by Daniel Knapp
As a member of the Supreme Court, he has to oppose the vigilantes, Esther thought, her breath coming harder with each step. One of the men with Murietta pointed toward the Law and Order man in a top hat and frock coat standing near Mosby. Three of the vigilantes moved to seize him, and Mosby barked a series of commands, shoving the man on his left toward Murietta. She was within ten yards of them and still running when she heard the first shot fired.
Murietta saw her, and she stopped.
He was holding the bayonet-fitted muzzle-loader in front of him. Surprised, he paused for an instant, and the man rushing at him took the opportunity to pull the rifle out of his hands. For a few seconds Mosby obscured Murietta from view, his left hand grasping the barrel of a rifle held by another vigilante. She saw Mosby's right hand flash under his broad bow tie and inside his vest. When it came into view again, jerking straight forward at the elbow, Mosby was holding a bowie knife. The blade gleamed as it crossed the distance between the two men, and Esther gasped as Mosby drove it deep into the vigilante's neck.
Two other men grabbed Mosby from behind and, as they fell struggling in the middle of the street, she saw the rifle-stock swinging hard toward Murietta. It struck him squarely in the face. She heard the bones crack as his nose shattered and his forehead split open.
The rest of it she could hardly recall later. She dimly remembered the vigilantes overpowering Mosby and most of the men with him as she sat cradling Murietta's pitifully smashed face in her arms. She heard someone give an order to take Mosby and the rest of them to headquarters. After they had gone, it seemed as if an hour passed while she sat there quietly weeping. She was aware of the crowd gaping at the woman sitting in the middle of the street with the corpse lying across her lap. She knew Murietta was dead, but she did not fully believe it until the undertaker and his assistant talked to her gently and finally pried her hands loose from his head.
Sobbing and quivering in the darkness of her bedroom that night, her eyes swollen and her limbs made leaden by grief, she realized that she had to pull herself together. There was no one else to attend to the details of Murietta's funeral, no one she wanted to share his secret. The grief would have to wait until he was in the ground. She owed him a proper burial, at least that much courage and efficiency. Then, in the early morning hours, as the mental armor she was building for herself began solidifying, she realized there was something else that would strengthen the protective shell. Someone else she could focus on so she could hold up for the next seventy-two hours. She seized on the idea like a blacksmith shaping iron, hammering, plunging it into the fire of her anger, tempering it, cooling it, until by morning she had set the terrible hollowness aside.
On the Sunday morning she buried Murietta, Esther arranged to ride back into town with the undertaker. Before stepping up into the black, horse-drawn hearse, she instructed Solana to drive her own buggy home and wait. At three that afternoon, Solana was to take the buggy to the entrance of Delmonico's restaurant. She was to bring Esther's green shawl and a carriage blanket. She was to sit there until dark, if necessary. If Esther did not meet her, if anything unusual happened, she explained vaguely, Solana was to deliver the journal in the bottom left-hand drawer of her desk to Alexander Todd at the state capitol in Sacramento. Along with the sealed envelope beneath it. She did not tell Solana that the envelope contained her will, or that the document provided generously for the Indian woman.
She went over it once again in her mind as the undertaker drove back toward the city. King had died of his chest wound. From the tenor of the previous day's newspaper accounts, they had probably seized Casey and Cora by now. The man Mosby had stabbed would recover. Equivocating, Coleman had merely asked Mosby to resign. By the time she got to Sacramento Street, she guessed they would have tried Cora and Casey and that preparations for a hanging would already be in progress.
There would be throngs in the open air in front of number 41 Sacramento Street. The vigilantes would be there, out in force to control the crowds. She hoped only a handful of men would be inside the headquarters building. Perhaps only one or two, armed and watching the prisoners. However many guards there were, if she got through, one would be enough to provide witness to her act. The consequences be damned, she thought. I will do it this time. Let them do with me what they will after I have told them the whole story. Perhaps they will leave me alone with him for a moment, and there will be no witness. She doubted that. She wondered, as the carriage skirted the more crowded downtown streets and pulled to a halt in front of the undertaker's establishment, whether, ironically, the vigilantes' sentiments would support her after it was done… Whether Alex would come to her aid if she sent word to him… What he would think of her…
Once the undertaker had helped her out of the carriage, all such thoughts gave way to total preoccupation with the plan she had developed in the last forty-eight hours. The crowds forced her to move off the sidewalk as she walked eastward. A block from vigilante headquarters she turned right on Davis and found the thriving restaurant she had reconnoitered the previous afternoon. It was nearly deserted. She ordered the Sunday roast-beef special, extra thick cut, with all the trimmings, and a thermos of coffee; paid extra for a tray and clean dish towel the grateful proprietor used to cover it. She pulled out of her purse a Bible she had bought and tucked it under her arm before picking up the tray and going back out onto Davis Street.
As she turned left into California Street, which ran parallel to and south of Sacramento, she glanced back toward the Unitarian Church. In front of it, James King's funeral cortege waited for the memorial service inside to end. A clock in a store window read 1:20. Esther could have been no less aware of the time or the brilliantly sunny skies if she were in the bowels of a mine. There were fewer vigilantes posted along the way than there had been on Saturday. She was grateful for that.
She passed a shop window: "G. R. Fardon. Daguerreotypist." I must have a picture taken of me—one day… She crossed Front Street and approached the alleyway between two buildings that led into the enormous backyard area behind number 41 Sacramento. Yesterday afternoon a squad of men had covered its entrance. Now a single county sheriff stood watch.
"I'm glad you chose the right side to be on, sheriff," she said, not stopping.
The peace officer eyed the woman in black Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, the Bible, and the covered tray. He couldn't see through her heavy veil, but she was moving so resolutely, so authoritatively, for a moment he almost let her pass unquestioned. "Hold on a second, ma'am," he finally called out. "Uh, could you please tell me your business here?"
"The Lord's work," Esther answered, still walking. The sheriff trailed her. "The ladies of the First Baptist Church have delegated me to take a decent Sunday meal to Judge Mosby. We must not be sparing in our charity—even unto a man who has had a hand in another's death."
They were halfway through the alley. Esthers heart was beginning to pound.
"Ma'am? You say the First Baptist—?"
"With Mr. Coleman's approval, of course." Esther stopped. "There is a signed authorization from him in my purse. My hands are full and the poor man's meal is cooling. I will show it to the officer in charge at the rear of the building. Will that be all right?"
The sheriff shrugged. Damn women. "I reckon so, ma'am. You go on in."
There was a man posted at the end of the alley, but he had seen the sheriff let her through. Esther nodded courteously at him and went on without missing a step. In the rear yard, a makeshift corral held a half-dozen horses. There was room enough for dozens more. Out on Sacramento Street, she thought, controlling the crowds watching the carnival. Artillery pieces and gun carriages sat at odd angles in the enclosure. She walked on. At the rear of number 41, another peace officer, a marshal wearing a new tin star, stood in the doorway looking at his watch. Behind him, on a wall, there was a clock: 1:25.
"Ma'am?"
"Sunday dinner for Judge Mosby. As a gesture of mercy from the First Baptist Church. I
gave the letter of authorization signed by Mr. Coleman to the sheriff at the entrance to the alley back there." She cocked her head over her right shoulder and held her breath.
"Yes, ma'am," the marshal said, ushering her inside. "Will you please set that tray down on the table there? I'll have to look it over. Procedure, you understand. Judge Mosby may be charged with murder. Of Jack Marin, that is. Ah… I'm afraid I'll have to see the contents of your purse, too, ma'am. Orders."
"Perfectly understandable," she said. "I don't think you can be careful enough." She sighed audibly. "Dear, dear. I must be more forgiving. But there are so many questionable characters lurking about."
"Right, ma'am," the marshal said, placing the dish towel back over the tray. He peered into Esther's purse as she pulled the contents out one by one and dropped them back inside. She wondered if he could see how her hands were trembling. She could feel the cold metal of the gun where it lay snugged against her skin, under the bustle, beneath the corset. He turned and knocked on a door leading inside. A young man opened it partway.
"Corbett, escort this lady to Mosby's cell."
"I have been asked to read a psalm while I am in his company," Esther said. "That, you see, is why I have the Bible under my arm."
"Perfectly all right, ma'am," the marshal said. He nodded to the younger man, who quickly opened the door and gestured for Esther to follow.
They went through another small room, a hallway, and then into a large warehousing and stable area. Along two sides, the stalls had been turned into makeshift cells. The bars were flagpole-thick wooden rods that ran up into overhead beams in the ceiling. A number of cells on the far end contained men, but several between the first group and the corner cell where Mosby stood watching them approach were empty. She glanced to her right at a second, perpendicular row of cells and took note of another exit directly onto the rear yard. She did not see the man lying on the cot in the cell directly next to Mosby's. It was the first one on the rear wall, Mosby's the last in the other line. As they stopped, the young deputy blocked most of the adjacent cell from view.
"Lady here's brought you a fine Sunday dinner, judge."
"That so?" Mosby glanced sharply at Esther, trying to make out her face under the veil.
"Gonna say a psalm over you, too, judge. Ain't that nice?"
"Wonderful," Mosby said. "Just what I need. To whom do I owe this act of Christian charity?"
"The ladies of the First Baptist Church," Esther said.
"That's right nice," Mosby purred, calculating. He looked at his watch. "Makes you feel the Good Lord hasn't forsaken a body, after all."
The young deputy took the tray from Esther and carefully set it on the base of a rectangular, slat-framed opening built into the wooden bars. Mosby picked it up and put it on a table just as the huge bell the vigilantes had borrowed from the California Engine Company tolled on the roof above. In seconds they could hear church bells all over the city echoing back the knell.
"They're hangin' Cora and Casey!" The young deputy's eyes widened. "Ma'am. I don't want to miss this. It'll be somethin' to tell my grandchildren. You say your psalm over the judge and I'll be right back." He tipped his hat, turned, and ran toward the front of the building. "I just want to take one fast look," he called over his shoulder.
She could not have asked for more. She took in a deep breath as Mosby turned to her.
"Over the judge. Sounds like I've already been laid to rest." He laughed. "Which psalm you going to read?"
"Why, the twenty-third." Esther stepped a bit closer, holding up the Bible.
"My land," Mosby said, "looks like one my mother used to read to me from. I mean, the brown leather cover. But you said Baptist. That couldn't be a Methodist-Episcopal Bible, now could it?"
"I suspect not," she said, trying not to remember her father's sermons on violence.
"You mind if I just take a look at it for a minute? Before you read? It'd satisfy my curiosity. Just want to look through the first few pages to see who printed it up."
She could hear the bells tolling, the one on the roof ringing loudest. Briefly, there was a sudden, muffled roar of thousands of voices from out beyond the front walls of the building. She thought quickly. It will be easier if I have both hands free, if I give him the Bible. One hand to hold and fire, one to steady my aim. She moved up to the wooden bars and held the Good Book out to him.
Mosby reached past the Bible, grabbed her wrist, and spun her around. The Bible fell to the floor as he hissed, "Who sent you, little angel? Who made the supper? I'll bet it's laced with arsenic. Here! You eat some of it!"
He had surreptitiously palmed a piece of the beef. Now he swung his left hand up, the arm moving a bit freely, until he had the meat pressed against her lips.
She opened her mouth and took the beef on her tongue. If he sees me eat it, he will let go of me, she thought. And then I will remove the pistol and kill him. She chewed obediently as he slid his hand down from her mouth and chin to her throat, let go of her wrist, and quickly threw his other arm around her neck. He waited until he felt her swallow the beef. He will let me go now, she thought. He must.
Instead, he pulled her head and neck against the bars until she began to feel faint. He raised his weak arm and fumbled at her veil. "Let's just get a look at you, see who the hell you are."
"Jesus Christ!" the young deputy said as he came walking back through the door at the far end of the room. He started running. "Jesus… H… Christ! Earl! Mr. Coombs! For God's sake, come in here and help me! Marshal COOOMBS!"
He was at the cell now, trying to pry Mosby's arm loose from Esther's throat.
"I'll kill her 'less you hand me your gun, you son of a bitch!" Mosby whispered hoarsely. "I'll choke her to death. The gun and the keys! Now!"
The young deputy stopped for a moment, moved to the right, thought about drawing, firing at him. There would be hell to pay if he killed a Supreme Court judge, committee or no committee. He threw himself at Mosby's arm again.
Esther started to black out. She could hear the bells tolling. The man on the cot in the cell beside Mosby's got up and quietly moved behind the young deputy. Reaching through the bars, he pulled the deputy's pistol out of its holster, raised and fired it into the young man's back just as Marshal Coombs came bursting through the rear door.
"Get the damn keys, judge. The keys! Forget the woman. Get the keys!"
Esther felt Mosby let go of her, and she fell. Opening her eyes, she saw Coombs drop to one knee and flinch as the man in the cell next to Mosby's sent a shell burrowing into the hard-packed earth floor beside him. Then she saw the sheriff point and fire into the cell, heard the man she could not see scream and fall just before she passed out.
When she came to on a cot in one of the rooms along the side of the stable area, a short, fat man with weasel eyes was hovering over her.
"I'm Dr. Leander Sims. How do you feel? You've had one heck of an experience."
"Give me a minute," she said. She waited, regaining her senses, taking hope as she felt the bulk of the pistol beneath her, still snugged to her back by the lower portion of her corset.
The doctor saw her glance down. There was a towel covering her upper body. "I took the liberty of loosening—I didn't remove anything, mind you—loosening some of your undergarments. It was immediately apparent that you suffered no serious harm, but you had the wind knocked out of you. The shock of it—you needed to breathe more freely than those contraptions allow…"
"I understand," she said.
"Are you all right? Do you think you can stand up?"
"Yes. Give me a moment." She glanced at the door. "Would you—?"
"Of course, of course. You just take your time."
When he was out of the room, she made sure the pistol was secure, fastened the corset, and buttoned the top of her dress. She reached for her heavily veiled hat and put it on, then stood up. For a moment she swayed, but then her equilibrium returned. She wondered if anyone had checked her story abou
t the authorization from Coleman in the aftermath of the shooting. She looked at her watch—half-past two—went to the door, and opened it.
"How are you feeling?" the doctor asked again.
"I'm fine. A bit shaken, but fine."
"You'll have a bruise on your neck, young lady, but you can be thankful it's no more than that."
"Yes. Thank you. I feel fine now. I just want to go home."
"I can understand that. Come with me. I'll escort you out to the plaza."
There were a dozen men in the corner near Mosby's cell, talking and gesturing. She saw Coleman glance at her, then turn back, absorbed. No one called to the doctor or Esther as they went out the front door.
Outside, the crowds had dwindled. Only a small number of vigilante troops stood at ease nearby. The police lieutenant outside the sandbags looked at her, and her heart stopped, but he simply tipped his cap, smiled at the doctor, and turned away. She looked back once, just before thanking the doctor again. The bodies of Cora and Casey were still dangling on ropes hung from rafters above the top-story windows. The hinged platforms they had stood on lay flat against the side of the building.
"My Lord, I almost forgot," the doctor said. "I was asked to take your name."
"Cordelia Plaggett."
"And your address? I should have it for my records, and they'll undoubtedly want to ask you a question or two."
"Perhaps I should go back and write it all out for them."