Gold

About six o’clock Yank arose, seized his long rifle and departed for the log cabin that had been designated as the jail. His lameness had prevented him from being appointed on one of the arresting committees, but he had no intention of being left out. A half hour later we followed him into town.

It was a heavenly fall morning of the sort that only mountain California can produce. The camp was beginning to awaken to its normal activity. I remember wondering vaguely how it could be so calm and unconcerned. My heart was beating violently, and I had to clench my teeth tight to keep them from chattering. This was not fear, but a high tension of excitement. As we strolled past the Bella Union with what appearance of nonchalance we could muster, Danny Randall nodded at us from the doorway. By this we knew that Catlin was to be found at his own place.

CHAPTER XXXIX

THE VIGILANTES (continued)

Catlin dwelt in a detached room back of the Empire, together with one of the other professional gamblers. We lounged around the corner of the Empire building. The door of the cabin was shut. Outside we hung back, hesitating and a little uncertain. None of us was by nature or training a man of violence, and we experienced the reluctance of men about to plunge into cold water. Nobody was more than pardonably afraid, and of course we had every intention of seeing the affair through. Then suddenly in the actual face of the thing itself my excitement drained from me like a tide receding. My nerves steadied, my trembling stilled. Never had I felt more cool in my life. Drawing my revolver, I pushed open the door and entered the building.

Catlin was in the act of washing his face, and him I instantly covered with my weapon. His companion was still abed. On my entrance the latter had instinctively raised on his elbow, but immediately dropped back as he saw the figures of my companions darkening the door.

“Well, gentlemen?” demanded Catlin.

“You must come with us,” I replied.

He showed no concern, but wiped carefully his face and hands.

“I will be ready in a minute,” said he, throwing aside the towel, and rolling down his shirt sleeves. He advanced toward a bench on which his coat had been flung. “I’ll be with you as soon as I can put on my coat.”

I glanced toward that garment and saw the muzzle of a revolver peeping out from beneath it.

“I’ll hand your coat to you,” said I quickly. Catlin turned deadly pale, but spoke with his usual composure.

“What am I wanted for?” he inquired.

“For being a road agent, a thief, and an accessory to robberies and murders,” I replied.

“I am innocent of all–as innocent as you are.”

“There is no possibility of a mistake.”

“What will you do with me?”

“Your sentence is death,” I told him.

For a single instant his dark face lit up.

“You think so?” he flashed.

“Hurry!” urged one of my companions.

With one man on either side and another behind, revolvers drawn, we marched our prisoner in double-quick time past the rear of the stores and saloons to the agreed rendezvous. There we found Danny Randall and his committee with Morton. Within the next few moments, in rapid succession, appeared the others with Scar-face Charley, Crawford, and Jules.

The camp was already buzzing with excitement. Men poured out from the buildings into the streets like disturbed ants. Danny thrust his prisoners into the interior of the cabin, and drew us up in two lines outside. He impressed on us that we must keep the military formation, and that we were to allow no one to approach. Across the road about twenty yards away he himself laid a rope.

“That’s the dead-line,” he announced. “Now you keep the other side!”

In no time a mob of five hundred men had gathered. They surged restlessly to and fro. The flash of weapons was everywhere to be seen. Cries rent the air–demands, threats, oaths, and insults so numerous and so virulent that I must confess my heart failed me. At any instant I expected the mob to open fire; they could have swept us away with a single volley. To my excited imagination every man of that multitude looked a ruffian. We seemed alone against the community. I could not understand why they did not rush us and have it over with. Yet they hesitated. The fact of the matter is that the desperadoes had no cohesion, no leaders; and they knew what none of us knew–namely, that a good many of that crowd must be on our side. The roar and turmoil and heat of discussion, argument, and threat rose and fell. In one of the lulls an Irish voice yelled:

“Hang them!”

The words were greeted by a sullen assenting roar. Five hundred hands, each armed, were held aloft. This unanimity produced an instant silence.

“Hang who?” a truculent voice expressed the universal uncertainty.

“Hang the road agents!” yelled back the little Irishman defiantly.

“Bully for you, Irish; that took nerve!” muttered Johnny, at my elbow.

Fifty threats were hurled at the bold speaker, and the click of gunlocks preceded a surge in his direction. Then from the mob went up a sullen, formidable muttering of warning. No individual voice could be distinguished; but the total effect of dead resistance and determination could not be mistaken. Instantly, at the words so valiantly uttered, the spirit of cohesion had been born. The desperadoes checked in surprise. We had friends. How many or how strong no one could guess; but they were there, and in case of a battle they would fight.

On our side the line was a dead, grim silence. We stood, our weapons ready, rigidly at attention. Occasionally one or the other of us muttered a warning against those who showed symptoms of desiring to interfere.

In the meantime, three of our number had been proceeding methodically with the construction of a gallows. This was made by thrusting five small pine butts, about forty feet long, over a cross beam in the gable of the cabin and against the roof inside. Large drygoods boxes were placed beneath for the trap.

About this time Danny Randall, who had been superintending the construction, touched me on the shoulder.

“Fall back,” he said quietly. “Now,” he instructed several of us, after we had obeyed this command, “I want you to bring out the prisoners and hold them in plain view. In case of rescue or attempted escape, shoot them instantly. Don’t hesitate.”

“I should think they would be safer inside the cabin,” I suggested.

“Sure,” agreed Danny, “but I want them here for the moral effect.”

We entered the cabin. The five prisoners were standing or sitting. Scar-face Charley was alternately blaspheming violently, upbraiding his companions, cursing his own luck, and uttering frightful threats against everybody who had anything to do with this. Crawford was watching him contemptuously and every once in a while advising him to “shut up!” Jules was alternately cursing and crying. Morton sat at one side quite calm and very alert. Catlin stared at the floor.

The moment we entered Catlin ran over to us and began to plead for his life. He, better than the rest, with the possible exception of Morton, seemed to realize the seriousness of his plight. From pleadings, which we received in silence, he changed to arguments concerning his innocence.

“It is useless,” replied one of our men. “That affair is settled and cannot be changed. You are to be hanged. You cannot feel worse about it than I do; but I could not help it if I would.”

Catlin stood for a moment as though overwhelmed; then he fell on his knees before us and began to plead rapidly.

“Not that!” he cried. “Anything but that! Do anything else you want to with me! Cut off my ears and cut out my tongue! Disable me in any way! You can certainly destroy my power for harm without taking my life! Gentlemen! I want to live for my wife–my poor absent wife! I want time to settle my affairs! O God! I am too wicked to die. I cannot go blood-stained and unforgiven into the presence of the Eternal! Only let me go, and I will leave the country forever!”

In the meantime Scar-face Charley and Crawford were cursing at us with an earnestness and steadiness that compelled our admiration.

“Oh, shut up, Catlin!” cried Crawford at last. “You’re going to hell, and you know it; but I’ll be there in time to open the gate for you.”

“Don’t make a fool of yourself,” advised Charley; “there’s no use being afraid to die.”

Morton looked around at each of us in turn.

“I suppose you know you are proceeding against a regularly constituted officer of the law?” he reminded us. Receiving no reply, he beckoned me. “Can I speak to you alone a moment?” he asked.

“I will send for our leader,” I replied.

“No,” said he, “I want no leader. You’ll do as well.”

I approached him. In an anxious tone he asked:

“Is there any way of getting out of this scrape? Think well!”

“None,” said I firmly. “You must die.”

With revolvers drawn we marched them outside. A wild yell greeted their appearance. The cries were now mixed in sentiment. A hundred voices raised in opposition were cried down by twice as many more. “Hang ’em!” cried some. “No, no, banish them!” cried others. “Don’t hang them!” and blood-curdling threats. A single shot would have brought on a pitched battle. Somehow eventually the tumult died down. Then Morton, who had been awaiting his chance, spoke up in a strong voice.

“I call on you in the name of the law to arrest and disperse these law-breakers.”

“Where is Tom Cleveland?” spoke up a voice.

The appeal, which might otherwise have had its effect, was lost in the cries, accusations, and counter-accusations that arose like a babel. Morton made no further attempt. He better than any one realized, I think, the numerical superiority against him.

The preparations were at length completed. Danny Randall motioned us to lead forward the prisoners. Catlin struggled desperately, but the others walked steadily enough to take their places on the drygoods boxes.

“For God’s sake, gentlemen,” appealed Crawford in a loud tone of voice, “give me time to write home!”

“Ask him how much time he gave Tom Cleveland!” shouted a voice.

“If I’d only had a show,” retorted Crawford, “if I’d known what you were after, you’d have had a gay time taking me.”

There was some little delay in adjusting the cords.

“If you’re going to hang me, get at it!” said Jules with an oath; “if not, I want you to tie a bandage on my finger; it’s bleeding.”

“Give me your coat, Catlin,” said Crawford; “you never gave me anything yet; now’s your chance.”

Danny Randall broke in on this exchange.

“You are about to be executed,” said he soberly. “If you have any dying requests to make, this is your last opportunity. They will be carefully heeded.”

Scar-face Charley broke in with a rough laugh.

“How do I look, boys, with a halter around my neck?” he cried.

This grim effort was received in silence.

“Your time is very short,” Danny reminded him.

“Well, then,” said the desperado, “I want one more drink of whiskey before I die.”

A species of uneasy consternation rippled over the crowd. Men glanced meaningly at each other, murmuring together. Some of the countenances expressed loathing, but more exhibited a surprised contempt. For a confused moment no one seemed to know quite what to do or what answer to make to so bestial a dying request. Danny broke the silence incisively.

“I promised them their requests would be carefully heeded,” he said. “Give him the liquor.”

Somebody passed up a flask. Charley raised it as high as he could, but was prevented by the rope from getting it quite to his lips.

“You ─” he yelled at the man who held the rope. “Slack off that rope and let a man take a parting drink, can’t you?”

Amid a dead silence the rope was slacked away. Charley took a long drink, then hurled the half-emptied flask far out into the crowd.

To a question Crawford shook his head.

“I hope God Almighty will strike every one of you with forked lightning and that I shall meet you all in the lowest pit of hell!” he snarled.

Morton kept a stubborn and rather dignified silence. Catlin alternately pleaded and wept. Jules answered Danny’s question:

“Sure thing! Pull off my boots for me. I don’t want it to get back to my old mother that I died with my boots on!”

In silence and gravely this ridiculous request was complied with. The crowd, very attentive, heaved and stirred. The desperadoes, shouldering their way here and there, were finding each other out, were gathering in little groups.

“They’ll try a rescue!” whispered the man next to me.

“Men,” Danny’s voice rang out, clear and menacing, “do your duty!”

At the words, across the silence the click of gunlocks was heard as the Vigilantes levelled their weapons at the crowd. From my position near the condemned men I could see the shifting components of the mob freeze to immobility before the menace of those barrels. At the same instant the man who had been appointed executioner jerked the box from beneath Catlin’s feet.

“There goes one to hell!” muttered Charley.

“I hope forked lightning will strike every strangling─” yelled Crawford. His speech was abruptly cut short as the box spun from under his feet.

“Kick away, old fellow!” said Scar-face Charley. “Me next! I’ll be in hell with you in a minute! Every man for his principles! Hurrah for crime! Let her rip!” and without waiting for the executioner, he himself kicked the support away.

Morton died without a sign. Catlin, at the last, suddenly calmed, and met his fate bravely.

Before the lull resulting from the execution and the threat of the presented weapons could break, Danny Randall spoke up.

“Gentlemen!” he called clearly. “The roster of the Vigilantes is open. Such of you as please to join the association for the preservation of decency, law, and order in this camp can now do so.”

The guard lowered their arms and moved to one side. The crowd swept forward. In the cabin the applicants were admitted a few at a time. Before noon we had four hundred men on our rolls. Some of the bolder roughs ventured a few threats, but were speedily overawed. The community had found itself, and was no longer afraid.

PART IV

THE LAW

CHAPTER XL

THE RAINS

No sooner had this radical clean-up of the body politic been consummated than the rains began. That means little to any but a Californian. To him it means everything. We were quite new to the climate and the conditions, so that the whole thing was a great surprise.

For a month past it had been threatening. The clouds gathered and piled and blackened until they seemed fairly on the point of bursting. One would not have given two cents for his chances of a dry skin were he to start on a journey across the street. Yet somehow nothing happened. Late in the afternoon, perhaps, the thunderous portents would thin. The diffused light would become stronger. Far down in the west bars of sunlight would strike. And by evening the stars shone brilliantly from a sky swept clear. After a dozen repetitions of this phenomenon we ceased to pay any attention to it. Somebody named it “high fog,” which did well enough to differentiate it from a genuine rain-bringing cloud. Except for that peculiar gourd that looks exactly like a watermelon, these “high fogs” were the best imitation of a real thing I have ever seen. They came up like rain clouds, they looked precisely like rain clouds, they went through all the performances of rain clouds–except that never, never did they rain!

But the day of the Vigilante execution the sky little by little turned shimmering gray; so that the sun shining from it looked like silver; and the shadows of objects were diffused and pale. A tepid wind blew gently but steadily from the southeast. No clouds were visible at first; but imperceptibly, around the peaks, filmy veils formed seemingly out of the gray substance of the very sky itself. How these thickened and spread I did not see; but when I came out of the Bella Union, after a long and interesting evening of discussion, I found no stars; and, as I stood looking upward, a large warm drop splashed against my face.

Sometime during the night it began to rain in earnest. We were awakened by its steady drumming on the canvas of our tent.

“My Lord! but she sure is raining!” said Johnny across the roar of sound.

“Don’t tech the canvas!” warned Old. “If you do, she’ll leak like a spout where you teched her!”

“Thank heaven, that high fog scared us into ditching around the tent,” said Cal fervently.

But our satisfaction was short-lived. We had ditched the tent, to be sure, but we had badly underestimated the volume of a California downpour.

Before many minutes had passed Johnny gave a disgusted snort.

“I’m lying in a marsh!” he cried.

He struck a light, and we all saw the water trickling in a dozen little streams beneath the edge of the tent.

“We’re going to be ruined!” cried Johnny comically.

He arose, and in doing so brushed his head violently against the slanting canvas roof. Almost immediately thereafter the rays of the lantern were reflected from tiny beads of water, like a sweat, appearing as though by magic at that spot. They swelled, gathered, hesitated, then began to feel their way slowly down the dry canvas. The trickle became a stream. A large drop fell straight down. Another followed.

“Anybody need a drink?” inquired Cal.

“I’m sorry!” said Johnny contritely.

“You needn’t be,” I consoled him. “The whole thing is going to leak, if this keeps up.”

“What’s the matter with going over to the Moreña cabin?” queried Yank.

We hesitated a little. The events of the day had affected us all more deeply than we liked to acknowledge; and nobody but Yank much liked the idea of again entering that blood-stained abode.

“We’d drown getting there,” said Cal at last. “I move some of you fellows with two good arms rustle out and fix that ditch.” He laughed. “Nothing like having a hole in you to get out of work.”

We took his advice, and managed to turn the flood, though we got very wet in the process.

Then we returned to the tent, changed our clothes, crept into our blankets, and wrapped ourselves close. The spot brushed by Johnny’s head dripped steadily. Otherwise our roof shed well. The rain roared straight down with steady, deadly persistency.

“She can’t keep this up long, anyway; that’s a comfort,” muttered Johnny sleepily.

Couldn’t she? All next morning that flood came down without the let-up of even a single moment. It had all the volume and violence of a black thunderstorm at its height; only the worst of the thunderstorm lasts but a few moments, while this showed no signs of ever intending to end. Our stout canvas continued to turn the worst of it, but a fine spray was driven through, to our great discomfort. We did not even attempt to build a fire, but sat around wrapped in our damp blankets.

Until about two of the afternoon the deluge continued. Our unique topic of conversation was the marvel of how it could keep it up! We could not imagine more water falling were every stream and lake in the mountains to be lifted to the heavens and poured down again.

“Where the devil does it all come from?” marvelled Old, again and again. “Don’t seem like no resevoy, let alone clouds, could hold so much!”

“And where does it go to?” I supplemented.

“I reckon some of those plains people could tell you,” surmised Yank shrewdly.

At two o’clock the downpour ceased as abruptly as though it had been turned off at a spigot. Inside of twenty minutes the clouds had broken, to show beyond them a dazzling blue sky. Intermittent flashes and bands of sunlight glittered on the wet trees and bushes or threw into relief the black bands of storm clouds near the horizon.

Immensely cheered, we threw aside our soggy blankets and sallied forth.

“Great Christmas!” cried Johnny, who was in the advance. “Talk about your mud!”

We did talk about it. It was the deepest, most tenacious, slipperiest, most adhesive mud any fiend ever imagined. We slid and floundered as though we had on skates; we accumulated balls of it underfoot; and we sank disconcertingly half-leg deep at every third step. Our first intention had been to go up to town; but we soon revised that, and went down to the Moreña cabin instead, with the idea of looking after the two horses. The beasts, very shaggy underneath and plastered above, stood humped up nose to tail. We looked into the cabin. The roof had leaked like a sieve; and the interior was dripping in a thousand places.

“Reckon even the tent was better after all,” acknowledged Yank, looking with disfavour on the muddy floor.

We returned to the tent and made shift to get a fire going. After cooking some hot food, we felt better, and set about drying our blankets. In the cañon we could hear the river roaring away hollowly.

“I’ll bet she’s on the rampage!” said Old.

“I’ll bet she’s got my cradle and all of my tools!” I cried, struck with a sudden thought.

And then, about as we commenced to feel cheerful and contented again, the scattered black clouds began to close ranks. One by one the patches of blue sky narrowed and disappeared.

“Why!” cried Cal in astonishment, “I believe it’s getting ready to rain again!”

“Shucks!” replied Old, “It can’t. There ain’t no more rain.”

Nevertheless there was, and plenty of it. We spent that second night shifting as little as possible so as not to touch a new cold place in our sodden blankets, while the waters roared down in almost a solid sheet.

This lasted the incredible period of four days! Nobody then knew anything about measuring rainfall; but, judging by later experience, I should say we must have had close to seven inches. There was not much we could do, except to get wetter and wetter, although we made shift to double up at night, and to use the extra blankets thus released to make a sort of double roof. This helped some.

The morning of the fifth day broke dazzlingly clear. The sky looked burnished as a blue jewel; the sunlight glittered like shimmering metal; distant objects stood out plain-cut, without atmosphere. For the first time we felt encouraged to dare that awful mud, and so slopped over to town.

We found the place fairly drowned out. No one, in his first year, thought of building for the weather. Barnes’s hotel, the Empire and the Bella Union had come through without shipping a drop, for they had been erected by men with experience in the California climate; but almost everybody else had been leaked upon a-plenty. And the deep dust of the travel-worn overland road had turned into a morass beyond belief or description.

Our first intimation of a definite seasonal change came from our old friend Danny Randall, who hailed us at once when he saw us picking our way gingerly along the edge of the street. In answer to his summons we entered the Bella Union.

“I hope you boys weren’t quite drowned out,” he greeted us. “You don’t look particularly careworn.”

We exchanged the appropriate comments; then Danny came at once to business.

“Now I’m going to pay off you three boys,” he told the express messengers, “and I want to know what you want. I can give you the dust, or I can give you an order on a San Francisco firm, just as you choose.”

“Express business busted?” asked Johnny.

“It’s quit for the season,” Danny Randall told him, “like everything else. In two weeks at most there won’t be a score of men left in Italian Bar.” He observed our astonished incredulity, smiled, and continued: “You boys came from the East, where it rains and gets over it. But out here it doesn’t get over it. Have you been down to look at the river? No? Well, you’d better take a look. There’ll be no more bar mining done there for a while. And what’s a mining camp without mining? Go talk to the men of ’48. They’ll tell you. The season is over, boys, until next spring; and you may just as well make up your minds to hike out now as later. What are you laughing at?” he asked Johnny.

“I was just thinking of our big Vigilante organization,” he chuckled.

“I suppose it’s true that mighty few of the same lot will ever get back to Italian Bar,” agreed Danny, “but it’s a good thing for whatever community they may hit next year.”

Johnny and Old elected to take their wages in dust; Cal decided on the order against the San Francisco firm. Then we wandered down to where we could overlook the bar itself.