CHAPTER XL
THE STORM GATHERS
It was Nesbitt who told Broderick of the murder. Nesbitt, of whom Richardson had said the night before, "he slings a wicked pen."
"My God, Jim, this is awful!" Broderick exclaimed. "You're sure there's no mistake ... I saw the two of them go out arm in arm."
"Mistake! I wish it were," cried Nesbitt angrily. "No, poor Billy Richardson is dead. Cora's in jail.... They say Cora laughed when he went to prison with Scannell.... Scannell and Mulligan!" He spat out the words with a savage distaste.
"Let me show you something, Dave. A reporter from the New York Express was out here gathering data--crime statistics for the year. He showed it to me. Listen to this: Four hundred and eighty-nine murders in California during ten months. Six executions by sheriffs, forty-six hanged by mobs; that makes fifty-two in all."
He tapped the paper with his lean forefinger. "Probably two hundred of these killings were local.... And in the entire history of this city there's been exactly one legal execution. That was in 1852."
Broderick shook his head. "What are you going to do with that stuff?" asked Broderick.
"Publish it in the Bulletin," returned Nesbitt decisively. "We're going to stir things up."
They walked along together, Broderick's head bent in thought. Everywhere people were discussing the evening's tragedy. More than once "Judge Lynch's" name was mentioned threateningly.