Port O' Gold

by Louis J. Stellman

  "M-i-i-a-o-w-r-r-r!"

  Lees sprang forward, pressed his weight against the partly-open portal;flashed his dark lantern on two figures struggling violently. His handfell on the collar of Po Lun's antagonist; a policeman's "billy" crackedupon his skull. "Tie and gag him," said the captain. "Leave a man onguard.... The rest of you come on."

  Po Lun leading, they went, single file through utter blackness. Now andthen the white disc of Lees' lantern, now in Po Lun's hand, gleamed likea guiding will-o-wisp upon the tortuous path.

  Suddenly Benito felt the presence of new personalities. They seemed tobe in a room with other people. Several dark lamps flashed at Po Lun'ssignal. They revealed a room sumptuously furnished. Teakwood chairs,with red embroidered backs and cushions, stood about the walls. Handsomegilded grillwork screened a boudoir worthy of a queen. Clad in thelaciest of robes de chambre, a dark-skinned woman sat on the edge of acanopied bed. She was past her first youth, but still of remarkablebeauty. At the foot of the bed stood McTurpin--pale ghost of his formerself. He looked like a cornered rat ... and quite as dangerous. TwoChinese were crouched against a lacquered screen.

  "What do you want?" asked the woman, her voice shrill with anger.

  "Take your hand out from under that pillow!" ordered Lees. "No nonsense,Smiling Rose."

  Reluctantly the ringed and tapered fingers that had clutched apparentlya hidden weapon came into view. "Light the lamps," said Lees, and one ofhis men performed this office.

  "That's the woman, father," spoke young Robert, unexpectedly.

  "Put the bracelets on her," ordered Lees, "and search the place." A manstepped forward.

  But they had not counted on McTurpin. "Let her be," he screamed. Apistol flashed. The officer went down at Rose's feet.

  Instantly there was confusion. The room was filled with shufflingOriental figures. The lights went out. Powder-flashes leaped likefireflies in the darkness. Through it all Lees could be heard profanelygiving orders.

  Then, as swiftly, it was over. Somewhere a door closed. Lees leapedforward just in time to hear an iron bar clang into place.

  "Gone," he muttered, as his light searched vainly for the woman.

  "Who's that on the bed?" asked Benito.

  "The cursed opium-wreck, McTurpin," Lees replied impatiently. "I plantedhim when I saw Dick go down." He bent above the wounded officer whileBenito relighted the lamps and examined curiously the body of hisancient enemy. For McTurpin was dead. He had evidently tried to reachthe woman as he fell. His clawlike fingers clutched, in rigor mortis,her abandoned robe. On the floor, where it had fallen from her bosom,doubtless in the hasty flight, there lay a crumpled, bloodstainedenvelope. Robert springing forward, seized it with an exclamation. Itwas addressed to William C. Ralston.

  CHAPTER LXIV

  AN IDOL TOPPLES

  News had come in early spring of Robert Windham senior's death inMonterey; less than two months afterward his wife, Anita, lay beside himin the Spanish cemetery.

  The old Californians were passing; here and there some venerable Hidalgoplayed the host upon broad acres as in ancient days and came to SanFrancisco, booted, spurred, attended by a guard of vaqueros. But a newgeneration gazed at him curiously and, after a lonely interval,he departed.

  Market street was now a lordly thoroughfare; horse-cars jingled merrilyalong the leading streets. Up Clay street ran that wonder of the age, acable-tram invented by old Hallidie, the engineer. They had made gameof him for years until he demonstrated his invention for the conqueringof hills. Now the world was seeking him to solve its transportationproblems.

  Ralston, as usual, was riding on the crest of fortune. His was averitable lust for city building. Each successive day he founded somenew enterprise.

  "Like a master juggler," said Benito to his wife, "he keeps a hundredinterests in the air. Let's see. There are the Mission Woolen Mills, theKimball Carriage Works, the Cornell Watch Factory--of all things--theWest Coast Furniture plant, the San Francisco Sugar Refinery, the GrandHotel, a dry dock at Hunter's Point, the California Theater, areclamation scheme at Sherman Island, the San Joaquin Valley irrigatingsystem, the Rincon Hill cut, the extension of Montgomery street ..." hechecked them off on his fingers, pausing finally for lack of breath.

  "You've forgotten the Palace Hotel," said Alice smiling.

  "No," Benito said, "I hadn't got that far. But the Palace is typical.Ralston wants San Francisco to have the best of everything the world cangive. He's mad about this town. It's wife and child to him. Why it'salmost his God!"

  Alice looked into his eyes. "You're fearful for your prince! You MonteCristo!"

  "Yes," he said, "I'm frankly worried. Something's got to drop.... It'stoo--too splendid."

  * * * * *

  As he went down Market street toward Montgomery, Benito paused toobserve the new Palace Hotel. Hundreds of bricklayers, carpenters andother workmen were raising it with astonishing speed. Hod-carriers racedup swaying ladders, steam-winches puffed and snorted; great vats of limeand mortar blockaded the street. It was to have a great inner court uponwhich seven galleries would look down. Ralston boasted he would make ita hotel for travelers to talk of round the world. And no one in SanFrancisco doubted it.

  Benito, eyes upraised to view the labors of a bustling human hive,almost collided with two gentlemen, who were strolling westward, arm inarm. He apologized. They roared endearing curses at him and insistedthat he join them in a drink.

  They were J.C. Flood and W.S. O'Brien, former saloon proprietors nowreputed multi-millionaires.

  Early in the seventies they had joined forces with Jim Mackey, ablaster, at Virginia City and a mining man named J.G. Fair. Between themthey bought up the supposedly depleted Consolidated Virginia Mine,paying from $4 to $9 each for its 10,700 shares. Mining experts smiledgood naturedly, forgot the matter. Then the world was brought upstandingby the news of a bonanza hitherto unrivaled.

  Con. Virginia had gained a value of $150,000,000.

  After he had sipped the French champagne, on which Flood insisted andwhich Windham disliked, the latter spoke of Ralston and his trouble withthe editors. "Some of the newspapers would have us think he's playingrecklessly, with other people's money," he said with irritation.

  '"Well, well, and maybe he is, me b'y," returned O'Brien. "Don't blamethe newspaper fellahs.... They've raison to be suspicious, Hivenknows.... Ralston's a prince. We all love the man. It's not that.But--," he came closer, caught both of Benito's coat lapels in aconfidential grasp, "I'm tellin' ye this, me lad: If it should come to ashow-down ... if certain enemies should have a chance to call BillRalston's hand, I tell ye, it would mean dee-saster!"

  * * * * *

  At 9 o'clock on the morning of August 25, Francisco Stanley entered theprivate door of Windham's office. He was now an under-editor on TheChronicle, which had developed from the old Dramatic Chronicle, into adaily newspaper. Benito glanced up from his desk a bit impatiently; itwas a busy day.

  "What's the matter, Francisco? You're excited."

  "I've a right to be," the journalist spoke sharply. He glanced at hisuncle's secretary. "I must see you alone."

  "Can't you come in later? I've a lot of clients waiting."

  "For God's sake, Uncle Ben," the younger man said desperately, "sendthem off."

  Benito gazed at him, astonished. Then convinced by something inFrancisco's eyes, he nodded to the secretary who departed.

  "It's Ralston ... word has reached the newspapers ... his bank hasfailed."

  Benito sprang to his feet. "You're crazy! It's--impossible!"

  "Uncle Ben, IT'S TRUE!" His fingers closed almost spasmodically upon theother's arm.

  "How do you know?"

  "RALSTON SAYS SO. I've just come from there.... He wants you."

  Benito reached dazedly for his hat.

  * * * * *

  Benito found "Bill" Ralston in his private office, head bowed; eyesd
ully hopeless. He looked ten years older.

  "The Bank of California has failed," he said before the younger mancould ask a question. "It will never reopen its doors."

  "I--I simply can't believe it!" After a stunned silence Benito spoke. Helaid a hand on the banker's shoulder. "All I have is at yourservice, Ralston."

  "Thank you ... but it isn't any use." He looked up misty-eyed. "I triedto make this town the greatest in the world.... I went too far.... Iplayed too big a stake. Now--" he tried to smile. "Now comes thereckoning."

  "But, God Almighty! Ralston," cried Benito, "your assets must beenormous.... It's only a matter of time. You'll pull through."

  "They won't give me time," he spoke no names, yet Windham knew he meantthose who had turned from friends to enemies.

  * * * * *

  Two days later Francisco met Ralston coming out of the bank. His facewas haggard. His eyes had the look of one who has been struck anunexpected blow.

  "Will the directors' meeting take place today, Mr. Ralston?"

  "It's in session now," he answered dully.

  "Ah, I thought, perhaps--since you are leaving--it had been postponed."

  Spots of red flamed in the banker's cheeks. "They've barred me from themeeting," he replied and hurried on.

  Several hours later newsboys ran through San Francisco's streets:"EXTRA! EXTRA!" they screamed, "ALL ABOUT RALSTON'S SUICIDE."

  CHAPTER LXV

  INDUSTRIAL UNREST

  About the Bank of California was a surging press of men and women. Thedoors of that great financial institution were closed, blinds drawn, ason the previous day. Now and then an officer or director passed theguarded portals. D.O. Mills was one of these, his stern, ascetic facemore severe than usual.

  Francisco Stanley pushed his way up to the carriage as it started.

  "Will the bank reopen, Mr. Mills?" he asked, walking along beside themoving vehicle.

  The financier's eyes glared from the inner shadows. "Yes, yes.Certainly," he snapped. "Very shortly ... as soon as we can levy anassessment" The coachman whipped up his horses; the carriage rolled off.Francisco turned to face his uncle. "What did he say?" asked Benito.Others crowded close to hear the young editor's answer. The word foundit way through the crowd. "The bank will reopen.... They'll levy anassessment.... We won't lose a cent."

  Gradually the throng disbanded. Everywhere one heard expressions ofsorrow for Ralston; doubt of the story that he had destroyed his life.As a matter of fact a coroner's jury found that death resulted fromcerebral attack. An insurance company waived its suicide exemptionclause and paid his widow $50,000.

  The Bank of California was reopened. Ralston, buried with the pomp andsplendor of a sorrowing multitude, was presently forgotten. Few newtroubles came upon the land. Overspeculation in the Comstock lodebrought economic unrest.

  Thousands were unemployed in San Francisco. Agitators rallied them atpublic meetings into furious and morbid groups. From the Eastern Statescame telegraphic news of strikes and violence. Adrian returned oneevening, tired and harassed.

  "I don't know what's got into the working people," he said to Inez.

  "Oh, they'll get over that," pronounced Francisco, with the sweepingconfidence of youth. "These intervals of discontent are periodical--likeepidemics of diseases."

  Adrian glanced at the treatise on Political Economy in his son's hand."And what would you suggest, my boy?" he asked with a faint smile.

  "Leave them alone," said Francisco. "It goes through a regular form.They have agitators who talk of Bloodsucking Plutocrats, Rights of thePeople and all that. But it generally ends in mere words."

  "The Paris Commune didn't end in mere words," reminded Adrian.

  "Oh, that!" Francisco was a trifle nonplussed. "Well, of course--"

  "There have been serious riots in Eastern States."

  "But--they had leaders. Here we've none."

  "I'm not so sure of that," said Adrian thoughtfully. "D'ye know thatIrish drayman, Dennis Kearney?"

  "Y-e-s ... the one who used to be a sailor?"

  "That's the man. He's clever; knows men like a book.... Has power and aknack for words. He calls our Legislature 'The Honorable Bilks.' Wantsto start a Workingmen's Party. And he'll do it, too, or I'm mistaken.His motto is 'The Chinese Must Go!'"

  "By Harry! There's a story for the paper," said Francisco. "I must seethe fellow."

  Robert Windham and Po Lun were out for a morning promenade. They oftenwalked together of a Sunday. Robert, though he was now twenty-six, stillretained his childhood friendship for the Chinese servitor; found him anagreeable, often-times a sage companion. Urged by Alice, whose ambitiouslove included all within her ken, Po Lun attended night school; he couldread and write English passably, though the letter "r" still foiled hisOriental tongue. Today they were out to have a look at the newcity hall.

  On a sand lot opposite several hundred men had gathered, pressing rounda figure mounted on a barrel. The orator gesticulated violently. Now andthen there were cheers. A brandishing of fists and canes. Po Lun haltedin sudden alarm. "Plitty soon they get excited. They don't like Chinese.I think maybe best we go back."

  But already Po's "pig-tail" had attracted attention. The speaker pointedto him.

  "There's one of them Heathen Chinese," he cried shrilly. "The dirtyyaller boys what's takin' bread out of our mouths. Down with them, Isay. Make this a white man's country."

  An ominous growl came from the crowd. Several rough-looking fellowsstarted toward Robert and Po Lun. The latter was for taking to hisheels, but Robert stood his ground.

  "What do you fellows want?"

  They paused, abashed by his intrepid manner. "No offense, young man. Weain't after you. It's that Yaller Heathen.... The kind that robs us of achance to live."

  "Po Lun has never robbed anyone of a chance to live. He's our cook ...and my friend. You leave him alone."

  "He sends all his money back to China," sneered another coming closer,brandishing a stick. "A fine American, ain't he?"

  "A better one than you," said Robert hotly. Anger got the better of hisjudgment and he snatched the stick out of the fellow's hand, broke it,threw it to the ground.

  Savagely they fell upon him. He went down, stunned by a blow on thehead, a sense of crushing weight that overwhelmed his strength. He wasvaguely conscious of a tirade of strange words, of an arm at the end ofwhich was a meat cleaver, lashing about. The vindictive bark of apistol. Shouts, feet running. A blue-coated form. A vehicle withchamping horses that stood by.

  "Are you hurt very bad, young feller?"

  Robert moved his arms and legs. They appeared intact. He rose, stiffly."Where's Po Lun?"

  "In the wagon."

  Robert, turning, observed an ambulance. "Not--dead?"

  "Well, pretty near it," said the policeman. "He saved your life though,the yellow devil. Laid out half a dozen of them hoodlums with a hatchet.He's shot through the lungs. But Doc. says he's got a chance."

  * * * * *

  Late that afternoon William T. Coleman sat closeted with Chief Ellis ofthe San Francisco police. Coleman bore but scant resemblance to theyouth of 1856. He was heavier, almost bald, moustached, more settled,less alert in manner. Yet his eyes had in them still the old invinciblegleam of leadership.

  "But," he was saying to the man in uniform, "that was twenty years ago.Can't you find a younger chap to head your Citizens' Committee?"

  "No," said Ellis shortly. "You're the one we need. You know the way todeal with outlaws ... how to make the citizens respond. Do you know thatthe gang wrecked several Chinese laundries after the attack on Windham?That they threaten to burn the Pacific Mail docks?"

  Chief Ellis drew a little nearer. "General McComb of the State forceshas called a mass meeting. He wishes you to take charge...."

  CHAPTER LXVI

  THE PICK-HANDLE BRIGADE

  Benito found his son awaiting when he returned from the Citizens' MassMeeting at
midnight. Robert, insisting that he was "fit as a fiddle,"had nevertheless been put to bed through the connivance of an anxiousmother and the family physician, who found him to have suffered somesevere contusions and lacerations in the morning's fray. But he was wideawake and curious when his father's latch key grated in the door.

  "It must have seemed like old times, didn't it, dad?" he asked withenthusiasm. The Vigilance Committee of the Fifties in his young mind wasa knightly company. As a boy he used to listen, eager and excited, tohis father's tales of Coleman. Now his hero was again to take the stage.

  "Yes, it took me back," said Windham. "I was about your age then andColeman was just in his thirties." He sat down a trifle wearily. "Theyears aren't kind. Some of the fellows who were young in '56 seemed oldtonight.... But they have the same spirit."

  "Tell me what happened," said Robert, after a pause.

  Benito's eyes flashed. "You should have heard them cheer when Colemanrose. He called for his old comrades and we stood up. Then there wasmore cheering. Coleman is all business. He commenced at once enrollingmen for his pick-handle brigade; he's refused fire-arms. He has fifteenhundred already, divided into companies of a hundred each--with theirown officers."

  "And are you an officer, dad?" asked Robert.

  "Yes," Benito smiled. "But my company is one man short. We've onlyninety-nine."

  "How's that?" Robert's tone was puzzled.

  Windham rose. "I'm saving it," he answered, "for a wounded hero, who, Irather hope, will volunteer."