Kitabı oku: «The Apple of Discord», sayfa 20

CHAPTER XXX
THE END OF THE FEUD

At last the night of alarms was over, and the forces of law and order held San Francisco firmly in their grasp. The police and the Vigilantes were fagged out but triumphant. And though the warehouses and lumber-yards in the amphitheater before the Mail docks were but a smoking mass of ashes and charcoal, the dangers of the conflagration were over. The exhausted firemen were withdrawn to fling themselves down to rest, and only a few hosemen were left to guard the smoldering ruins.

The great conspiracy of the Council of Nine had come to nothing. Parks was the only leader out of jail, and, in the absence of its active heads, the revolution had deliquesced into a series of scattered and objectless riots. The Committee of Safety had proved strong enough to handle the emergency, and the militia companies, held all night in their armories without a call for their services, were dismissed with the dawn.

The first gray of the morning was lightening the eastern sky as I disbanded my company. I had landed my captive in the City Prison, stubbornly uncommunicative, and jauntily confident that he was to be protected from harm. And when at last I had made my report at the Vigilante headquarters, I was driven to Wharton Kendrick's home, consumed with anxiety lest some of the wandering bands of rioters, or another gang of bravoes sent by the highbinders, had been inspired to attack it. Peter Bolton had succeeded in one of his schemes of vengeance, and I trembled lest in the wreck of his conspiracy against the peace of the city he had struck another blow at the person of his enemy.

As we turned the corner into Van Ness Avenue my mind was relieved of one anxiety. The Kendrick house still stood untouched by fire, and the gray dawn showed no sign of further attack.

Andrews received me with composure.

"Oh, yes," he replied to my eager questions, "there was some of them hoodlums come along here–gangs of ten or twenty at a time–and they yelled a good deal. But when we showed our teeth they went by on the other side. There was some shooting a block or two away, but they didn't even throw a rock around here."

At this soothing report I flung myself down in the men's quarters for a hurried sleep, dog-tired, but gratified to feel a reviving spring of courage. It seemed but a moment later that I saw Laura Kendrick threatened by the largest dragon I have ever met–in Dreamland or out. The uncanny monster had the face of Peter Bolton, marvelously magnified to fit a hundred-foot body, and he opened his mouth in sardonic laughter as he moved forward to crush the slight figure that stood in his path. At this sight I was oppressed by a modest but terrified conviction that I would cut but a poor figure in a contest with a dragon. But spurred by fear for the life of the most important girl in the world I ran forward shouting out such threats as I could summon, in the hope of communicating some of my own terrors to the monster, when on a sudden his boiler blew up, and he was scattered into nothingness. The shock of the explosion waked me, and I started up to find Andrews at my side.

"I didn't mean to knock the chair over, sir," he said apologetically, "but you told me to call you at seven. And Miss Kendrick says you are to go upstairs to breakfast, as soon as you're ready."

I collected my faculties sufficiently to make myself presentable, and was received at the door by Laura herself.

"I'm afraid," she said, as she ushered me into the breakfast-room, "that it doesn't agree with you to stay up all night. I don't believe you've had a wink of sleep, but I've made some coffee that's warranted to bring you wide awake before you can shut your eyes."

"If that's the way I look, my personal appearance is a libel on a peaceful citizen. I have slept for close on three hours, and have dreamed of acres of fires, and enough fighting to fill a book."

"Ugh!" exclaimed Miss Laura. "I don't see why men so like to fight. Do you take two lumps in your coffee or three?"

"The explanation is very simple," I returned. "They don't like to fight. One lump, please."

"Then what do they do it for?" she asked. "You had better take more than one chop; they're pretty small, and you've got a big day's work ahead–and behind."

"Why," I argued, "they fight for power, or reputation, or money, or a pair of brown eyes–or blue, as the case may be–for fear somebody will think them afraid–for anger–for almost any reason but enjoyment. I saw ten thousand men in a scrimmage last night, and there were not twenty of them there because they enjoyed the fight. At any rate, I can assure you that the man in the crowd I have the best right to speak for wished himself anywhere but in the front rank of battle."

"Humph!" sniffed Miss Laura incredulously. "I know very well that you couldn't have been hired to keep out of it. You haven't been doing much else but fighting since I got to know you."

"It wasn't from choice," I pleaded.

"Just tell me what happened, and how," she said. "I was scared blue last night with fire-bells and hooting whistles, and men shouting in the streets; and when I peeked out I saw a glare down town as though half the city was going up in smoke."

Laura listened with a grave face as I gave a succinct account of the night's adventures.

"And do you really believe that Mr. Bolton set fire to uncle's lumber-yards?" she asked.

"In person or by proxy," I replied.

"Well, there doesn't seem to be any end to his wickedness," she said. "I suppose he's prepared to finish us to-day."

"I don't think we can count on repentance–not from him. We shall have to find something a great deal safer than that to pull us through. Has your uncle dropped any more hints about that million dollars?"

"He talked of it more than ever, last night. He went over the word 'million' hundreds of times. Then he would call your name and say 'five-sixteen' as though he was trying to make you understand the meaning of the figures."

It was an incomprehensible mystery, and we had to leave it so.

"Do you know what you are going to do, then?" she asked.

"Sell all the unpledged stock in the house, see what Partridge and Coleman can do for us, and try to stand up the banks for the balance."

Laura Kendrick shook her head, with a business-like expression on her face:

"I wish I could think of something better than that," she said with an attempt at cheeriness. "We shall never get through the day at that rate. But I suppose it's the best that's left us."

The door opened, and Mercy Fillmore appeared. The sudden intrusion of a third person brought to my consciousness a realization of the fascinating breakfast I had been conceded. But if I was so ungallant as to feel disappointment at her interrupting presence, it melted away under the soothing influence that surrounded her.

"What a night we have had!" she said, with an anxious note in the gentle harmonies of her voice. "We were worse frightened at the fire-bells and the shouting of men in the distance than at the drunken hoodlums who passed by the house. Was there much fighting?"

"Enough–but nothing to be frightened about."

"If there was violence," said Mercy, with a trace of anxiety in her tone, "I am afraid that Mr. Parks was among the misguided men. Did you see anything of him?"

"No," I replied. "He escaped arrest when the Council of Nine was gathered in, for he was making a speech on the sand-lot. I inquired for him at the City Prison and the Receiving Hospital, but he wasn't there, so I'm sure he must have escaped."

Mercy breathed a sigh of relief.

"Well, Mercy," said Laura Kendrick, "if you expect men to have any sense about such things, you are going to be disappointed. They are fighting animals–at any rate some of them are–and the best we can do is to have a good supply of lint and arnica on hand, and read books on the best way of treating wounds and bruises."

But a few minutes later she had forgotten this sentiment of resignation, for when I set out for the office to prepare for the onslaught that must come with the opening of the business hours, her parting injunction was to "Leave the business of the police to the police, and don't let the Kendrick family go to ruin by getting yourself knocked on the head in some harum-scarum expedition."

I found Brown already at work, and his haggard face showed that he shared in the keen anxieties of the day.

"This is a bad business, Mr. Hampden, a bad business," he sighed. "Four hundred thousand dollars' worth of lumber went up in that fire last night."

"Didn't we have any insurance on it?"

"Why, yes–we had one hundred and fifty thousand on it. But we had borrowed that much on the stock, and the bank holds the policy. I was hoping to get some more money on the lumber to-day, but that chance has gone." Brown shook his head and sighed as though his courage had fallen to a low ebb, and added: "I'm afraid every creditor we have will be down on us now."

"How much shall we have to meet?" I asked.

"I wish I could tell," he groaned. "Mr. Kendrick has been so careless about giving out his notes without having them entered on the books that I can't say. I think there are about two hundred thousand of unsecured notes out, but there may be a million, for all I know."

"How much money have we in hand?"

"It's not much. Not over twenty thousand."

"How much can we get if we drop that confounded load of stock we are carrying?"

"Oh, if we could unload it without breaking the price it would stand us something like two or three hundred thousand dollars, after paying off all loans on it. But it's a ticklish market–a ticklish market. If we start to throw the stock out, there will be a slump that will wipe out our margins and leave us on the wrong side of the ledger."

"I'll see what can be done about it. Perhaps Partridge can get the stock taken into stronger hands. Can you think of anything else that we can turn into money?"

"There's just one thing I have remembered since yesterday. The Oriental Bank let us have a hundred thousand on those Humboldt lumber lands a while ago. The lands ought to be good for as much more if the Oriental is lending at all."

"That sounds as though there might be something in it. I'll see the Oriental Bank people at once–Partridge, too. If we can get a hundred thousand from the bank, and get our margins out of those stocks, we shall have, a fair chance of weathering the storm." As I turned to go, I bethought me to say, "Don't pay out a dollar that you can possibly hold on to."

Brown gave his head a deprecating shake.

"That won't do, Mr. Hampden. You see, we're tied up to our open-handed way of doing business. Now, if we were acting for Peter Bolton, it would be different. When he tells a man to call again for his money, nobody thinks anything about it. They just say he's a skinflint, who could pay and won't. But you know how Wharton Kendrick has run his business. Whenever a man wants his money, he gets it as fast as it can be counted out. There's the trouble now. If we go to asking for time, or putting them off, why everybody will say: 'Aha! Kendrick is in difficulties; I always thought he would go under.' And every account that stands against us would be in before noon."

I had to admit that he was right, and sallied forth to the Oriental Bank. The president received me genially, when I announced myself as the ambassador of Wharton Kendrick, and threw up his hands in good-humored refusal when I told what I wanted.

"You couldn't get a cent on that property to-day, if the trees were made out of gold, Mr. Hampden," he said. "Property outside the city is worth nothing to us. To be frank with you, we should feel easier if we had the money out of the last loan we made you people. I'll make you a first-class offer: Pay the principal, and I'll strike off the interest."

Partridge was hardly more encouraging than the president of the Oriental Bank. He promised to bestir himself to find some one to take the stock, but confessed that he was unable to suggest a buyer. And I was forced to turn toward the office once more with a feeling akin to desperation.

The atmosphere about the business district was not of a quality to reassure the despondent. Although the banks and exchanges had not yet opened for business, I could hear everywhere the buzz of apprehension. Frightened traders hurried along the streets with eyes eloquent of their fears; anxious holders of stocks gathered in groups about Pine and Montgomery Streets, with pale and troubled faces, as they began their curbstone trading; and there were signs of storm indicating that we should have a worse day before us than any that we had weathered.

As I reached the Merchants' Exchange, I came upon William T. Coleman, and he greeted me with an air that warmed my spirit.

"That was a good piece of work you did last night, Hampden," he said. And I blushed under the commendation as proudly as though I were a soldier of the Grand Army called out to receive the ribbon of the Legion of Honor from the hands of the Great Napoleon.

"We suppressed the riots last night," I replied, "but the people don't seem to know it. I see more anxiety among the business men this morning than at any time yet."

"It's absurd," said Coleman abruptly. "I can't understand why they should take that tone. The danger is over. We have the situation perfectly in hand. Men are signing the rolls by the hundred now. We shall have the city so thoroughly guarded to-night that not even a rat can come out of the sewers. It's nonsense to talk of panic conditions, as some of these fellows are doing. By the way, how are Kendrick's affairs? He had a bad loss last night."

I did not hesitate to describe the difficulties of the position.

"I'll see if something can't be done for you," he said. "If I had a little more time I could arrange it, I am sure, but I have my hands pretty full now. As it is, I can't be of much help to you till to-morrow." And he passed on.

There was a stimulating influence in his tones, and, though I had little confidence in his power to arrange for aid, his words sent me back to the office in better spirits. I had need of all my courage, for Brown met me with word that the money was going out rapidly, and that without a turn in the tide we should not last beyond noon.

"God bless you, Hampden!" cried a familiar voice as I entered the waiting-room. "I was wondering whether some of your long-haired Bedlamites hadn't got you and hanged you to your own lamp-post." And the fiery face of General Wilson beamed at me with lively interest as he hastened forward to grasp my hand. "How's Kendrick coming on? I see by the papers that you've been having the devil of a time here."

I admitted the plutonic nature of the city's recent activities, as I led General Wilson into the private office.

"I've been in Stockton," said General Wilson with explosive energy. "To tell the truth, I went up to file that contract for the sale of the tule land. I didn't know how Kendrick's affairs were going to turn out, so I didn't lose any time getting it on record. I've never been caught napping yet, and it wouldn't do to begin at this late day. Now, how are things going? Will Kendrick pull through, or is he up against the wall?"

My heart misgave me at having Wharton Kendrick's business on the tongue of this loquacious boaster, and I was of a mind to deliver to him the same cheery lie that I had poured into the ears of a dozen inquisitive acquaintances. But I remembered the substantial proof of friendly interest that he had already shown, and thought it better that I should once more be frank with him.

General Wilson shook his head with sympathetic concern when I had finished my tale.

"That has a bad look," he said. "You can't get through, unless you get help. Now if it was only fifty thousand, why, I would strain my authority so far as to let you have it–or, by Jove, I'd advance it out of my own pocket, to help Wharton. But the chances are that you'll want ten times that amount, so I can't risk it. You can count on my services, though, if you have to call a meeting of the creditors. I'm famous for managing such affairs, and in Chicago they have a joke about Wilson's Elixir Vitæ for Broken-down Corporations. If the business stops, I can put it on its feet, if anybody can. Why, I've managed twenty big failures if I've managed one, and I brought 'em all through with flying colors. It wasn't three years ago that I was called in to help Seymour, Peters and Blair. They had failed for four million, and their affairs were in the devil of a tangle. I wouldn't have touched the thing for money, but I couldn't resist the pleading of my old friend Seymour. He came to me crying like a baby, and was ready to blow his brains out if I failed him. So I took hold, worked like a beaver for three weeks–night and day–got the creditors to scale their claims and take six-, nine- and twelve-months' notes, and had the concern going smoothly inside of thirty days. To-day you'll find Seymour, Peters and Blair one of the soundest firms in Chicago. Why, I've reorganized three railroads, and–"

General Wilson's flow of reminiscence was interrupted by the sudden entry of Brown. I saw by his distressed face as he beckoned me that a crisis had arrived.

"What is it?" I asked. "You can speak before General Wilson. He is our counsel now."

"The El Dorado Bank has just presented notes for a hundred and fifty thousand," he gasped.

The El Dorado Bank! I had no need of second sight to tell me from whose hand the blow had come. Peter Bolton had brought together another packet of Wharton Kendrick's paper, and had put it through the bank for collection. My heart sank, and my face must have grown as long and white as Brown's. Was the game up at last? Had the struggle ended in defeat?

"I'm afraid you're going to need my services," said General Wilson with a shake of his head. "Send out a hurry call to Kendrick's friends, and if they don't come to time, I'll see you through a meeting of the creditors." General Wilson spoke with professional cheerfulness, as though he would convince me that a meeting of the creditors was one of the pleasurable experiences of life.

As he spoke, the door opened, and I was startled to see Laura Kendrick enter. Her face was flushed, and excitement sparkled in her eyes. She paused irresolute, as she saw the two men with me, and I jumped to my feet and hastened to meet her.

"Am I too late?" she gasped.

"Too late?" I echoed in wonder.

"For the money–uncle's money, you know!" she cried impatiently, as she saw no sign of comprehension on my face.

"Why, I guess we can let you have whatever you need," I said. "It had better go to you than to the creditors' attorneys."

"No–no!" she cried, grasping my arm and looking up in my face, "I don't mean that. I mean the money that uncle put away. It's in the safe deposit vaults."

"The safe deposit vaults!" I cried, grasping her meaning at last. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"I ran as soon as I heard the words," she said. "Am I in time?"

"To the minute," I said. And at the words she sank into a chair with the reaction from the stress of anxiety.

Brown knew nothing of any safe deposit vault, so with a hasty word of explanation to General Wilson, I seized my hat, and said to Laura:

"You had better come over with me."

"I suppose I'd best go," she said. "It's a feeling I have, and as I don't have such inspirations very often I'd better obey this one."

"How did you find out about the money?" I asked as we descended the stairs.

"Why, uncle got dreadfully uneasy this morning, and I couldn't quiet him. He went over and over his words–'million,' and 'notes,' and 'five-sixteen'–and sometimes he called your name, and sometimes he called for Mr. Brown, and he was much vexed that you didn't understand him. Then about half an hour ago he cried out angrily, 'Go over to the safe deposit and get it. Why don't you do as I tell you?' At that I flew, and here I am." And she looked up in my face with an anxious smile.

The safe deposit building was but half a block away, and we were soon in the office. There was a minute or two of consultation between the officials when I had delivered my credentials as the representative of Wharton Kendrick. Then one of them asked:

"Have you the key number of the box?"

I was nonplussed for the moment, but Laura Kendrick whispered:

"Remember the number he has been calling out for the last two nights."

"Five-sixteen," I replied confidently.

The guardians of the treasure-house bowed, led me to the vaults and at my demand unlocked the box.

At the top of the miscellaneous papers that the box contained were two book-like packages, both marked with the inspiring figures "$500,000." I tore off the wrapping of the larger package. It was filled with gold notes of large denominations, and the slip that bound them was indorsed "For the Syndicate." The other package proved to be filled with United States bonds. It was all clear now. Wharton Kendrick had deposited his contribution to the syndicate's fund in this box instead of in the special account in the Golconda Bank, and had provided here his reserve of securities with which to meet the outstanding notes.

Laura Kendrick exclaimed with delight at the sight of this wealth.

"Is it all there?" she cried.

"Yes. Here is the full million he has been talking about, and there seem to be more securities in the box. You have saved the day for us. We should have gone to wreck without you," I replied.

"Well, I've been fuming and fretting all these days because I was so useless, but now if you'll take me to the carriage I'll go home with my self-respect quite restored."

"It was you that made the battle worth while," I murmured.

My return to the office brought an outburst of joy. At my announcement of the result, Brown jumped up with an enthusiastic whoop, and lumbered about the room with awkward capers. Then he checked himself suddenly, and very shamefacedly begged my pardon.

"I haven't done that since I was a boy, sir," he said. And I believed him.

With the business once more on a solid basis, I walked over to Partridge's office to relieve his anxiety on the subject of Wharton Kendrick's solvency. He had gone to the Exchange, and I followed him thither.

Pine Street was still thrilling with the energy of a steam-engine working at high pressure. Waves of excitement agitated the crowds that hung about the entrance of the Stock Exchange, and there was the familiar succession of roars and barks with which the traders in stocks find it necessary to transact their business. Yet I thought I saw a weakening of interest among the speculators–a lessening of the tension among the excited men who were following the course of the market. I leaped to the hope that the crisis was passing.

As I reached the steps of the Exchange the confused roar of the crowd was interrupted. Three short, sharp explosions crackled upon the air with staccato distinctness and the clamor hushed for a moment with a suddenness as startling as the shots themselves. A dozen yards down Pine Street a thin cloud of blueish smoke rose and drifted away on the morning breeze.

For a moment the crowd surged back as though in fear, and I saw a bent, white-bearded man standing with a revolver in his hand, looking down at a prostrate something on the pavement. A few trailing threads of smoke floated up from the revolver's muzzle. Then there was a forward rush, and the crowd closed in; but in that momentary glimpse I had recognized the bent form and dreamy face of Merwin.

The hush gave way to shouts. Men were running from all directions. The crowd pushed closer. Windows overlooking the place were suddenly filled with excited observers, questions were eagerly exchanged, and the cry rose:

"Peter Bolton has been shot!"

At the name of Bolton the blood bounded through my arteries with suffocating force, and I pushed my way through the throng with feverish energy. When I broke through the ring that surrounded the prostrate form, a policeman was just laying his hands on Merwin, and raising his dub as if to strike him. The old man handed his revolver to the officer, and cried:

"I am Merwin. He has robbed me of my money for twenty years, and he said I should die a beggar. And I shot him!"

On the pavement lay Peter Bolton. His hands were pressed to a reddening circle on his coat, and his face was drawn into an expression of anxious fear. As I bent over him, a look of recognition flashed into his eyes. And even in the pangs of dissolution a sardonic smile drew down the corners of his mouth, while has sarcastic voice, reduced in volume till it was scarcely more than a whisper, drawled painfully:

"You've missed your chance, Hampden. You'll never get rich now. I fought–you all–and I've beat–you all."

He paused in weakness, and the murmur of voices about me filled my ears. There was scarce a sympathetic tone to be heard, and thrice the words floated to me:

"It's a wonder he didn't get it before."

Peter Bolton had lived without good will to man, and he was dying without man's regret. He summoned up his failing energies and continued:

"If I had another day, your–man–Kendrick–would–be–smashed!" The last word was spoken almost as a hiss. Then the blood welled up in his throat, and with a convulsive effort to rise he fell back and was still.

The Bolton-Kendrick Feud was over.