Chapter 20

Duels in the fifties were almost an acknowledged public institution. Although technically illegal, no one was ever convicted of any of the consequences of such encounters. They were conducted quite openly. Indeed, some of the more famous were actively advertised by steamboat men, who carried excursions to the field. Keith's acceptance of Ware's challenge aroused the keenest interest. Outside the prominence of the men involved, a vague feeling was current that in their persons were symbolized opposing forces in the city's growth. As yet these forces had not segregated to that point where champions were demanded, or indeed would be recognized as such, but vague feelings of antagonism, of alignments, were abroad. Those who later would constitute the Law and Order class generally sympathized with Ware; those whom history was to know as the Vigilantes felt stirrings of partisanship for Keith. Therefore, the following afternoon a small flotilla set sail for the Contra Costa shore, and a crowd of several hundred spectators disembarked at the chosen duelling ground.

Nan knew nothing of all this. Keith was now in such depths of low spirits that his wearied soul did not much care what became of him. He put his affairs in shape, shrugged his shoulders, and went to the encounter with absolute indifference.

The preliminaries were soon over. Keith found himself facing Jimmy Ware at the distance he had himself chosen. A double line of spectators stood at a respectful space on either side. Major Miles and an acquaintance of Keith's who had volunteered to act for him were posted nearer at hand. Keith had listened attentively to the instructions. The word was to be given--_one, two, three. Fire!_ Between the first and last words the duellists were to discharge the first shot from their weapons. After that they were to fire at will. One shot would have sufficed Jimmy Ware; but Keith, without emotion, filed with a dead indifference to any possible danger and a savage contempt for the whole proceedings, had insisted on the full measure. He was totally unaccustomed to weapons. At the word of command he raised the revolver and fired, carelessly but coolly, and without result. One after the other he discharged the six chambers of his weapon, aiming as well as he knew how. It did not occur to him that Ware was firing at him. After the sixth miss he threw the revolver away in cold disgust.

"This is a farce," said he, "and I'm not going to be fool enough to take part in it any longer."

Jimmy Ware, delighted at finding himself unharmed, and confident now that bluff would go, started to say something lofty and disdainful. Keith whirled back on him.

"If you want 'satisfaction,' as you call it, you'll get it, and you'll get it plenty! I'm sick of being made a fool of. Just open your ugly head to me again, and I'll knock it off your shoulders!" His eye smouldered dangerously, and Jimmy Ware, very uncertain in his mind, took refuge in a haughty look. Keith glared at him moment, then turned to the crowd: "I'll give all of you fair warning," said he. "I'm going to do my legal duty in all things; and I'm not going to fight duels. Anybody who interferes with me is going to get into trouble!"

An uproar ensued. All this was most irregular, unprecedented, a disgrace to a gentlemen's meeting. The major roared like a bull. If a man would not fight, would not defend his actions, how could a gentleman get at him except by street brawling or assassination, and both of these were repugnant to finer feelings. A dozen fire-eaters felt themselves personally insulted. The crowd surrounded Keith, shouting at him, jostling him, threatening. A cool, somewhat amused voice broke in.

"Gentlemen," said Talbot Ward, in so decided a tone that they turned to hear. "I am a neutral non-partisan in this little war, I am for neither party, for neither opinion, in the matter. I, like Mr. Keith, never fight duels. But may I suggest--merely in the interest of fair play--that for the moment you are forgetting yourselves? My opinion coincides with Mr. Keith's that duelling is a foolish sort of game, but it is a game, and recognized; and if you are going to play it, why not stick to its rules? Mr. Keith, and Mr. Ware have exchanged shots. Mr. Ware has therefore had 'satisfaction.' Now Mr. Keith and I going to walk--quietly--to the boat. We do not expect to be molested."

"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 coördination. 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 naïve 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."