CHAPTER VII. — THE QUEEN OF THE EL DORADO.—GUILTY BONDS.
In the dreary winter of 1850-51, there are luxurious resting places for the crowds driven at night from the narrow plank sidewalks of the Bay City. Rain torrents make the great saloons and gambling houses the only available shelter.
Running east and west, Sacramento, Clay, Washington, and Jackson Streets rise in almost impracticable declivity to the hills. Their tops, now inaccessible, are to be the future eyries of self-crowned railroad nobs and rude bonanza barons.
Scrubby chaparral, tenanted by the coyote, fox, and sand rabbit, covers these fringing sand hills. North and south, Sansome, Montgomery, Kearney, Dupont, Stockton, and a faint outline of Powell Street, are roadways more or less inchoate. An embryo western Paris.
Around the plaza, bounded by Clay, Washington, Dupont, and Kearney, the revelry of night crystallizes. It is the aggregating sympathy of birds of a feather.
The peculiar unconquered topography makes the handcart, wheelbarrow, and even the Chinaman's carrying poles, necessary vehicles of transit.
Water, brought in iron boats from Sausalito, is dragged around these knobby hills in huge casks on wheels. The precious fluid is distributed in five-gallon tin buckets, borne on a yoke by the dealer, who gets a dollar for two bucketfuls. No one finds time to dig for water. All have leisure to drink, dance, and gamble. They face every disease, danger, and hardship. They breast the grizzly-bear-haunted canyons in search of gold. No one will seek for water. It is the only luxury. The incoming and outgoing merchandise moves only a few rods from the narrow level city front. At the long wharves it is transshipped from the deep-water vessels, across forty feet of crazy wooden pier, to the river steamers. Lighters in the stream transfer goods to the smaller vessels beginning to trade up and down the coast.
In the plaza, now dignified by the RAFFINE name of "Portsmouth Square," the red banners of vice wave triumphant over great citadels of sin. Virtue is pushed to the distant heights and knolls. The arriving families, for sheer self-protection, avoid this devil's maelstrom. It sucks the wide crowd into the maddened nightly orgies of the plaza.
In the most pretentious buildings of the town, the great trinity of unlawful pleasures holds high carnival. Day and night are the same: drink, gaming, and women are worshipped. For the average resident there is no barrier of old which has not been burned away in the fever of personal freedom and the flood of gold.
A motley mass of twenty thousand men and women daily augments. They are all of full capacity for good and evil. They are bound by no common ties. They serve no god but pleasure. They fear no code. With no intention to remain longer than the profit of their adventures or the pleasures of their wild life last, they catch the passing moment.
Immense saloons are made attractive by displays of gaudy luxuries, set out to tempt the purses of the self-made autocrats of wealth. Gambling houses here are outvying in richness, and utter wantonness of wasted expense, anything yet seen in America. They are open always. Haunts abound where, in the pretended seclusion of a few yards' distance, rich adventurers riot with the beautiful battalions of the fallen angels. It were gross profanation to the baleful memories of Phryne, Aspasia, and Messalina to find, from all the sin-stained leaves of the world's past, prototypes of these bold, reckless man-eaters. They throng the softly carpeted, richly tapestried interiors of the gilded hells of Venus.
Drink and play. Twins steeds of the devil's car on the road to ruin. They are lashed on by wild-eyed, bright, beautiful demons. All follow the train of the modern reigning star of the West, Venus.
Shabby dance-halls, ephemeral Thespian efforts, cheap dens of the most brutal vice, and dark lairs abound, where sailors, laborers, and crowding criminals lurk, ready for their human prey. Their female accomplices are only the sirens watching these great strongholds of brazen vice. A greater luxury only gilds a lower form of human abasement. The motley horde, wallowing on the "Barbary Coast" and in the mongrel thieves' haunts of "Pacific Street," the entrenched human devils on "Telegraph Hill" are but natural prey of the coarsest vices.
The ready revolver, Colt's devilish invention, has deluged the West and South with blood. Murder's prime minister hangs in every man's belt. Colonel James Bowie's awful knife is a twin of this monstrous birth. In long years of dark national shame our country will curse the memory of the "two Colonels." They were typical of their different sectional ideas. These men gave us the present coat of arms of San Francisco: the Colt's revolver and the Bowie knife.
Yes, thousands of yet untenanted graves yawn for the future victims of these mechanical devices. The skill of the Northern inventor, and the devilish perfection of the heart-cleaving blade of the Southern duellist are a shame to this wild age.
The plaza with impartial liberality yields up its frontages to saloon, palace of play, and hotels for the fair ministers of His Satanic Majesty. It is the pride of the enterprising "sports" and "sharpers," who represent the baccalaureate degree of every known vice. On the west, the "Adelphi" towers, with its grand gambling saloon, its splendid "salle a manger," and cosey nooks presided over by attractive Frenchwomen. Long tables, under crystal chandeliers, offer a choice of roads to ruin. Monte, faro, rouge et noir, roulette, rondo and every gambling device are here, to lure the unwary. Dark-eyed subtle attendants lurk, ready to "preserve order," in gambling parlance. At night, blazing with lights, the superb erotic pictures on the walls look down on a mad crowd of desperate gamesters. Paris has sent its most suggestive pictures here, to inflame the wildest of human passions. Nymph and satyr gleam from glittering walls; Venus approves with melting glances, from costliest frames, the self-immolation of these dupes of fortune. Every wanton grace of the artist throws a luxurious refinement of the ideal over the palace of sin and shame.
Long counters, with splendid mirrors, display richest plate. They groan with costliest glass, and every dark beverage from hell's hottest brew. Card tables, and quiet recesses, richly curtained, invite to self-surrender and seclusion. The softest music breathes from a full orchestra. Gold is everywhere, in slugs, doubloons, and heaps of nuggets. Gold reigns here. Silver is a meaner metal hardly attainable. Bank notes are a flimsy possibility of the future. Piles of yellow sovereigns and the coinage of every land load the tables. Sallow, glittering-eyed croupiers sweep in, with affected nonchalance, this easy-gained harvest of chance or fraud.
As the evening wears on, these halls fill up with young and old. The bright face of youth is seen, inflamed with every burning passion, let loose in the wild uncontrolled West. It is side by side with the haggard visage of the veteran gamester. Every race has its representatives. The possession of gold is the cachet of good-fellowship. Anxious crowds criticise rapid and dashing play. The rattle of dice, calls of the dealers, shouts of the attendants ring out. The sharp, hard, ringing voices of the fallen goddesses of the tables rise on the stifling air, reeking of smoke and wine. Dressed with the spoils of the East, bare of bosom, bright of eye, hard of heart, glittering in flashing gems, and nerved with drink, are these women. The painted sirens of the Adelphi smile, with curled carmine lips which give the lie to the bold glances of the wary eyes of those she-devils.
With a hideous past thrown far behind them, they fear no future. Desperate as to the present, ministering to sin, inciting to violence, conspiring to destroy body and soul, these beautiful annihilators of all decency vie in deviltry only with each other.
They flaunt, by day, toilettes like duchesses' over the muddy streets; their midnight revels outlast the stars sweeping to the pure bosom of the Pacific. The nightly net is drawn till no casting brings new gudgeons. An unparalleled display of wildest license and maddest abandonment marks day and night.
Across the square the Bella Union boasts similar glories, equal grandeur, and its own local divinities of the Lampsacene goddess.
It is but a stone's throw to the great Arcade. From Clay to Commercial Street, one grand room offers every allurement to hundreds, without any sign of overcrowding. The devil is not in narrow quarters.
On the eastern front of the plaza, the pride of San Francisco towers up: the El Dorado. Here every glory of the Adelphi, Arcade, and Bella Union is eclipsed. The unrivalled splendor of rooms, rich decorations, and unexcelled beauty of pictures excite all. The rare liveliness of the attendant wantons marks them as the fairest daughters of Beelzebub. The world waves have stranded these children of Venus on the Pacific shores. Music, recalling the genius of the inspired masters, sways the varying emotions of the multitude. The miners' evenings are given up to roaming from one resort to another. Here, a certain varnish of necessary politeness restrains the throng of men; they are all armed and in the flush of physical power; they dash their thousands against impregnable and exciting gambling combinations at the tables. With no feeling of self-abasement, leading officials, merchants, bankers, judges, officers, and professional men crowd the royal El Dorado. Here they relax the labors of the day with every distraction known to human dissipation.
Staggering out broken-hearted, in the dark midnight, dozens of ruined gamesters have wandered from these fatal doors into the plaza. The nearest alley gives a shelter; a pistol ball crashes into the half-crazed brain.
Suicide!—the gambler's end! Already the Potter's Field claims many of these victims. The successful murderers and thugs linger in the dark shadows of Dupont Street. They crowd Murderer's Alley, Dunbar's Alley, and Kearney Street.
When the purse is emptied, so that the calculating women dealers scorn to notice the last few coins, they point significantly to the outer darkness. "Vamos," is the word. A few rods will bring the plucked fool to the "Blue Wing," the "Magnolia," or any one of a hundred drinking dens. Here the bottle chases away all memories of the night's play.
In utter defiance of the decent community, these temples of pleasure, with their quick-witted knaves, and garrisons of bright-eyed bacchanals, ignore the useful day; at night, they shine out, splendid lighthouses on the path to the dark entrance of hell. By mutual avoidance, the good and bad, the bright and dark side of human effort rule in alternation the day and night. Sin rests in the daytime.
In the barracks, where the serried battalions of crime loll away the garish day, silence discreetly rules. Sleep and rest mark the sunlit hours. The late afternoon parade is an excitant.
All over San Francisco, in its queerly assorted tenancy, church and saloon, school and opium den, thieves' resort and budding home, are placed side by side. Vigorous elbowing of the criminal and base classes finally forces all that is decent into a semi-banishment. Decency is driven to the distant hills, crowned with their scrubby oaks. Vice needs the city centre. It always does.
Philip Hardin is cynical and without family ties. Able by nature, skilled in books, and a master of human strategy he needs some broader field for the sweep of his splendid talents than the narrowed forum of the local courts. Ambition offers no immediate prize to struggle for. The busy present calls on him for daily professional effort. Political events point to an exciting struggle between North and South in the future; but the hour of fate is not yet on the dial.
In the Southerner's dislike of the contact of others, looking to his place as a social leader of the political element, Philip Hardin lives alone; his temporary cottage is planted in a large lot removed from the immediate danger of fires. His quick wit tells him they will some day sweep the crowded houses in the eastern part of the city, as far as the bay. The larger native oaks still afford a genial shade. Their shadows give the tired lawyer a few square rods of breathing space. Books and all the implements of the scholar are his; the interior is crowded with those luxuries which Hardin enjoys as of right. Deeply drinking the cup of life, even in his social vices, Philip Hardin aims at a certain distinction.
Around his table gather the choicest knights-errant of the golden quest. Maxime Valois here develops a social talent as a leader of men, guided by the sardonic Mephisto of his young life.
Still the evening hours hang heavily on the hands of the two lawyers. When the rapidly arriving steamers bring friends, with letters or introductions, they have hospitality to dispense. The great leaders of the South are now systematically colonizing California. Guests abound at these times at Hardin's board. Travel, mining, exploration, and adventure carry them away soon; extensive tours on official duty draw them away. As occupations increase, men grow unmindful of each other and meet more rarely.
For the saloons, rude hotels, gaming palaces, and resorts of covert pleasures are the usual rendezvous of the men of fortune and power. In such resorts grave intrigues are planned; future policies are mapped out; business goes on under the laughter of wild-eyed Maenads; secrets of state are whispered between glass and glass.
Family circles, cooped up, timid and distant, keep their doors closed to the general public. No one has yet dared to permanently set up here their Lares and Penates. The subordination of family life to externals, and insincerity of social compacts, are destined to make California a mere abiding place for several generations. The fibres of ancestry must first knit the living into close communion with their parents born on these Western shores. Hardin's domineering nature, craving excitement and control over others, carries him often to the great halls of play; cigar in mouth, he stands unmoved; he watches the chances of play. Nerved with the cognac he loves, he moves quickly to the table; he astonishes all by the deliberate daring of his play. His iron nerve is unshaken by the allurements of the painted dancers and surrounding villains. Towering high above all others, the gifted Mississippian nightly refreshes his jaded emotions. He revels in the varying fortunes of the many games he coolly enjoys. Unheeding others, moving neither right nor left at menace or danger, Hardin scorns this human circus, struggling far below his own mental height.
Heartless and unmoved, he smiles at the weaknesses of others. The strong man led captive in Beauty's train, the bright intellect sinking under the craze of drink, the weak nature shattered by the loss of a few thousands at play—all this pleases him. He sees, with prophetic eye, hundreds of thousands of future dwellers between the Sierras and the sea. His Southern pride looks forward to a control of the great West by the haughty slave-owners.
This Northern trash must disappear! To ride on the top wave of the future successful community, is his settled determination. Without self-surrender, he enjoys every draught of pleasure the cup of life can offer. Without scruple, void of enthusiasm, his passionless heart is unmoved by the joys or sorrows of others. His nature is as steady as the nerve with which he guides his evening pistol practice. The welcome given to Maxime Valois by him arises only from a conviction of that man's future usefulness. The general acceptability of the young Louisianian is undoubted. His blood, creed, and manners prove him worthy of the old Valois family. Their past glories are well known to Philip Hardin. "Bon sang ne peut mentir." Hardin's legal position places him high in the turmoils of the litigations of the great Mexican grants. Already, over the Sonoma, Napa, Santa Clara, San Joaquin and Sacramento valleys all is in jeopardy. The old Dons begin to seek confirmations of the legal lines, to keep the crowding settlers at bay. The mining, trading, and land-grabbing of the Americans are pushed to the limits of the new commonwealth. A backward movement of the poor Mexican natives carries them between the Americans and the yet powerful land barons of their own race. Harassed, unfit to work, unable to cope with the intruders, the native Californians become homeless rovers. They are bitter at heart. Many, in open resentment, rise on the plains or haunt the lonely trails. They are now bandits, horse-thieves, footpads and murderers. True to each other, they establish a chain of secret refuges from Shasta to San Diego. Every marauder of their own blood is safe among them from American pursuers.
Every mining camp and all the settlements are beginning to send refugees of the male foreign criminal classes to join these wandering Mexican bands.
With riot in the camps, licentiousness ruling the cities, and murder besetting every path, there is no safety for the present. California sees no guarantee for the future. Judge Lynch is the only recognized authority. He represents the rough justice of outraged camps and infuriated citizens. Unrepressed violent crimes lead to the retaliatory butchery of vigilance committees. Innocent and guilty suffer without warrant of law. Foreign criminal clans herd together in San Francisco for mutual aid. The different Atlantic cities are separately represented in knots of powerful villains. Politics, gambling, and the elements of wealth flourishing in dens and resorts, are controlled by organized villains. They band together against the good. Only some personal brawl throws them against each other.
Looking at the dangerous mass of vicious men and women, Valois determines that the real strength of the land will lie in the arrivals by the overland caravans. These trains are now filling the valleys with resolute and honest settlers.
His determination holds yet to acquire some large tract of land where he may have a future domain. On professional visits to Sacramento, Stockton, and San Jose he notes the rising of the agricultural power in the interior. In thought he yearns often for the beauties of splendid Lagunitas. Padre Ribaut writes him of the sullen retirement of Don Miguel. He grows more morose daily. Valois learns of the failing of the sorrow-subdued Donna Juanita. The girlish beauty of young Dolores is pictured in these letters. She approaches the early development of her rare beauty. Padre Francisco has his daily occupation in his church and school. The higher education of pretty Dolores is his only luxury. Were it not for this, he would abandon the barren spiritual field and return to France. Already in the canyons of the Mariposa, Fresno, and in the great foot-hills, miners are scratching around the river beds. Hostile settlers are approaching from the valley the Don's boundaries. These signs are ominous.
Padre Francisco writes that as yet Don Miguel is sullenly ferocious. He absolutely refuses any submission of his grant titles to the cursed Gringos. Padre Francisco has not been able to convince the ex-commandante of the power of the great United States. He knows not it can cancel or reject his title to the thousands of rich acres where his cattle graze and his horses sweep in mustang wildness. Even from his very boundaries the plough can now be seen breaking up the breast of the virgin valley. The Don will take no heed. He is blinded by prejudice. Maxime promises the good priest to visit him. He wonders if the savage Don would decline a word. If the frightened, faded wife would deign to speak to the Americano. If the budding beauty would now cast roses slyly at him from the bowers of her childhood.
Maxime's heart is young and warm. He is chilled in his affections. The loss of his parents made his life lonely. Judge Valois, his uncle, has but one child, a boy born since Maxime's departure on the Western adventure. Between Hardin and himself is a bar of twenty years of cool experience. It indurates and blunts any gracefulness Hardin's youth ever possessed. If any man of forty has gained knowledge of good and evil, it is the accomplished Hardin. He is a law unto himself.
Fearing neither God nor man, insensible to tenderness, Philip Hardin looks in vain to refresh his jaded emotions by the every-day diversions of the city by the sea. The daily brawls, the excited vigilance committee of the first winter session of popular justice, and partial burning of the city, leave Hardin unmoved. It is a dismal March night of 1851 when he leaves his residence for a stroll through the resorts of the town. Valois listlessly accompanies him. He does not gamble. To the El Dorado the two slowly saunter. The nightly battle over the heaps of gold is at its height. At the superb marble counter they are served with the choicest beverages and regalias of Vuelta Abajos' best leaf. The human mob is dense. Wailing, passionate music beats upon the air. There is the cry of lost souls in its under-toned pathos. Villany and sentiment go hand in hand at the El Dorado. The songs of old, in voice and symphony, unlock the gates of memory. They leave the lingerers, disarmed, to the tempting allurements of beauty, drink, and gaming.
There is an unusual crowd in the headquarters of gilded folly. Maxime, wandering alone for a few minutes, finds a throng around a table of rouge et noir. It is crowded with eager gamesters. Nodding to one and another, he meets many acquaintances—men have no real friends as yet in this egoistic land. The Louisianian moves toward the goal whither all are tending. Jealous glances are cast by women whose deserted tables show their charms are too well known. All swarm toward a new centre of attraction. Cheeks long unused to the blush of shame are reddened with passion, to see the fickle crowd surge around the game presided over by a new-comer to the sandy shores of San Francisco. She is an unknown goddess.
"What's all this?" asks Maxime, of a man he knows. He is idling now, with an amused smile. He catches a glimpse of the tall form of Philip Hardin in the front row of players, near the yellow bulwarks of gold.
"Why, Valois, you are behind the times!" is the reply. "Don't you know the 'Queen of the El Dorado'?"
"I confess I do not," says the Creole. He has been absent for some time from this resort of men with more gold than brains. "Who is she? What is she?" continues Maxime.
His friend laughs as he gaily replies, "As to what she is, walk up to the table. Throw away an ounce, and look at her. It's worth it. As to who she is, she calls herself Hortense Duval." "I suppose she has as much right to call herself the daughter of the moon as to use that aristocratic name." "My dear boy, she is, for all that—" "Queen Hortense?" "Queen of the El Dorado." He saunters away, to allow Valois a chance to edge his way into the front row. There the dropping gold is raked in by this fresh siren who draws all men to her.
Dressed in robes of price, a young woman sits twirling the arrow of destiny at the treasure-laden table. Her exquisite form is audaciously and recklessly exposed by a daring costume. Her superb arms are bared to the shoulder, save where heavy-gemmed bracelets clasp glittering badges of sin around her slender wrists. An indescribable grace and charm is in every movement of her sinuous body. Her well-poised head is set upon a neck of ivory. The lustrous dark eyes rove around the circle of eager betters with languishing velvety glances. A smile, half a sneer, lingers on the curved lips. Her statuesque beauty of feature is enhanced by the rippling dark masses of hair crowning her lovely brows. In the silky waves of her coronal, shines one diamond star of surpassing richness. In all the pride and freshness of youth her loveliness is unmarred by the tawdry arts of cosmetic and make-up. Unabashed by the admiration she compels, she calmly pursues her exciting calling. The new-comer is well worthy the rank, by general acclaim, of "Queen of the El Dorado." In no way does she notice the eager crowd. She is an impartial priestess of fortune. Maxime waits only to hear her speak. She is silent, save the monosyllabic French words of the game. Is she Cuban, Creole, French, Andalusian, Italian, or a wandering gypsy star? A jewelled dagger-sheath in her corsage speaks of Spain or Italy. Maxime notes the unaccustomed eagerness with which Hardin recklessly plays. He seems determined to attract the especial attention of the divinity of the hour. Hardin's color is unusual. His features are sternly set. Near him stands "French Charlie," one of the deadliest gamesters of the plaza. Equally quick with card, knife, or trigger, the Creole gambler is a man to be avoided. He is as dangerous as the crouching panther in its fearful leap.
Hardin, betting on black, seems to win steadily. "French Charlie" sets his store of ready gold on the red. It is a reckless duel of the two men through the medium of the golden arrow, twirled by the voluptuous stranger.
A sudden idea strikes Valois. He notes the ominous sparkle of "French Charlie's" eye. It is cold as the depths of a mountain-pool. Is Hardin betting on the black to compliment the presiding dark beauty? Murmurs arise among the bystanders. The play grows higher. Valois moves away from the surging crowd, to wait his own opportunity. A glass of wine with a friend enables him to learn her history. She has been pursued by "French Charlie" since her arrival from Panama by steamer. No one knows if the reigning beauty is Havanese or a French Creole. Several aver she speaks French and Spanish with equal ease. English receives a dainty foreign accent from the rosebud lips. Her mysterious identity is guarded by the delighted proprietors. The riches of their deep-jawed safes tell of her wonderful luck, address, or skill.
Charlie has in vain tried to cross the invisible barrier which fences her from the men around her. To-night he is as unlucky in his heavy play, as in arousing any passion in that wonderful beauty of unexplained identity. The management will answer no questions. This nightly excitement feeds on itself. "French Charlie" has been drinking deeply. His play grows more unlucky. Valois moves to the table, to quietly induce Hardin to leave. Some inner foreboding tells Valois there is danger in the gambling duel of the two men he watches. As he forces his way in, Charlie, dashing a last handful of gold upon the red, turns his ferocious eyes on Hardin. The lawyer calmly waits the turn of the arrow. Some quick presentiment reaches the mind of the woman. Her nerves are shaken with the strain of long repression. The arrow trembles on the line in stopping. The queen's eyes, for the first time, catch the burning glances of Philip Hardin. "French Charlie," with an oath, grasps the hand of the woman. She is raking in his lost coins before paying Hardin's bet. It is his last handful of gold.
Maddened with drink and his losses, Charlie yields to jealousy of his victorious neighbor. "French Charlie" roughly twists the wrist of the woman. With a sharp shriek, she snatches the dagger from her bosom. She draws it over the back of the gambler's hand. He howls with pain. Like a flash he tears a knife from his bosom. He springs around the table toward the woman. With a loud scream, she jumps back toward the wall. She seeks to save herself, casting golden showers on the floor, in a rattling avalanche. Before the ready hireling desperadoes of the haunt can seize Charlie, the affrighted circle scatters. Valois' eye catches, the flash of a silver-mounted derringer. Its barking report rings out as "French Charlie's" right arm drops to his side. His bowie-knife falls ringing on the floor. A despairing curse is heard. The Creole gambler snatches, with the other hand, a pistol. He springs like a lion on Philip Hardin. One step back Hardin retreats. No word comes from his closed lips. The mate of the derringer rings out loudly Charlie's death warrant. The gambler crashes to the floor. His heart's blood floods the scattered gold. The pistol is yet clenched in his stiffened left hand. Valois rushes to Hardin. He brushes him aside, and springs to the side of the "Queen of the El Dorado." She falls senseless in his arms. In a few moments the motley crowd has been hurried from the doors. The great entrances are barred. The frightened women dealers seek their dressing-rooms. All fear the results of this brawl. Their cheeks are ashy pale under paint and powder. The treasures are swiftly swept from the gaming tables by the nimble-witted croupiers. Hardin and Valois are left with the unconscious fallen beauty. A couple of the lately organized city police enter and take charge. Even the blood stained gold is gathered from the floor. Light after light is turned out. The main hall has at last no tenants but the night watchman and the police, waiting by the dead gambler. He lies prone on the floor, awaiting his last judge, the city coroner. This genial official is sought from his cards and cups, to certify the causes of death of the outcast of society. A self-demonstrating problem. The gaping wound tells its story.
Valois is speechless and stunned with the quickness of the deadly quarrel. He gloomily watches Hardin supporting the fainting woman. Slowly her eyes unclose. They meet Hardin's in one long, steadfast, inscrutable glance. She shudders and says, "Take me away." She covers her siren face with her jewelled hands, to avoid the sight of the waxy features and stiffening form of the thing lying there. Ten minutes ago it was the embodiment of wildest human passion and tiger-like activity. Vale, "French Charlie."
Hardin has quickly sent for several influential friends. On their arrival he is permitted to leave, escorted by a policeman. The shaken sorceress, whose fatal beauty has thrown two determined men against each other in a sudden duel to the death, walks at his side. There is a bond of blood sealed between them. It is the mere sensation of a night; the talk of an idle day. On the next evening the "El Dorado" is thronged with a great multitude. It is eager to gaze on the wondrous woman's face, for which "French Charlie" died. Their quest is vain. Another daughter of the Paphian divinity presides at the shrine of rouge et noir. The blood-stains are effaced from the floor. A fresh red mound in the city cemetery is the only relic of French Charlie. Philip Hardin, released upon heavy bail, awaits a farcical investigation. After a few days he bears no legal burden of this crime. Only the easy load upon his conscience. Although the mark of Cain sets up a barrier between him and his fellows, and the murder calls for the vengeance of God, Philip Hardin goes his way with unclouded brow. His eyes have a strange new light in them.
The "Queen of the El Dorado" sits no more at the wheel of fortune. Day succeeds to day. Nightly expectation is balked. Her absent charms are magnified in description. The memory of the graceful, dazzling Hortense Duval fades from the men who struggle around the gaming boards of the great "El Dorado." She never shows her charming face again in the hall.
The secret of the disappearance of this mysterious sovereign of chance is known to but few. It is merely surmised by others. To Maxime Valois the bloody occurrence has borne fruits of importance. As soon as some business is arranged, the shadowy barrier of this tragedy divides the two men. Though slight, it is yet such that Valois decides to go to Stockton. The San Joaquin valley offers him a field. Land matters give ample scope to his talents. The investment in lands can be better arranged from there. The Creole is glad to cast his lot in the new community. By sympathy, many Southerners crowd in. They gain control of the beautiful prairies from which the herds of elk and antelope are disappearing.
Philip Hardin's safety is assured. With no open breach of friendship between them, Maxime still feels estranged. He visits the scene of his future residence. His belongings follow him. It was an intuition following a tacit understanding. Man instinctively shuns the murderer.
Maxime never asked of the future of the vanished queen of the El Dorado. In his visits to San Francisco he finds that few cross Philip Hardin's threshold socially. Even these are never bid to come again. Is there a hidden queen in the house on the hill? Rumor says so.
Rising in power, Philip Hardin steadily moves forward. He asks no favors. He seeks no friends. All unmindful is he of the tattle that a veiled lady of elegant appearance sometimes walks under the leafy bowers shading his lovely home.
The excitable populace find new food for gossip. There are more residences than one in San Francisco, where dreamy luxury is hidden within the unromantic wooden boxes called residences.
Fair faces gleam out furtively from these casements. At open doors, across whose thresholds no woman of position ever sets a foot, wealth stands on guard. Silence seals the portals. The vassals of gold wait in velvet slippers. The laws of possession are enforced by the dangers of any trespass on these Western harems.
While the queen city of the West rises rapidly it is only a modern Babylon on the hills of the bay. The influx augments all classes. Every element of present and future usefulness slowly makes headway against the current of mere adventure. Natural obstacles yield to patient, honest industry. California begins in grains, fruits, and all the rich returns of nature, to show that Ceres, Flora, and Pomona are a trinity of witching good fairies. They beckon to the world to wander hither, and rest under these blue-vaulted balmy skies. Near the splendid streams, picturesque ridges, and lovely valleys of the new State, health and happiness may be found, even peace.
The State capital is located, drawn by the golden magnet, at Sacramento. The only conquest left for the dominating Americans, is the development of this rich landed domain. Here, where the Padres dreamed over their monkish breviaries, where the nomad native Californians lived only on the carcasses of their wild herds, the richest plains on earth invite the honest hand of the farmer.
The era of frantic dissipation, wildest license, insane speculation, and temporary abiding wears away. Bower and blossom, bird and bee, begin to adorn the new homes of the Pacific.
Mighty-hearted men, keen of vision, strong of purpose, appear. The face of nature is made to change under the resolute attacks of inventive man. Roads and bridges, wharves and storehouses, telegraph lines, steamer routes, express and stage systems, banks and post-offices, courts, churches, marts and halls, all come as if at magic call. The school-master is abroad. Public offices and records are in working order. Though the fierce hill Indians now and then attack the miners, they are driven back toward the great citadel of the Sacramento River. The huge mountain ranges on the Oregon border are their last fastnesses.
In every community of the growing State, the law is aided by quickly executed decrees of vigilance committees. Self-appointed popular leaders, crafty politicians, scheming preachers, aspiring editors, and ambitious demagogues crop up. They are the mushroom growth of the muck-heap of the new civilization.
Hardin gathers up with friendships the rising men of all the counties. At the newly formed clubs of the city his regular entertainments are a nucleus of a socio-political organization to advance the ambitious lawyer and the cause of the South.
Men say he looks to the Senate, or the Supreme Bench. Maxime Valois, rising in power at Stockton, retains the warmest confidence of Hardin. He knows the crafty advocate is the arch-priest of Secession. Month by month, he is knitting up the web of his dark intrigues. He would unite the daring sons of the South in one great secret organization, ready to strike when the hour of destiny is at hand. It comes nearer, day by day. Here, in this secret cause of the South, Valois' heart and soul go out to Hardin. He feels the South was juggled out of California. Both he and his Mephisto are gazing greedily on the wonderful development of the coast. Even adjoining Arizona and New Mexico begin to fill up. The conspirators know the South is handicapped in the irrepressible conflict unless some diversion is made in the West. They must secure for the states of the Southern Republic their aliquot share of the varied treasures of the West. The rich spoil of an unholy war.
Far-seeing and wise is the pupil of Calhoun and Slidell. He is the coadjutor of the subtle Gwin. Hardin feeds the flame of Maxime Valois' ardor. The business friendship of the men continues unabated. They need each other. With rare delicacy, Valois never refers to the blood-bought "beauty of the El Dorado." Her graceful form never throws its shadow over the threshold of the luxurious home of the lawyer. On rare visits to the residence of his friend, Valois' quick eye notes the evidence of a reigning divinity. A piano and a guitar, a scarf here, a few womanly treasures there, are indications of a "manage a deux." They prove to Maxime that the Egeria of this intellectual king lingers near her victim. He is still under her mystic spell. Breasting the tide of litigation in the United States and State courts, popular and ardent, the Louisianian thrives. He rises into independent manhood. He is toasted in Sacramento, where in legislative halls his fiery eloquence distinguishes him. He is the king of the San Joaquin valley.
Preserving his friendship with the clergy, still warmly allied to Padre Francisco, Maxime Valois gradually gains an unquestioned leadership. His friends at New Orleans are proud of this young pilgrim from "Belle Etoile." Judge Valois hopes that the coming man will return to Louisiana in search of some bright daughter of that sunny land, a goddess to share the honors of the younger branch of the old Valois family. Rosy dreams!
Maxima, satisfied, yet not happy, sees a great commonwealth grow up around him. Looking under the tides of the political struggles, he can feel the undertow of the future. It seems to drag him back to the old Southern land of his birth, "Home to Dixie."