CHAPTER XLI

THE FATEFUL ENCOUNTER

James King of William sat with his back toward the door when Casey, still a-quiver with rage but endeavoring to control himself, entered the Bulletin office. He stumbled over the doorsill.

King turned. When he saw who the intruder was, he laid down a handful of proofs and rose. Casey glared at him.

"What do you mean," cried the politician, trying to speak calmly, "by publishing that article about me in the Bulletin?"

King transfixed him with accusing eyes. "About the ballot-box stuffing ... or your Sing Sing record, Casey?" he inquired.

"You--you know well enough," blustered Casey. "It's an outrage to rake up a man's past.... A fellow's sensitive about such things."

He shook a fist at King. "If necessary, I'll defend myself."

"Very well," responded King. "That's your prerogative. You've a paper of your own.... And now get out of here," he added curtly. "Never show your face inside this door again."

Later at the Bank Exchange McGowan found the supervisor cursing as he raised a glass of whiskey with a trembling hand.

"Well, did you make him insult you?"

"Damn him," was all Casey could answer. "Damn him. Damn him." He tossed the raw liquor down his throat and poured another drink. McGowan smiled.

"You can do that till Doomsday and it won't hurt him." McGowan's voice rang with contempt. "Is that all you can do? Are you afraid--"

Casey interrupted fiercely. "I'm NOT afraid. You know it. I'll get even."

"How?"

"Never mind. You'll see," the politician muttered darkly.

"You're a drunken fool," remarked McGowan. "You've no chance with King. He's twice as big as you. He carries a derringer. And he shoots straight. Listen to me." He dragged the other to a corner of the room; they sat there for at least an hour arguing, drinking.

* * * * *

James King of William watched Casey's exit from the Bulletin with a smile. He recalled his wife's warning that morning as he left his home, "Look out for Casey, James."

"Pooh, Charlotte," he had reassured her. "I've far worse enemies than that prison rat."

She had merely smiled, smoothed a wrinkle from his coat and kissed him, a worried look in her eyes. Then the children had gathered round him. Little Annie wanted a toy piano, Joe some crayons for his work at school.

Remembering this, King seized a desk pad, wrote on it some words of memoranda. Then he straightway forgot Casey in the detail of work.

When the Bulletin was off the press, the pad, with its written inscription, caught his eye and he shoved it into a side pocket.

"Well, I'm going home," he said to Nesbitt. "Must buy a few things for the children."

Nesbitt looked up half absently from his writing. "Afternoon," he greeted. "Better take your derringer. Don't know what might happen."

King shrugged himself into the talma cape, which he usually wore on the streets. It is doubtful if he heard Nesbitt's warning. With a nod to Gerberding he sauntered slowly out, enjoying the mellow spring sunshine, filtering now and then through wisps of fog. As he turned into Montgomery street he almost collided with Benito Windham, who, brief case under arm, was striding rapidly southward. They exchanged a cordial greeting. Benito looked after the tall courtly figure crossing Montgomery street diagonally toward a big express wagon. Benito thought he could discern a quick nervous movement back of it. A man stepped out, directly across King's path.

He was James P. Casey, tremendously excited. His right hand shook violently. His hat was on one side of his head; he was apparently intoxicated. King did not notice him until they were almost abreast.

Casey's arm was outstretched, pointed at King's breast. "Draw and defend yourself," he said loudly. He shut his eyes and a little puff of smoke seemed to spring from the ends of his fingers, followed in the fraction of a second by a sharp report.

Benito ran with all his might toward the men. He did not think that King was hit, for the editor turned toward the Pacific Express office. On the threshold he stumbled. A clerk ran out and caught the tall figure as it collapsed.

Benito looked about for King's assailant. He saw a group of men on Washington street, but was unable to distinguish Casey among them, though McGowan's lanky form was visible.

At Benito's feet lay a pocket-memorandum marked with a splash of red. The young man picked it up and read:

"Piano for Annie.

"Crayons for Joe.

"Candy--"

A man with a medicine case shouldered his way in. He was Dr. Hammond. "Get a basin," he ordered, "some warm water." He unbuttoned the wounded man's coat, looking grave as he saw the spreading red stain on his shirt.

"Will he get well, doctor?" shouted a dozen voices.

[Illustration: "Draw and defend yourself," he said loudly. He shut his eyes and a little puff of smoke seemed to spring from the end of his fingers, followed ... by a sharp report.]

"Can't tell ... 'fraid not," Hammond answered, and a sympathetic silence followed his announcement.

Someone cried: "Where's Casey?"

Word came that Casey was in jail. "He gave himself up," a man said.

Presently there was a sound of carriage wheels. A white-faced woman made her way to the express office. The crowd stood with bared heads as it opened a way for her passage. The woman was Mrs. King. They heard her sobbing.

Gerberding and Nesbitt came and made their exit after a short stay. Tears ran down Nesbitt's cheeks. "I told him so," they heard him muttering, "I told him so.... He wouldn't listen.... Didn't take his pistol."

Last of all came William Coleman, lips pressed tightly together, eyes hard. He remained only a few moments. Benito hailed him as he emerged from the express office.

"Any chance of recovery?"

"Very little." The tone was grim.

"I hate to think of what may happen if he dies?" Windham commented.

"Hell will break loose," Coleman stated with conviction. "Better come along, Benito. I'm going to find Ike Bluxome. It's time we prepared."

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