CHAPTER LXIV

AN IDOL TOPPLES

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

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

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

Ralston, as usual, was riding on the crest of fortune. His was a veritable lust for city building. Each successive day he founded some new enterprise.

"Like a master juggler," said Benito to his wife, "he keeps a hundred interests in the air. Let's see. There are the Mission Woolen Mills, the Kimball Carriage Works, the Cornell Watch Factory--of all things--the West Coast Furniture plant, the San Francisco Sugar Refinery, the Grand Hotel, a dry dock at Hunter's Point, the California Theater, a reclamation scheme at Sherman Island, the San Joaquin Valley irrigating system, the Rincon Hill cut, the extension of Montgomery street ..." he checked 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 can give. He's mad about this town. It's wife and child to him. Why it's almost his God!"

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

Early in the seventies they had joined forces with Jim Mackey, a blaster, at Virginia City and a mining man named J.G. Fair. Between them they bought up the supposedly depleted Consolidated Virginia Mine, paying from $4 to $9 each for its 10,700 shares. Mining experts smiled good naturedly, forgot the matter. Then the world was brought upstanding by 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 and which Windham disliked, the latter spoke of Ralston and his trouble with the editors. "Some of the newspapers would have us think he's playing recklessly, with other people's money," he said with irritation.

'"Well, well, and maybe he is, me b'y," returned O'Brien. "Don't blame the newspaper fellahs.... They've raison to be suspicious, Hiven knows.... 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 a confidential grasp, "I'm tellin' ye this, me lad: If it should come to a show-down ... if certain enemies should have a chance to call Bill Ralston's hand, I tell ye, it would mean dee-saster!"

* * * * *

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

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

"I've a right to be," the journalist spoke sharply. He glanced at his uncle'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, "send them off."

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

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

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

"Uncle Ben, IT'S TRUE!" His fingers closed almost spasmodically upon the other'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; eyes dully hopeless. He looked ten years older.

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

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

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

"But, God Almighty! Ralston," cried Benito, "your assets must be enormous.... 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 meant those who had turned from friends to enemies.

* * * * *

Two days later Francisco met Ralston coming out of the bank. His face was haggard. His eyes had the look of one who has been struck an unexpected 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 the meeting," he replied and hurried on.

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

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