was not afraid; therefore Sansome was ashamed to be afraid.

"For the moment," said the Englishman, "she's carried away by the glamour
of this Vigilante movement. They seem to her strong men. She contrasts them
with us men of the world, and as she cannot see that a polished exterior is
not incompatible with strength, she has a faint growing contempt for us.
Women like strength, masterfulness. It is the chance of your life to show
her that a man _comme il faut_ is the equal of these squalid brutes in that
respect. She is in love with you already, but she doesn't know it. All that
is necessary is a show of masterfulness to make her realize it." He stifled
a yawn. "Lord, what dreary piffle!" he confided to himself. He painted
Keith as a contemptible renegade from his own class, currying favour with
those below him, a cheap demagogue, a turncoat avid for popular power.

"At heart he's a coward--all such men are. And he's so wrapped up in his
ambition that his wife is a small matter to him. There's no danger from
him, for he's away; and after the first flare-up we'll be able to handle
him among us, never fear!" But after impressing this point, Morrell always
was most careful to interpose the warning: "If it should come to trouble,
don't let him get near you! He's absolutely rotten with a gun--you saw him
in that farce of a duel--but he's a strong beggar. Don't let him get his
hands on you!"

"I won't," promised Sansome, a trifle shakily.

Then Morrell, lighting a fresh cigar and fortifying his bored soul with
another drink, skilfully outlined a portrait of Sansome himself as a hero,
a dashing man of the world, a real devil among the ladies, the haughty and
proud exponent of aristocratic high-handedness. He laid this on pretty
thick, but Sansome had by now consumed a vast number of drinks, and was
ready to swallow almost anything in addition. Morrell's customary demeanour
was rather stolid, silent, and stupid; but when he was really interested
and cared to exert himself, he became unexpectedly voluble and plausible.
Mid-evening he drove this creature of his own fashioning out to Jake's
Place, and deposited him in the parlour with the open fire, the table of
drinks, and the easy chairs.

His plans from this point on were based on the fact that he had started
Keith out on an expedition that should last all night. Had there been the
slightest chance that the injured husband could appear, you may be sure
Morrell would not have been present. Of course witnesses were necessary to
the meeting at the road house. With Keith imminent, hirelings would have
been arranged for. With Keith safety away, Morrell saw no reason why he
should not enjoy the situation himself. Therefore he had arranged a little
supper party. Teeny McFarlane and Jimmy Ware were his first thought. Then
he added Pop McFarlane. If he wanted Teeny as a witness, the party must be
respectable!

At the sound of wheels outside Morrell arose and slipped out the back door
of the parlour.

"Now, remember!" he told Sansome from the doorway. "Now's the chance of
your life! You've got her love, and you must keep her. She'll cut up rough
at first. That's when you must show what's in you. Go right after her!"

As Nan burst into the room by one door he softly closed--and locked--the
other behind him.

LXXIII

But Sansome, although he had put up a brave front to the last moment, was
not in reality feeling near the hero of romance he looked. In spite of
Morrell's cleverness, the Englishman had failed to observe that Sansome had
touched the fringe of that second stage of semi-drunkenness when the
"drinks were dying on him." While outwardly fairly sober, inwardly he was
verging toward the incoherent. First one phase or mood would come to the
top, then another, without order; sequence, or logical reason. He was
momentarily dangerous or harmless. Nan's abrupt entrance scattered his last
coherences. For the moment he fell back on habit, and habit was with him
conventional He smiled his best smile.

"Do sit down," he urged in his most society manner.

This immediately convinced Nan that Keith must be badly hurt.

"Tell me at once!" she demanded "Where is Milton? Is he--is--"

"As far as I know," replied Sansome, still in his courtly manner, "Mr.
Keith is in perfect health. As to where he is"--he waved an airy hand--"I
do not know. It does not matter, does it? The point is we are cozy here
together. Do sit down."

"I don't understand," said she, advancing a step nearer, her brows knit,
"Don't put me off. I got a note saying--"

"I know; I wrote it," boasted Sansome fatuously.

The blood mounted her face, her fists clenched, she advanced several steps
fearlessly.

"I don't, quite understand," she repeated, in hard, crisp tones. "You wrote
it?' Isn't it true? What did you do such a thing for?"

"To get you here, my dear, of course," rejoined Sansome gallantly. "I knew
your puritanical scruples--I love them every one--but--"

"Do you mean to say you dared decoy me here!" challenged Nan, all aflame.
Her whole emotion was one of rage. It did not occur to her to be afraid of
Ben Sansome, the conventional, the dilettante exquisite, without the
gumption to say boo to a goose!

This Sansome answered her, the habit of society strong within him. He
became deprecatory, pleading, almost apologetic. His manners were on top
and his rather weak nature quailed before the blaze of her anger.

"I know it was inexcusable," he babbled, "but what could I do? I am mad
about you! Do forgive me! Just sit down for a few moments. I don't blame
you for being angry--any one is angry at being deceived--but do forgive me.
If you'll only consider why I did it, you won't be angry. That's right," he
ended soothingly, seeing that she neither spoke nor moved, "Just sit right
down here and be comfortable. It must be cold driving. Let me give you a
glass of sherry." He fussed about, shoving forward an armchair, arranging
pillows, unstopping the decanter.

"You fool!" she ejaculated in a low voice. She looked him all up and down,
and turned to go.

The door was locked! For the first time she noticed that Mrs. Morrell had
not followed her in. Her heart fluttered in sudden panic, which she
subdued. She moved toward the other door.

The words, and especially the frustration of her intention, brought another
mood to the surface of Sansome's intoxication. The polished society man
with the habit of external unselfishness disappeared. Another Sansome, whom
Nan did not recognize, sprang to take his place.

"No, you don't!" he snarled. "That door's locked, too. You don't get out of
here until I choose to let you out!"

"You'll let me out; and you'll let me out right now, or I'll call for
help," said Nan determinedly.

Sansome deliberately seated himself, stretching his legs out straight
before him, his hands in his pockets. This was the masterful role he had
seen himself playing, and he instinctively took the attitude approved by
the best melodramatic masters.

"Call all you please," he sneered. "Nobody's going to pay any attention to
your calls at Jake's Place!"

Nan's heart went cold as she realized the complete truth of this. She was
beginning to know fear. This was a new sort of creature before her, one
with which she was acquainted only by instinct. She did not know what to do
next, except that she saw surely that open opposition would only aggravate
the situation.

"I must gain time!" she told herself, though to what end she could not have
said.

Her pulses beat wildly, but she forced herself to a specious calmness.

"But Ben," she said as naturally as she could, "why did you do so foolish a
thing as this? It might make all kinds of trouble. You can always see me at
the house; you know that. Why did you get me out on this mad expedition? If
we were to be seen here by anybody we would be deeply compromised."

The words reminded her of Mrs. Morrell; but out of sheer terror she
resolutely thrust that idea from her mind. At this appeal Sansome suddenly
became maudlin.

"You've treated me like a dog lately--a yellow dog!" he mourned. "What good
did it do to go to your house and be treated like a yellow dog?"

Nan's faculties were beginning to rally after the first panic. Her heart
was still thumping violently, but her eyes were bright, and her fighting
courage was flowing back. For the first time his obvious condition
registered on her brain.

"He's drunk!" she thought.

This discovery at first induced in her another, small panic. Then her
courage boldly took it as a point of attack. The man was drunk and
dangerous; very well, let us make him more drunk and less dangerous. That
was a desperate enough expedient, but at least it was definite. She crossed
deliberately to the other easy chair, and sat down.

"Well, let's sit down," she agreed. "No!" more decidedly, "you sit there,
on the other side. It's more cozy," she continued, at just the right moment
to get her effect on his instinct of good manners. "Now, I will have that
sherry. No, don't bother; it is next my hand. You must drink with me. Let
me pour it for you--with my own hands--aren't you flattered?"

She smiled across at him. This sudden reversion to an easy every-day plane
had brought Sansome's first mood again to the surface. In this atmosphere
of orderly tete-a-tete he was again the society man. Nan breathed freer. He
murmured something inane and conventional about Hebe.

"Meaning you're a little tin god?" she chaffed.

He said something still more involved, to the effect that her presence
would make a god out of the most unworthy mortal. It was all vapid, unreal,
elaborate, artificial.

"If I can only keep him at this!" thought she desperately.

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