Our decision was greeted by wild yells and the discharge of pistols on the part of the rough element. The meeting broke up informally and in confusion. It would have been useless for the presiding officer to have attempted to dismiss court. The mob broke through en masse to congratulate the prisoners. Immediately the barkeepers were overwhelmed with work. Here and there I could see a small group of the honest men talking low-voiced, with many shakes of the head. Johnny, Old, and Cal, who had attended with his arm slung up, had their heads together in a corner. Danny Randall, who, it will be remembered, had not appeared publicly in any way, stood at his customary corner of the bar watching all that was going on. His gamblers were preparing to reopen the suspended games.
After conferring together a moment the three express messengers made their way slowly across the room to the bar. I could not see exactly what happened, but heard the sudden reverberations of several pistol shots. The lamps and glasses rattled with the concussion, the white smoke of the discharges eddied and rose. An immediate dead silence fell, except for the sounds made by the movements of those seeking safe places. Johnny and his two friends shoulder to shoulder backed slowly away toward the door. Johnny and Old presented each two pistols at the group around the bar, while Cal, a revolver in his well hand, swept the muzzle slowly from side to side. Nobody near the bar stirred. The express messengers backed to the door.
“Keep your heads inside,” warned Johnny clearly. On the words they vanished.
Immediately pandemonium broke loose. The men along the bar immediately became very warlike; but none of those who brandished pistols tried to leave the building. From the swing and sway of the crowd, and the babel of yells, oaths, threats, and explanations I could make nothing. Danny Randall alone of all those in the room held his position unmoved. At last a clear way offered, so I went over to him.
“What’s happened?” I shouted at him through the din.
Danny shrugged his shoulders.
“They killed Carhart and Malone,” Danny replied curtly.
It seemed, I ascertained at last, that the three had advanced and opened fire on the two ex-prisoners without warning.
As soon as possible I made my escape and returned to our own camp. There I found the three of them seated smoking, their horses all saddled, standing near at hand.
“Are they coming our way?” asked Johnny instantly.
I told them that I had seen no indications of a mob.
“But why did you do it?” I cried. “It’s an open challenge! They’ll get you boys now sure!”
“That remains to be seen,” said Johnny grimly. “But it was the only thing to do. If Carhart and Malone had ever been given time to report on our confab the other evening, you and Danny Randall and Dr. Rankin would have been marked men. Now no one knows of your connection with this matter.”
“But they’ll be after you─”
“They were after us in any case,” Johnny pointed out. “Don’t deceive yourself there. Now you keep out of this and let us do it.”
“I reckon we can handle this bunch,” said Old.
“Lord! what a lot of jellyfish!” cried Johnny disgustedly. “Danny was right enough about them. But let me state right here and once again that practical jokes on immigrants are going to be mighty unhealthy here.”
*
CHAPTER XXXVI
THE RULE OF THE LAWLESS
No concerted attempt was made by the roughs to avenge the execution of their comrades. Whether they realized that such an attempt would be likely to solidify the decent element, or whether that sort of warfare was not their habit, the afternoon and night wore away without trouble.
“Danger’s over,” announced Johnny the following morning.
“What next?” I asked.
“We’ll go up to town,” said Johnny.
This they proceeded to do, negativing absolutely my desire to accompany them.
“You stay out of this,” said Johnny. “Go and wash gold as usual.”
I was immensely relieved that afternoon when they returned safe and sound. Afterward I heard that they had coolly visited every saloon and gambling place, had stopped in each to chat with the barkeepers and gamblers, had spent the morning seated outside the Bella Union, and had been in no manner molested.
“They’ll be all right as long as they stick together and keep in the open,” Yank assured me. “That gang will sooner assassinate than fight.”
Although for the moment held in check by the resolute front presented by these three boys, the rough element showed that it considered it had won a great victory, and was now entitled to run the town. Members of the gang selected what goods they needed at any of the stores, making no pretence of payment. They swaggered boldly about the streets at all times, infested the better places such as the Bella Union, elbowed aside insolently any inoffensive citizen who might be in their way, and generally conducted themselves as though they owned the place. Robberies grew more frequent. The freighters were held up in broad daylight; rumours of returning miners being relieved of their dust drifted up from the lower country; mysterious disappearances increased in number. Hardly an attempt was made to conceal the fact that the organized gang that conducted these operations had its headquarters at Italian Bar. Strange men rode up in broad daylight, covered with red dust, to confer with Morton or one of the other resident blackguards. Mysteriously every desperado in the place began to lay fifty-dollar octagonal slugs on the gaming tables, product of some lower country atrocity.
The camp soon had a concrete illustration of the opinion the roughs held of themselves. It was reported quietly among a few of us that several of our number had been “marked” by the desperadoes. Two of these were Joe Thompson, who had acted as counsel for the prosecution in the late trial, and Tom Cleveland, who had presided, and presided well, over the court. Thompson kept one of the stores, while Cleveland was proprietor of the butcher shop. No overt threats were made, but we understood that somehow these men were to be put out of the way. Of course they were at once warned.
The human mind is certainly a queer piece of mechanism. It would seem that the most natural thing to have done, in the circumstances, would have been to dog these men’s footsteps until an opportunity offered to assassinate them quietly. That is just what would have been done had the intended victims been less prominently in the public eye. The murder of court officials, however, was a very different matter from the finding of an unknown miner dead in his camp or along the trail. In the former case there could be no manner of doubt as to the perpetrators of the deed–the animus was too directly to be traced. And it is a matter for curious remark that in all early history, whether of California in the forties, or of Montana in the bloodier sixties, the desperadoes, no matter how strong they felt themselves or how arrogantly they ran the community, nevertheless must have felt a great uncertainty as to the actual power of the decent element. This is evidenced by the fact that they never worked openly. Though the identity of each of them as a robber and cut-throat was a matter of common knowledge, so that any miner could have made out a list of the members of any band, the fact was never formally admitted. And as long as it was not admitted, and as long as actual hard proof was lacking, it seemed to be part of the game that nothing could be done. Moral certainties did not count until some series of outrages resulted in mob action.
Now consider this situation, which seemed to me then as it seems to me now, most absurd in every way. Nobody else considered it so. Everybody knew that the rough element was out to “get” Thompson and Cleveland. Everybody, including both Thompson and Cleveland themselves, was pretty certain that they would not be quietly assassinated, the argument in that case being that the deed would be too apt to raise the community. Therefore it was pretty well understood that some sort of a quarrel or personal encounter would be used as an excuse. Personally I could not see that that would make much essential difference; but, as I said, the human mind is a curious piece of mechanism.
Among the occasi
onal visitors to the camp was a man who called himself Harry Crawford. He was a man of perhaps twenty-five years, tall, rather slender, with a clear face and laughing blue eyes. Nothing in his appearance indicated the desperado; and yet we had long known him as one of the Morton gang. This man now took up his residence in camp; and we soon discovered that he was evidently the killer. The first afternoon he picked some sort of a petty quarrel with Thompson over a purchase, but cooled down instantly when unexpectedly confronted by a half dozen miners who came in at the opportune moment. A few days afterward in the slack time of the afternoon Thompson, while drinking at the bar of the Empire and conversing with a friend, was approached by a well-known sodden hanger-on of the saloons.
“What ’n hell you fellows talking about?” demanded this man impudently.
“None of your business,” replied Thompson impatiently, for the man was a public nuisance, and besides was deep in Thompson’s debt.
The man broke into foul oaths.
“I’ll dare you to fight!” he cried in a furious passion.
Facing about, Thompson saw Crawford standing attentively among the listeners, and instantly comprehended the situation.
“You have the odds of me with a pistol,” said Thompson, who notoriously had no skill with that weapon. “Why should I fight you?”
“Well, then,” cried the man, “put up your fists; that’ll show who is the best man!”
He snatched off his belt and laid it on the bar. Thompson did the same.
“Come on!” cried the challenger, backing away.
Thompson, thoroughly angry, reached over and slapped his antagonist. The latter promptly drew another revolver from beneath his coat, but before he could aim it Thompson jumped at his throat and disarmed him. At this moment Crawford interfered, apparently as peacemaker. Thompson was later told secretly by the barkeeper that the scheme was to lure him into a pistol fight in the street, when Crawford would be ready to shoot him as soon as the first shot was fired.
On the strength of his interference Crawford next pretended to friendship, and spent much of his time at Thompson’s store. Thompson was in no way deceived. This state of affairs continued for two days. It terminated in the following manner: Crawford, sitting half on the counter, and talking with all the great charm of which he was master, led the subject to weapons.
“This revolver of mine,” said he, at the same time drawing the weapon from its holster, “is one of the old navy model. You don’t often see them nowadays. It has a double lock.” He cocked it as though to illustrate his point, and the muzzle, as though by accident, swept toward the other man. He looked up from his affected close examination to find that Thompson had also drawn his weapon and that the barrel was pointing uncompromisingly in his direction.
For a moment the two stared each other in the eye. Then Crawford sheathed his pistol with an oath.
“What do you mean by that?” he cried.
“I mean,” said Thompson firmly, “that I do not intend you shall get the advantage of me. You know my opinion of you and your gang. I shall not be shot by any of you, if I can help it.”
Crawford withdrew quietly, but later in the day approached a big group of us, one of which was Thompson.
“There’s a matter between you and me has got to be settled!” he cried.
“Well, I can’t imagine what it is,” replied Thompson. “I’m not aware that I’ve said or done anything to you that needs settlement.”
“You needn’t laugh!” replied Crawford, with a string of insulting oaths. “You’re a coward; and if you’re anything of a man you will step out of doors and have this out.”
“I am, as you say, a coward,” replied Thompson quietly, “and I see no reason for going out of doors to fight you or anybody else.”
After blustering and swearing for a few moments Crawford withdrew. He made no attempt to fight, nor do I believe his outburst had any other purpose than to establish the purely personal character of the quarrel between Thompson and himself. At any rate, Thompson was next morning found murdered in his bunk, while Crawford had disappeared. I do not know whether Crawford had killed him or not; I think not.
About this time formal printed notices of some sort of election were posted on the bulletin board at Morton’s place. At least they were said to have been posted, and were pointed out to all comers the day after election. Perhaps they were there all the time, as claimed, but nobody paid much attention to them. At any rate, we one day awoke to the fact that we were a full-fledged community, with regularly constituted court officers, duly qualified officials, and a sheriff. The sheriff was Morton, and the most worthy judges were other members of his gang!
This move tickled Danny Randall’s sense of humour immensely.
“That’s good head work,” he said approvingly. “I didn’t think Morton had it in him.”
“It’s time something was done to run that gang out of town,” fumed Dr. Rankin.
“No; it is not time,” denied Danny, “any more than it was time when you and Johnny and the rest of you had your celebrated jury trial.”
“I’d like to know what you are driving at!” fretted the worthy doctor.
Danny Randall laughed in his gentle little fashion. I will confess that just at that time I was very decidedly wondering what Danny Randall was at. In fact, at moments I was strongly inclined to doubt his affiliations. He seemed to stand in an absolutely neutral position, inclining to neither side.
Tom Cleveland was killed in the open street by one of the Empire hangers-on. The man was promptly arrested by Morton in his capacity of sheriff, and confined in chains. Morton, as sheriff, selected those who were to serve on the jury. I had the curiosity to attend the trial, expecting to assist at an uproarious farce. All the proceedings, on the contrary, were conducted with the greatest decorum, and with minute attention to legal formalities. The assassin, however, was acquitted.
From that time the outrages increased in number and in boldness. No man known to be possessed of any quantity of gold was safe. It was dangerous to walk alone after dark, to hunt alone in the mountains, to live alone. Every man carried his treasure about with him everywhere he went. No man dared raise his voice in criticism of the ruling powers, for it was pretty generally understood that such criticism meant death.
It would be supposed, naturally, by you in our modern and civilized days, that such a condition of affairs would cast a fear and gloom over the life of the community. Not at all. Men worked and played and gambled and drank and joked and carried on the light-hearted, jolly existence of the camps just about the same as ever. Outside a few principals like Morton and his immediate satellites, there was no accurate demarkation between the desperadoes and the miners. Indeed, no one was ever quite sure of where his next neighbour’s sympathies lay. We all mingled together, joked, had a good time–and were exceedingly cautious. It was a polite community. Personal quarrels were the product of the moment, and generally settled at the moment or soon after. Enmities were matters for individual adjustment.
Randall’s express messengers continued to make their irregular trips with the gold dust. They were never attacked, though they were convinced, and I think justly, that on numerous occasions they had only just escaped attack. Certainly the sums of money they carried were more than sufficient temptation to the bandits. They knew their country, however, and were full of Indian-like ruses, twists, doublings and turns which they employed with great gusto. How long they would have succeeded in eluding what I considered the inevitable, I do not know; but at this time occurred the events that I shall detail in the next chapter.
*
CHAPTER XXXVII
THE LAST STRAW
This is a chapter I hate to write; and therefore I shall get it over with as soon as possible.
Yank had progressed from his bunk to the bench outside, and from that to a slow hobbling about near the Moreña cabin. Two of the three months demanded by Dr. Rankin had passed. Yank’s leg had been taken from the splint, and,
by invoking the aid of stout canes, he succeeded in shifting around. But the trail to town was as yet too rough for him. Therefore a number of us were in the habit of spending our early evenings with him. We sat around the door, and smoked innumerable pipes, and talked sixty to the minute. Moreña had a guitar to the accompaniment of which he sang a number of plaintive and sweet-toned songs. Three or four of his countrymen occasionally came up from below. Then they, too, sang more plaintive songs; or played a strange game with especial cards which none of us “gringos” could ever fathom; or perhaps stepped a grave, formal sort of dance. Señora Moreña, the only woman, would sometimes join in this. She was a large woman, but extraordinarily light on her feet. In fact, as she swayed and balanced opposite her partner she reminded me of nothing so much as a balloon tugging gently at its string.
“But it ees good, the dance, eh, señores?” she always ended, her broad, kind face shining with pleasure.
We Americans reciprocated with a hoe-down or so, to jigging strains blasphemously evoked by one of our number from that gentle guitar; and perhaps a song or two. Oh, Susannah! was revived; and other old favourites; and we had also the innumerable verses of a brand-new favourite, local to the country. It had to do with the exploits and death of one Lame Jesse. I can recall only two of the many verses:
“Lame Jesse was a hard old case;
He never would repent.
He ne’er was known to miss a meal–
He never paid a cent!
“Lame Jesse, too, like all the rest,
He did to Death resign;
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