Days of '49/Chapter 8

It was late in the afternoon when Col. Nevinson and Mr. Tesla rode into the city. On the way they had been stopped by men who told them the news, of the excitement among the Hounds, of the shambles in the Magnolia, that Bruce Brace was dead, shot in the back by the greaser, José de Sola, as Brace quarreled with Dick Hales.

The streets, as usual, swarmed with men, moving toward drinking halls, standing in groups, shifting about from foot to foot with lurching swagger; men, rough, full of health, many of them nearly full of whisky. Some recognized Col. Nevinson as he rode by and they shouted to him. He returned their greetings with preoccupied tenseness. Loud talk echoed through the streets. "Greasers" was a word frequently lifted by an oath above the heads of the crowd. Once Mr. Tesla caught the sentence: "—Hounds been giving 'em hell all afternoon."

Mr. Tesla hurried anxiously to the Magnolia. The saloon was filled. The orchestra played. The tables were banked deep with men, offering their alms to the hag, Fortune. Men stood three deep at the bar, shouting over one another's shoulders at bartenders who hurried with a kind of blank, automatic, yet unfailing swiftness, clapping down bottles, mixing drinks, slinging glasses with deft accuracy, remembering a volley of orders.

Mr. Cronin's chubby body radiated satisfaction. A big cigar was between his lips, and looked very much like a peg on which he was trying to hang himself by the mouth.

"Ah," he said happily to Mr. Tesla, "it was good for the business! I thought we would be ruint, but such a town! It has brought men like flies. I do not care if somebody he is killed ever' hour. So much business—oo-ey!"

"You," said Mr. Tesla angrily, "you—I am amazed at you, Cronin!"

"At me? For why? Because business it is good? What a feller you are, Tesla. I suppose you would feel better if the house was empty and little spiders they hung themselves across the door! The syndicate would think you a good man then to invest for them money—yes?"

"There must be no more murders in this house, Cronin!"

"How'll you stop 'em, eh? Tell me that! Boom- boom! Just like that, and it is over before you know it was about to begin. I don't like it neither, I can tell you! I cracked my knee gettin' out of the way yesterday when that Hales feller started to shoot. Bullets make too much noise! But see for yourself, Tesla—business it is good!"

"Damn such business!" said Mr. Tesla, who was not a profane man and rarely let go of his temper.

He was used to the gambling salons of European cities, among people who, whatever their follies, had grace of manner. He was exasperated, disgusted, by this moblike fierceness for drink and play of men, bearded like ruffians; of sinister scrawny dudish men, of merchants and sailors, of wharf workmen, even of bankers, of odd foreign little fellows. "Good business." The air was filled with oaths, blasphemous as evil could suggest;  there was the stench of sweating bodies, bad breath, stale tobacco, spilled liquors.

"Ugh!" he said, and walked rapidly, aimlessly, away from Mr. Cronin.

{heading|2|4|c|normal|mb1}} Col. Nevinson, as if throwing himself off, jumped from his horse and entered Baer's saloon. This, too, was packed with men, many Hounds, hangers-on of the city politicians, some officials of the city.

Men made way for him with an eager respect, and many talked together at the same time, crying:

"We've needed you, Colonel!"—"You ort've been here, Colonel!"—"Thought you'd never come!"—"Now, greasers, look out! The Colonel's come!

"Whisky," said Col. Nevinson. "And for everybody!"

"'Ray for the Colonel!"

"Some o' the boys are down to the Spanish town now, Colonel, tellin' the greasers to git to hell out o' the country!"

"That greaser José, he lit out a'ready!"

"I seen Hales 's afternoon talkin' to ol' Deering front of the postorffice!"

"I seen him 'bout an hour ago, Colonel, in the Magnolier. An' he was lookin' purty scairt, he was!"

"Tell us what to do, Colonel! Tell us what we're goin ' to do?"

"Are we, sir," cried Col. Nevinson, "to allow the damn greasers to run this country? Are we to let them shoot down"

A score of hot "No's!" went up and were repeated wrathfully.

"Then, sir," Col. Nevinson began, pausing to glare about him. "Then, sir" But he was interrupted by a hand on his arm that familiarly pulled at him.

"Just a minute, Colonel. I've got to tell"

Nevinson turned with angry impatience;  but the man was Baer himself, politician, business man, friend.

"What is it, Baer? Be quick about it, and don't try to interfere with what I'm going to say."

Baer was a stodgy man, not easily ruffled nor excitable;  and now the look in his eyes was full of meaning.

"Jim Tucks he just got down from Stockton on this morning's boat. He's bad off and 's got to see you."

"He can wait, Baer. He can wait. I have business here to"

"Now listen, Colonel"—Baer dropped his voice—"I promised him I'd have you come first thing. You'd better go. Somethin' happened to Tucks. He come from the mines to see you. You'd better go. I put him upstairs in my room. He's up there now. You'd better go."

There was a furtive and imperative steadiness in the oblique slant of Baer's heavy eyes.

"What is it, sir?, sir, what's the matter, Baer?"

"I ain't sayin'." Baer slowly shook his head. "But you'd better go."

Col. Nevinson, moved as if by a warning from one whom he trusted, pushed his way through the crowd into the back of the saloon, passed out of the back door, and ascended a stairway that rose from the alley to the room above.

He entered abruptly, without knocking, and strode into the room, demanding:

"Tucks?"

"E-anh," said a voice, answering slowly, like a growl expressive of pain and some resentment, and a big coatless man who was sitting slumped forward in a chair arose slowly. His back was bowed, and he moved with a slow stiffness, as if guarding against a movement that would bring pain.

He was of the type known as raw-boned, strong, used to hardship, with high cheeks, long nose, bearded. His eyes fixed on Nevinson in a sullen stare.

"What the hell's the matter with you? Sick?"

"E-anh. Sick all right. Disease that's goin' to be damn catchin', too. Ouch!"

He flinched with a writhing motion.

"What's the matter with you!"

"E-anh." Tucks held out his arms. "Help me off with this blasted shirt an'"

"Shirt? Hell-and-fire, sir, are you crazy!"

"You do as I tell ye!" Tucks snarled. "You'll learn quick"

The shirt was unbuttoned in front. With groans and winces the sleeves were pulled off his arms, and cautiously, with curses as he did so, for there was pain, he dropped the shirt from his shoulders, and with awkward shuffling turned about, turning his back for the colonel to see.

Nevinson stared, and opened his mouth, and closed it, silently. He peered forward, and drew back quickly, staring.

"E'ow 'd you like that!" Tucks snarled half facing about. "You'll get it too! They're goin' to give it to all us that whipped that greaser that day—though Baer tells me Bruce Brace is dead, damn him! 'Twas him that put you up to it. Know what it is, don't ye?"

"But, my God, Tucks—how"

Col. Nevinson broke off into curses, threatening wrath upon whoever had branded his man and friend over the whole of his back with a rude circle and ruder cross.

"E-anh, cussin' won't do no good. They'll get y', they'll get you too if you don't get out of this blankety blank-blanked-blank-blank Californy!"

" their yellow hides and hearts! Do you know who did it, Tucks?"

"I reckon I do," he snarled. "I'd just been up to have a look at our supplies in Sonora, an' was ridin' down to Knight's Ferry. I saw 'em comin'—four of 'em. I didn't think nothin'—not till I reckernized that greaser we whipped that day. I didn't know whether to draw my gun an' run f'r it, or take the chanct he didn't know me. I took the chanct. When I saw he knowed me I pulled a gun, but 't wasn't no use. One o' them ropes o' theirs come through the air an' pinned my arms tight, an' jerked me clean out o' the saddle. They took me 'bout a mile off the road, pegged me out, built 'em a fire, an'—you see what they done!"

"Tucks, I swear I'll kill every greaser that touched you! The !"

"Aw, hell, don't cuss so much. I've cussed and cussed. They tried to make me tell who the other men was that was with us that day, an' where they'd find 'em. They'd a killed me if I hadn't told 'em something."

"You told!"

"What if I did!" Tucks cried, savage with disgrace and pain. "You'd tell somethin', too, wouldn't y', if they used your skin to write on with hot iron? But no, I didn't tell 'em. I give 'em some name o' nobody I ever heard of in a camp on the Stanislaus. Then I come to Stockton an' on down here. I ain't told nobody but Baer."

"Why didn't you tell the miners! Why didn't you raise the country, sir! Hunt them down like dogs! By God, sir, I'll tell"

"Not about my back, you won't! You can wait an' tell about y'r own. I don't want folks to know I been branded by greasers. I'm goin' to get out o' this country. They said if they ever met me again they'd kill me, an' they sure will! I want y' to buy out my share in the company. We're losin' money like hell anyhow. I'm done!"

"But, Tucks, damn you, be a man! I'll put up a reward for them—I'll hire men. By God, sir, I'll have them hunted down an' hanged quicker"

"Aw right, do it. I don't care. Hope you do. But I'm going home. Damn Californy! An' 'cause you've allus been square with me, I come down here to tell y'. You'd better get out, too. They'll git y', they'll git you too."

"Leave because of greasers!" cried Col. Nevinson. "Never! Never, sir! By God, never! Hell-and-fire, sir, I'll never turn my back to any man, much less to"

"You will if they git y' an' peg y' out like they done me. You'll turn y'r back to 'em—an' yell, too, like I done. Ow, damn Californy, an' all the gold in it! The greasers 've been gettin' that too. Miners been runnin' 'em out o' some of the camps, an' they're robbin' miners right an' left. Can't no more catch 'em than y' can catch fleas in a brush pile. They're takin' the whole country"

Drunken shouts from the barroom below reached them. With startled erectness, as if suddenly recalling something important, Col. Nevinson cried—

"You wait here. I'll be back in five minutes. The greasers have got to go and they start tonight!"

"E-anh?" said Tucks, bowed, with head out-thrust, his shirt dangling about his thighs. He stood and stared, puzzled, indignant, full of pain;  the fire of the hot iron seemed still burning on his back.

Col. Nevinson reentered through the back door of the saloon. The hubbub of aimlessly angered voices, many loud with drunkenness, filled the air. With shove and push at this man and that, he forced his way to the bar. He said to those nearest—

"Help me up there!"

They helped him up. His voice cut through the hubbub like a shout through the aimless gusts of wind.

"Does Californy, sir, belong to Americans, or to these damn greasers? Answer me!"

"T'us! T'us Mericans'!"—"Hey-'uray! To 'Mericans!"

"Are we going to let this city and this country be run and overrun, sir, by"

"No!"—"no!"—"no!"—"no!"

"'Ray f'r the Colonel!"

"Then drive them out, sir! Drive them out! By, make them go! Clean the city! Clean the country! You stand here drinking and talking like a lot of barnyard geese! Why do you call yourselves regulators? Get your men together, go down there and clean out every  greaser in San Francisco. Then we'll start in on"

Nothing more that he said was heard, and there was no need of saying more. Rocketing cheers went up. There was an excited calling back and forth; cries of "Line up!" "Fall in!" A scurrying of messengers through the city, bearing word to wherever Hounds could be found. A gathering of pistols and clubs. A swigging of bottles that passed back and forth from hand to hand as the Hounds stood in the street outside in something like a line, for theirs was, or was supposed to be, a semi-military organization. The commotion and shouting attracted people who asked:

"What's up?"

The answers were bold and to the point:

"We're going to drive out ever' greaser in the town!"

"We're 'Mericans! This here country b'longs to us, by !"

When something over a hundred of the Hounds had been assembled the order to march was, by dint of repetition, obeyed, and they marched away through the streets and under the eyes of men whose inactive curiosity, if not actual shout of encouragement, seemed to give sanction and authority to the Hounds and their purpose. They marched to the then remote quarter of the city where the numerous Spanish-speaking emigrants, mostly Chileans, lived in shacks and tents.

With a mob-like rush, yelling and shooting wildly, they broke upon the settlement. Chilean men were struck down, beaten as they lay; women and children were thrown into the street; tents were torn down, all household goods and merchandise were destroyed or stolen;   some Hounds mounted horses and ran Chileans through the town and up Telegraph Hill, firing as they pursued the " foreigners." All through the night the raiding and looting went on, with parties of Hounds moving to whatever section of the city a greaser's tent could be found.

There was no attempt to check this attack, no protest from the citizens;  there were no police;   the Sheriff was himself a Hound. The Chileans did not fly to any Americans for sanctuary and tell of their woe, for they had no way of knowing that one American might be better than another. Rioting and brawling were so common in the city that many who heard it from afar thought it only a little more loud and persistent than usual;  and the Hounds, having thoroughly cleaned the Chilean quarter, searched like the heroes that they were among the abandoned household effects for trinkets, jewelry and pawnable stuff.

That evening Judge Deering and Hales stood together in the Magnolia. Hales was saying—

"—and so I want to put the matter in your hands. I want her found and cared for. But I do not want to do the finding. Now that I have seen other women of the class into which she has fallen, I do not want to see her.

"I have told you of my experience with that Eton woman. She knows something, I think, but I don't want to go near her again.

"As I told you this afternoon, I'm going up to the mines, then into Sacramento, and join up with the Army for a time"

Presently Judge Deering called a bearded man in miner's dress and introduced him to Hales as Wallace B. Kern.

"Formerly, sir, State Senator of New York, but now a worshipper of the Golden Calf, Mr. Hales. He is so proud of his idolatry that he wears the beard, the shirt, the trousers, the boots, in short, sir, the full dress and insignia of those benighted heathens who bow down to Gold!"

"All right, Judge, the drinks are on me," said Kern in good-natured embarrassment. "But I can tell you gentlemen one thing, the judge is right about us miners bowing down to gold. To worship gold you have to get right down with a curve in your back and dig in while you pray!"

Drinks in hand they all moved off to be free from the jostling of the crowd, and stood near a wall, not far from a small door that had recently been cut through the wall. Like the other doorways of the Magnolia, it had no door—was never closed.

Mr. Tesla came up and asked for a word aside with Hales. They stepped together a few feet from the wall.

"Mr. Hales, I am greatly distressed. As you must know, my feeling toward you is one of respect and admiration. But I greatly fear that there will be trouble between you and Colonel Nevinson, who is also my friend."

"What now?" asked Hales.

"Somebody, sir, has made the colonel believe that you are his enemy. Has in fact intimated that you came to the city looking for him. He mentioned this to me again today."

"I never heard of him before I got here," said Hales. "Why should I have been looking for him?"

Mr. Tesla shook his head, with:

"I know nothing of that, Mr. Hales. I don't know why anybody should try to make trouble between you. But I fear it can be easily done, now. Bruce Brace was a close friend of Colonel Nevinson's."

"And," asked Hales coldly, "do you think for a minute that Nevinson did not know of Brace's clever little trick for assassinating people?"

"Mr. Hales, I am sure that he did not know of it!"

"Unh," said Hales.

"Colonel Nevinson is a rash and high tempered man; but, sir, I believe him utterly, utterly incapable of countenancing such a dastardly"

Without the slightest warning a shot was fired, then another instantly afterward.

Excepting a few who chanced to be looking in the general direction of the small newly made doorway, no one saw anything;  and these saw only two swift flashes in the darkness from beyond the vague glow that reached for a few feet through the doorway toward which Mr. Tesla was facing as he stood before Hales.

The first shot passed by them and struck some man beyond in the thigh;  and at the sound of it, Hales wheeled aside, facing about. The second shot followed.

Hales, saying, "Who the hell could" glanced backwards over his shoulder toward Mr. Tesla and saw him standing with an odd look of pained surprise, with no focus in his gaze and staring blankly, at nothing. One hand fumbled at his side, and the other with groping vagueness reached out for something to hold.

He said quietly, in a low tone of astonishment, half to himself as sometimes a man slipping into drunkenness speaks.

"I—I-I have been shot!"

Hales glanced again at the doorway as if half-minded to rush out in pursuit of an unknown man through darkness, hopelessly. He turned quickly and supported Mr. Tesla, who moved unsteadily, astonished, about to fall.

"Tempête! Tempête!" he said with low pleading. There was a blind stare in his eyes. "I must see Tempête!"

The crowd, with no more shots to dodge, surged forward, closing in. Voices burst into oaths and queries. Men struggled to get where they could peer at Tesla.

Wallace B. Kern, Judge Deering, another man or two, pushed at them, swore, urged them back, to make room;  and among the hum and babble some sensible voice rose:

"Get a doctor—doctor!"

Mr. Cronin, puffing, distressed, excited until he did not know what he was saying or doing, got through the crowd and pawed at Tesla, crying:

"Ow, Tesla! Tesla! Tesla, are you hurt— Ow, this town! Such a fine man, an' they shoot him!" Hales asked of Cronin:

"We'd better take him up there?"—pointing to the balcony.

"Is he dead? Is he dead? Ow, Mr. Tesla, don't die!"

"Tempête," Tesla murmured with singleness of thought, and by the pressure of his weight Hales knew that he was unconscious, or nearly so. "My daughter, please, gentlemen—Tempête," he begged, and his voice had the sound of one speaking out of a nightmare.

Kern and Hales and another man lifted Mr. Tesla and moved through the crowd, toward the balcony.

Judge Deering, towering massively, composed, laid a firm hand on Cronin's shoulder, held him and said:

"Mr. Tesla's daughter, sir. He asks for her. Where is she?"

"I don't know—I don't know," Cronin babbled, struggling to follow those who carried Mr. Tesla. "Let me go—what you mean, holdin 'me!—I don't—she's at Cow-somethin' ranch—let me"

"Sir," said Judge Deering with calm firmness, "she must be sent for, and at once. Where is this ranch? Who knows of it?"

Cronin blubbered excitedly rather than talked, and as he blubbered he pulled to get from under Judge Deering's hand.

"Let go—I don't know—Col. Nevinson took 'em—he knows—his ranch-Cow-something—ow let go me"

The judge turned loose the frantic little man, then with commanding composure asked of those pressed about him:

"Gentleman, is there any one here who knows of this ranch?"

There was a shaking of heads and vacant inquiring stares from one to another.

"Is there any one here who knows where Col. Nevinson may be found?"

To this question there were many answers, but most of them were guesses;  some said most likely in one place, some an other;   then a man who overheard of what they were talking pushed in and said that the colonel was in Baer's saloon.

Judge Deering, unhurried of manner, with the deliberate and almost solemn bearing of one who could not be swerved aside from what he had determined upon, left the Magnolia, crossed the Plaza, and following a dark street by the light from saloons that faced upon it, came to Baer's saloon, entered and inquired for Col. Nevinson. "Don't know where he is now, Judge. But he sure was here just before dark!"

"And his friend, Baer, sir?"

"Don't know where he is neither, Judge. Hey, Fred, know where the colonel 'r boss is?"

"They was here," answered the second bartender, "but I don't know now. Baer he didn't leave no word."

"Do either of you gentlemen, sir, know where Col. Nevinson's ranch lies?"

"Don't, Judge. Sorry. Any word?"

"Yes. Yes. If the colonel returns, kindly ask him, sir, to come to the Magnolia. Thank you, sir," said Judge Deering, leaving the saloon.

Judge Deering returned to the Magnolia and sent men about the city, making inquiries, and though word was left in many places for Col. Nevinson, no one found him.

In the balcony room Mr. Tesla lay on the bed, motionless, breathing slowly. Now and then he opened his eyes, but he noticed no one, saw nothing.

"He can't live," said the doctor.

Again and again Mr. Tesla murmuringly asked for his daughter.

When Kern had lifted the big shade, decorated with rosebuds and cherubs, so that the doctor might have a better light, the shade slipped from his hands, and fell, with a clatter. At the sound of it, Mr. Tesla stirred anxiously, saying in a low confused tone:

"Mr Hales—Colonel—gentlemen!—no—no"

"That wasn't a shot, sir—just glass," said the doctor. "Ah, thank God! Tempête-Cowden's ranch-gentlemen, please bring her?"

Though the apartment was his own, Cronin had been put out of it.

"You make too much noise," said Kern. "Stay away from here."

When Judge Deering came, Kern said:

"He can't live—I don't think. He doesn't want Hales to leave. Seems afraid he and the colonel will meet. He wants his daughter. Where the hell is Cowden's ranch, Judge? She's there. Nobody seems to know."

"Cowden's ranch?" said the Judge thoughtfully. "I never heard of it, but if it has been known long by that name and is near San Francisco, I know how to find out. Some one must go and bring Miss Tesla."

"I'll go," said Hales. "You find out where it is. I'll go. But good God, Judge, how am I going to let that girl know her father was hit by a bullet meant for me!"

"Now just who do you think could have done it?" asked Kern. "One of those Hounds? That bullet was certainly meant for your back!"

Hales shook his head and would not answer. A Hound, most likely. But he thought of the reproach that would be in the dark tawny eyes of that straight slender girl, who would feel that he had brought death upon her father.

Judge Deering, accompanied by Hales, left the balcony, passed unhurriedly through the crowd, crossed the Plaza and went to his quarters above the hardware store.

John Taylor, the judge's new youthful partner, was there, bent over a book in the lamplight.

"John, my boy, where is Mateo? Has he come in?"

"Si, señor, I am here," Mateo called from behind the curtain where he had his pallet. "This is no night for me to be out. The sabuesos are abroad." As he spoke he came from between the curtains, barefooted, in drawers and shirt, blinking at the light. "Hounds they are, señor, an' smell blood. They drink an' curse an' say"

"Mateo, do you know Cowden's ranch, where it lies?"

"Si, señor, I know what Americanos call the Cowden's Rancho. It is not Cowden's Rancho, señor. It is Gaspar de Coronal's rancho, El Crucifijo, though Señor Cowden by marriage"

"No chronicle of Spanish families tonight, Mateo. Some other time. But Mr. Tesla of the Magnolia has been shot and is dying. His daughter is at this ranch, and must be brought. You will ride with Mr. Hales and show the way"

Hales, after a glance at Mateo, had looked steadily at young Taylor, recalling that he had seen him on the waterfront when the big mirror was being landed;  recalling too the impression that he had felt in the first glance at the young man's features.

As Judge Deering pronounced the name Hales, young Taylor turned with a start, looking intently, asking with amazed doubt:

"Your name is Hales?"

"Yes. And you are" Hales finished with a nod, stepped forward, put out his hand.

"You are Dick Hales!" the boy cried. "Why I thought you were at the other end of California! How wonderful it is to find you!"

"It has been ten years, or more," said Hales with kindness, but no eagerness. "You were a very small boy, then."

"And Mr. Tesla has been killed, you say?" asked Taylor, confused with pleasure at having thus met with Dick Hales, distressed at hearing about Mr. Tesla. "I knew him well, and Miss Tesla. We came on the same ship!"

"Then you had better come, too," said Hales. "We can talk as we ride. And it will be better for a friend to break to her such news as we bring."

Taylor looked about for his hat. Hales stepped close to Judge Deering and said quickly in a low voice:

"Good God, sir, that is her brother! Brother of the fallen woman I told you of!"

Judge Deering almost gasped, and his was a composure not easily startled. He took hold of Hales' arm and would have asked questions;  but Taylor, hat in hand, turned to them, asking:

"Who shot Mr. Tesla?"

"No one knows, my boy," said Judge Deering. "No one knows—now. But hide it as you will, sir, evil will out! And as long as there is a God in heaven there will be punishment of evil men upon this earth. And now you, my friends, must go quickly and ride hard—ride hard, for the majesty of Death, sir, does not wait upon the going and coming of men."

In the balcony apartment of the Magnolia two or three men sat or stood about with little to say, waiting. Now and then the doctor went down and had a drink, and told those who gathered about him that Tesla might live, after all; that he did not appear to be suffering. Wallace B. Kern, who had seen a man or two die, thought that Tesla did suffer. At times his moans were heard, but at such times he seemed nearly unconscious.

Now and then Kern, booted and in red shirt, restlessly dropped on the divan, lay for a moment, got up, wandered about, would go to the window, and peer down. The doctor and the other man or two who had helped bring Tesla were now talking and drinking at the bar.

The Magnolia was well filled with men. Cronin had been right. Shooting affairs did draw crowds, for as the hour grew late, men stayed on. The lookouts droned indifferently, "Make your game, gentlemen—the game is made, gentlemen, the game is made." The cards fell before eager faces and staring eyes. Over the new roulette wheel the little ball spun with a flickering clickety-click, chasing round and round to find the number and color decreed by that impenetrable law which rules all chance. Bartenders flung their drinks with a long parabolic curve from the mixing cup to glass, and spilled not a drop. Men bunched together, talking, guessing how this or that might have a bearing on the mystery of who had fired through the doorway;  names were hinted at;  the name of the gambler, Dawes, was openly mentioned, talked of, repeated.

Mr. Tesla was stirring. Kern strode across the room and bent low, but could not understand. Tesla spoke with the broken effort of one who could hardly speak at all. The words were so low, slurred, so nearly at times inarticulate, that Kern could only now and then understand. He was asking for his daughter, asking anxiously what would become of her. Kern spoke to him;  but Tesla could not hear, his eyes were open and staring, but he saw nothing.

"—California—oh, this California!"

His voice ceased. Kern bent forward anxiously. Mr. Tesla had again become unconscious.

Kern, alone, was sitting with his head between his hands, staring at the floor, when the door opened. He did not look up until he rose with a start clear to his feet at the sound of Col. Nevinson's voice:

"Name of God, sir! Who shot Tesla?"

The colonel's face was pale. He strode to the bed. His sharp tone was for the moment gone, his voice nearly broke as he said:

"Tesla? Tesla? My God, Tesla!" Then toward Kern, almost humbly, "Is he dead?"

"I don't think so," said Kern drawing near, and together they bent over the unconscious body.

"Where's the doctor! Hell-and-fire, sir, why isn't there a doctor!"

"There is. He went down for a drink."

"Drink! Damn him, and let a man die! I'll bring him up here. I'll"

Nevinson strode to a window of the balcony. His right arm still lay in its sling of black silk. With his left hand he drew his gun, and beating savagely at the glass sent it in a shower of fragments about the heads of startled men at the monte table, just below. Then through the opening that he had made, Nevinson shouted clear across the Magnolia to the bar:

"Tell that God-damned doctor to get up here and get up here quick, or I'll be down there after him!"

The doctor came, red of face and angered, but he came, anxiously.

All the doctors in the world, or none—it would have been the same. The majesty of Death, who waits not upon the going and coming of men, had touched Franz Tesla, and he lay as if in a worried sleep, still anxious over the welfare of one whom he loved.