CHAPTER XXXIX

RICHARDSON AND CORA

Business went on with at least a surface calm of new stability.  Politics brought forth occasional eruptions, mostly twixt the Abolitionists and Slavery parties.  Each claimed California.  Broderick more than ever held the reins of state and city government.  But the latter proved a fractious steed.  For all his dauntless vigor and political astuteness, Destiny as yet withheld from Broderick the coveted United States senatorship.  At best he had achieved an impasse, a dog-in-the-manger victory.  By preventing the election of a rival he had gained little and incurred much censure for depriving the State of national representation.  Benito and Alice tried to rouse him from a fit of moodiness as he dined with them one evening in November.  Lately he had made a frequent, always-welcome third at their evening meal.

“Cheer up, Dave,” Benito rallied, as he raised a glass of wine.  “We’ll be reading your speeches in the Washington reports before many years have gone by.  Come,” he said to his wife, “let’s drink to the future of ‘The Gentleman from California.’”

Broderick smiled; his glass clinked against those of his two companions.  He gazed a moment musingly at both; then quaffed his liquor with a touch of haste.

Alice Windham’s eyes were troubled.  “David,” she was hesitant, yet earnest.  “It is really necessary to associate with people such as—­well, you know ...  James Casey, Billy Mulligan, McGowan?”

He answered her with a vehemence close to anger.  “Politicians cannot choose their weapons.  They must fight fire with fire ... or lose.”  For a moment the talk lagged.  Then Benito, with his sprightly gossip, sent it rolling on.  “Sherman has turned Jim Casey and his Sunday Times out of the Turner-Lucas building ... for attacking the banks.”

“He threatened to, some time ago,” said Broderick....  “How goes it with your law, Benito?”

“Well enough,” said Windham, as his wife rose.  She left them to attend the child, which had awakened.  Broderick stared after her, a brooding hunger in his eyes.  Presently, he, too, arose, and despite Benito’s urging, departed.

It was dusk when he reached the Blue Wing saloon, where “Judge” McGowan awaited him.  A burly, forceful man, with bushy eyebrows, a walrus moustache perpetually tobacco-stained, and an air of ruthless command.  “Where’ve you been?” he asked, impatiently, but did not wait for an answer.  “Casey’s in trouble again.”

“What’s the matter now?” asked Broderick with a swift, half anxious uplift of the chin.

“Oh, not his fault exactly,” said the other.  “Five of Gwin’s men attacked him.  Tried to kill him probably.  But Jim’s a tough lad.  He laid one out, took his pistol and shot another.  The rest vamoosed.  Jim’s in jail ... for disturbing the peace,” he added, chuckling grimly.