Rush to Judgment

                                                                                     

Harper's Weekly: How we got gold in California. 1860. Public domain.

I wasn’t particularly fazed by the old prospector’s remark.  He wasn’t the first person to call me a thief.  As I had done so many times before, I simply explained that a thief takes your money without your knowledge or permission, and I was guilty of no such thing. Besides, Sam Brannan’s store at Sutter’s Fort was selling supplies at seven times the normal cost; mine were only triple.

Grumbling, he shoved a callused hand into his pocket, then fished out a double eagle, which he plunked down on the counter.  He was maybe sixty, with a bushy white beard, deep blue eyes and brown, crinkled skin.  He wore old black brogans, a pair of blue overalls and a wide-brimmed straw hat.  His son, a monstrous cretin about twenty years younger and a foot taller, stood beside him, scowling at me.  

I handed the old man his change.  “Thank you for your purchase at Sharp’s Hardware and General Store,” I chimed cheerily, not without the slightest touch of sarcasm.

“Twelve dollars,” the old man muttered as he shuffled out the door, followed by Goliath, who was holding the shiny new shovel.  

I looked at my watch.  Half past one.  I hadn’t eaten all day.  When business was good, which was usually the case, I often forgot to eat.  But I was awfully hungry.  “Isaac,” I called to my stock boy.  

I met Isaac nearly two years ago, while unloading a case of hammers, picks and shovels that had just arrived by steamship from San Francisco. A week after losing both his parents and an older sister to cholera, Isaac chanced to wander into my store, and asked me if I needed any help. I studied this 11-year old urchin, who was wearing a pair of old gray trousers, suspenders, a dirty yellow shirt and oversized brown shoes.  Feeling optimistic and altruistic at the same time, I told him, “Sure, son.”

     He came out of the back room, wearing a dusty white apron and holding a broom in both hands.  

     

       “Yes, Mr. Sharp?”

“I’m going to get some lunch.  Keep an eye on the place.”

“Yes, sir.”

I stepped outside into a warm, sunny late September afternoon, a soft easterly breeze at my back as I walked down J Street to Second. Clara’s Kitchen, operated by Clara Brandish, sat across from the Union Hotel.  The place wasn’t fancy, a simple wooden building that looked too small from the outside.  But inside was a clean, comfortable room with eight round wooden tables and a small counter, above which was mounted the head of a 12-point buck.  A back room served as the kitchen. Clara made the best soups, stews and roasts in town, in my humble opinion, an opinion shared by numerous others.  Passers-by were also drawn inside by the aroma of black bread baking, or pastries fresh out of the oven.

The first sight that greeted patrons of Clara’s Kitchen was not an especially welcoming one.  Miguel, a large, muscular Mexican with a pock-marked face and rotten teeth, sat stretched out in a chair in the corner, lackadaisically whittling a pine branch with a Bowie knife.  Miguel was an ex-vaquero once employed at the ranch of Mariano Guadalupe Vallejo, the fabulously-wealthy Californio who lost everything after the Mexican War.  Clara paid Miguel twenty dollars a week to ensure that there was no trouble in her establishment, and there never was.  Being that they were three women in a town full of rowdy, drunken and licentious men, Clara and her two cooks apparently took some comfort in Miguel’s intimidating appearance.  He made me think of a eunuch in a harem, but of course I never told him that.

I bought a bowl of potato chowder, two corn muffins, a slice of apple pie, and a pot of black coffee.  I sat near the counter, next to a pair of Indian men who were probably laborers.  Clara was talking to a gentleman seated at a table near the door. Clara was a tall, well-proportioned woman of about thirty, with long, dirty blonde hair and wild green eyes.  

     

     Clara’s gentleman friend wore a light blue pinstripe suit with a red pocket handkerchief, and a matching tie with a silver stickpin.  A black derby completed him.  I recognized the fellow.  He was Absalom McCrae, former partner of Clara’s husband, Bradford.  Absalom and Bradford came to Sacramento in fifty-one, after traveling for three months with a wagon train from Independence, Missouri.  But most of the surface gold had been harvested by then, and the pair soon discovered that they had neither the patience nor the endurance that serious mining required.  Subsequently, they dissolved their partnership.  Bradford set out for San Francisco in March of ‘fifty-two, leaving his new bride, and no one had seen or heard from him since.  Clara didn’t seem to particularly care, since she was doing just fine on her own.  Absalom stayed in town, mostly drinking and gambling.  

Just as I was sipping the last of my coffee, the door opened, and a lanky man about Clara’s age entered, with a bag of letters slung over his shoulder.  I had seen him before delivering the mail which came twice a month by steamship at the Embarcadero.  He dropped an envelope onto the table, nodded briefly to Clara, turned around, and in a second was out the door.  Picking up the piece of mail, Clara walked back to the kitchen.  Tearing open the envelope, she pulled out the letter with one hand and read.  Her expression suggested ill tidings.  Folding the single sheet of paper, she stuck it back into the envelope, which she stuffed into her shirt.  Susan, one of Clara’s cooks, watched intently.  

“Are you all right, Clara?” she asked.

“Yeah, I- I’m all right,” Clara stammered.  “It’s from my sister in Wichita.  She says our Aunt Belinda has consumption.”  

“I’m so sorry,” Susan offered.

Miguel suddenly paused from his whittling and looked at the two women, curious.  I finished my coffee and left.

The following day, after I had closed the store, I was headed for a drink at Balder’s Tavern, when I noticed a small crowd gathered along Ninth Street, between H and I streets.  Peering over the thirty or so heads before me, I saw a man and a woman, about fifteen feet apart from each other, standing on the porch of an abandoned building.  She was a petite Chinese lady with a pair of chop sticks crossed through her black hair, which was tied into a bun.  She wore a blue silk outfit with pearl buttons and floral designs on the blouse.  She stood with her back to a thick wooden board, which was wedged between a pair of empty ship cargo containers, and buttressed by four or five smaller planks nailed into the wood at both ends.   From the board behind her protruded half a dozen steel throwing knives, outlining the entire left side of her tiny frame. Throwing the deadly projectiles with uncanny accuracy was a Chinese man, dressed in baggy white shirt and pants, a kepi, and a pair of wooden shoes.  A thin, braided black ponytail dangled to his waist.  

Reaching into his pocket, the man withdrew a shiny object, pulled back his right arm and hurled.  I started as a blade sprouted from the wood above the woman’s head and quivered momentarily after a solid thump. This spectacle was followed by loud cheering and shouting.  A minute later the show was over, at which point a rotund, middle-aged man in a black tuxedo and top hat announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, give a big round of applause for the amazing Ko Kwan and his lovely wife, Ping!”  He passed the top hat around to the audience members, some of whom deposited a coin or two.   A few waved the hat away derisively.

I sat in Balder’s an hour later, sharing a bottle of whiskey with Charlie Tanner, the local marshal.  Charlie was a grizzled Mexican War veteran who had lost his left pinky at Palo Alto.  He was a friendly sort who knew most of the merchants and business folks in town, though he wasn’t the most vigilant lawman.  Still, he tried to keep some semblance of order in a thoroughly disorderly town.  I mentioned the Chinese knife-thrower and his wife, and Charlie nodded.

“I seen him before,” Charlie said.  “Always wears them white pajamas.”

“Something like that,” I replied, and took another sip from my glass of whiskey.

“I liked them French dancing ladies better,” Charlie said thoughtfully.  “The ones who was at the Eagle Theater a couple years ago.”

The sound of  breaking glass caught my attention, and Charlie and I both turned to see a man with long, greasy blond hair and a three-day beard, standing up at a table with four other men, all of whom held a hand of cards.  A small pile of money and an oil lamp sat roughly in the center of the table, and each man had a glass of whiskey within easy reach.  Clutched in the right hand of the fellow standing up was half a bottle, its jagged edges gleaming like a grizzly’s teeth.  Sitting directly across from the irate gambler was good old Absalom McCrae, who appeared surprisingly calm.

“Let’s see what you’re hidin’ in your right hand,” the man with the broken bottle snarled drunkenly.  “Turn it over!”

On Absalom’s right hand was a gold, V-shaped ring, its point facing inward.  Making a semi-circle in the air, Absalom turned his hand over, resting his knuckles against the table, and exposed his empty palm.

“Whatever you say, friend,” Absalom replied.

The disgruntled poker player was solidly perplexed, almost disappointed at having to curtail his tirade.  

At this point, Charlie stood up and faced the group of card players, his right hand poised above the holstered Colt Navy revolver on his belt.  

“That’s enough, Colin,” he told the man.  “Now either sit down and play nice, or get out.”

Then just as quickly as the fit of temper had come upon him it passed, and Colin sat back down, set the broken bottle on the table, and resumed his game of cards.  Absalom was as cool as ever.  He shuffled the deck expertly, the cards flying from his left to his right hand.  

“Do you think McCrae cheats at cards?” I asked Charlie discreetly.

“Hell, yes,” Charlie said.  “One of these days he’s gonna get caught red-handed, and I won’t be here to save him.  But apparently not tonight.”

That wasn’t the end of the evening’s entertainment.  Just 15 minutes had passed when the place got really quiet.  This time the source of the disturbance was the amazing Ko Kwan, sans the missus.  He entered the place and walked right up to the bar, ignoring the stares that followed his every step.  

“Please give to me one beer,” he said.  

The bar tender regarded him coldly for a few moments, saying nothing.  Finally he complied.  “One dollar,” he told Kwan.  The regular price was fifty cents.  

Kwan paid.  The whole time, a young woman with thick red curls and a long blue dress had been studying him. She continued to observe as Kwan downed the entire beer with one gulp, and set the empty glass down.  Then she asked him, “How do you see with them eyes?” 

Kwan ignored the remark, turned and started to go.  He walked past the table where Absalom and his associates were playing poker.  As he did, Colin stuck out his foot, tripping him.  Absalom rushed to help the Chinaman to his feet.  Kwan brushed himself off, clenched his fists, and glared fiercely at Colin.    

“What’re you gonna do?” Colin challenged him.  

Absalom intervened.  “Colin, leave him alone.”

“Butt out, Abbie,” Colin said.

Charlie sighed loudly, and stood up again.  “Damn it, Colin, ain’t you caused enough trouble for one night?”  

Colin regarded the marshal scornfully.  “He oughta watch where he’s goin’.”  

Another killing had thus been averted by our sometimes-vigilant marshal.  At least until later that evening.

I headed to my habitual dining establishment at noon the following day, this time promising to bring back some shepherd’s pie for Isaac.  When I arrived at Clara’s Kitchen, though, a closed sign hung on the door.  Puzzled, I tried to think of where else I might go.  Suddenly I heard Charlie Tanner’s voice behind me.

“Sherman,” he said.  “Good afternoon.  I guess you didn’t hear yet.”

Charlie approached me from across the street, flanked by Dan Colliton and Roy Cartwright, his two deputies.  

“No, Charlie, I didn’t hear anything,” I replied.  

“Bradford Brandish arrived last night,” he informed me.  “Somewhere between eight and ten, we figure.”

“And Clara is spending some time with him now?” I asked.

“Well, sort of,” Charlie said hesitantly.  “But not exactly.” He drew a deep breath.            

      “Somebody found him about a mile outside of town, with a knife stuck through his heart.”

I shouldn’t have been particularly shocked.  Murder wasn’t uncommon in Sacramento.  But who wanted Bradford dead?  Charlie told me that the murder weapon was a throwing knife that matched 12 others found in Ko Kwan’s possession.  The six-inch blade was buried almost completely in Bradford’s chest, right through his leather vest.  Robbery was apparently the motive, as all of his pockets had been turned inside out, and his saddle bags were empty.  Bradford’s mule was found standing a few yards away.  Apparently, questioning the mule had produced no results.

“Where’s Kwan right now?” I asked.

“He’s in the jail,” Charlie answered, his tone implying stupidity on my part.  “Says he didn’t do it, of course, and that he was at home, but he was awful mad when he left the saloon last night, and the way I figure, he just attacked some white fellow at random.  Just happened to be Bradford.  I got Arnie Bellington guarding him, but there’s a crowd outside that wants to lynch Kwan.  I figure we’ll try to get a jury together by tomorrow afternoon for a trial, then hang him on Friday.”

I shook my head.  “It doesn’t make any sense,” I said.  “Why would Kwan kill Bradford, and why would he leave the knife stuck in the body?  That’s just plain stupid.”

“Maybe he panicked, got scared and forgot his knife,” Deputy Dan suggested.

“But he wasn’t too scared to go through Bradford’s pockets and saddlebags?” I said.

“Look, Sherman,” said Charlie.  “I don’t know why a Chinaman does what he does.  But his knife was the murder weapon, and we all seen what he can do with them knives of his.”

But I still wasn’t satisfied.  “Does Kwan’s wife corroborate his alibi?”

“Does she cooperate what?” Charlie said.

“Does she say that her husband was at home with her at the time?”

“She don’t speak no English,” Charlie replied.  

I nodded.  “Okay, Charlie, I’ll see you later.”  I turned to go.  Then I remembered something.  “Oh, Charlie, just one more thing.”

Charlie sighed in exasperation.  “What is it, Sherman?”

“Was Kwan wearing the same clothing that he wore last night at the bar?”

Charlie was nonplussed.  “You mean them white pajamas?  Yeah, he was. Why?”

“No reason,” I said.  “Thanks, Charlie.”  

     I returned to my shop and asked Isaac to cover for me the rest of the afternoon, in return for which I’d give him tomorrow off.  I was going to play a little poker at Balder’s.

As a rule, I never drank nor gambled when I was supposed to be running the store, but this was a rule that I needed to break today.  Balder’s was fairly busy, even at two in the afternoon, and I found Absalom and three of his poker pals sitting at the same table, like they had never left.  Except for Colin, whose seat was conspicuously vacant.  

“Afternoon, Abbie, gentlemen,” I said, waving my hand at the group.  “Have room for a fifth?”

Absalom, chewing on a thick black cigar, gestured toward the empty chair.  “Penny ante,” he informed me.  I took a seat.

“Where’s your friend Colin today?”  I began, setting a stack of coins in front of me.

Absalom finished dealing the current hand, neatly tossing me my fifth card.  “Don’t know,” he replied.  “Haven’t seen him since last night.  He left right after that Chinaman did.  Guess you heard what Kwan did to my old pal Brad?”

For someone who had just lost an “old pal,” Absalom seemed quite composed.

“Murderin’ yellow bastard,” said the player to my left, a red-faced old man with a nose like a garlic bulb.

“You just can’t be nice to some folks,” Absalom said, plucking a stray hair from a gray tweed suit coat that he was wearing.

I remarked that Colin hadn’t been particularly nice to Kwan, to which Absalom replied that that didn’t give Kwan any reason to kill Bradford. 

I then turned my attention to the cards in my hand.  A pair of twos –hearts and clubs- and a three, four and five of spades.  If I wanted to be incredibly daring, as well as stupid, I could ditch one of the twos and hope for an outside straight, or stupider still, discard the pair and hope for a straight-flush.  But I wasn’t that stupid.  I tossed three cards onto the table.

The man to my right, Earl, apparently was that stupid.   He asked for one card, bluffed for a couple rounds, then cursing, tossed down a five, ten, jack, queen and ace.  Absalom won that hand, and the next three in a row.  

After Earl repeated his folly a few minutes later, Garlic Bulb Nose, whose name was Minter, laughed riotously.  “Earl,” he gasped. “I don’t know why your wife lets you have any money,” he said.  

After playing for a half an hour, I was down only two dollars.  If Absalom cheated, as Charlie had maintained, he was smart enough to show some restraint.  He even bought everyone at the table a round of drinks.  When the serving girl arrived at our table, Absalom produced a three-cent silver trime from his pocket, and displayed the coin in his open palm.

“Wanna see something?” he asked her.

“Sure,” she replied.

He closed his hand, then rubbed his fingertips against his palm.  When he opened his hand again, the coin had disappeared.

I gave a low whistle.  

“Where’d it go?” the girl asked.  

Absalom then reached for her ear, seemingly pulling out the coin.

“That is amazing!” she exclaimed, genuinely impressed.  

I played two more hands, winning the second one.  Then excusing myself, I thanked Absalom and company, and headed to the marshal’s office as fast as I could.

If Charlie had been fed up with me earlier that afternoon, that was nothing compared to how he felt toward me now.  He sat at this desk with his hands out in front of him, shaking his head.

“What do you mean Absalom McCrae killed Bradford Brandish?” he asked.  “We found Kwan’s knife in the body.  That’s good enough for me.”

“Because McCrae stole Kwan’s knife,” I replied.  “Look at the facts, Charlie.  “The knife was stuck deep in Bradford’s chest, right through his leather vest.  And he was killed at night.  How could Kwan have thrown a knife right into his heart in the dark, and with enough force to go that deep?” For emphasis, I leaned forward, and pounded my fist on Charlie’s desk.  I immediately realized that this last action was a mistake.

“Sorry,” I said, in response to the irritation evident on Charlie’s face.  “But there’s no way that Kwan’s knife could’ve been thrown into Bradford’s chest.”

Charlie shrugged.  “So Kwan stabbed him.”

“You remember what Bradford used to say about the Chinese?  That he wished they would all go back where they came from instead of stealing our gold?”

Charlie just nodded.

“Why would he let a strange Chinaman get close enough to knife him? Bradford always carried a loaded gun.  The killer was someone who knew Bradford, well enough that Bradford dismounted his mule, approached the killer, and shook his hand.  That’s when it 

happened. . .wham!”  I made a sudden stabbing gesture, which startled Charlie.

“Sorry,” I said again.  “And since everybody shakes with his right hand, the killer, who was left-handed, stabbed Bradford with his left hand.  McCrae’s left-handed.”

Charlie wasn’t convinced.  “Just because McCrae is left-handed don’t make him a killer,” he said.  “Dan’s left-handed,” he added, referring to his deputy.  “That don’t mean he killed Bradford.”

“How about the blood on the killer’s clothes?” I said.

“There was no blood,” said Charlie.

“Exactly,” I pointed out.  “If Kwan stabbed Bradford through the heart, how come there were no blood stains on his ‘white pajamas,’ the ones that he always wears?  And how come McCrae is wearing a gray tweed coat today, instead of the one that matches his pinstripe suit?”

Charlie was perplexed now.  That was a start.  “I don’t know,” he said hesitantly.  “Why would Abbie kill his old pard?  There wasn’t no bad blood between them.”

“Maybe there was,” I suggested.  “And I think that maybe Clara had something to do with this whole business.  She got a letter two days ago, which she claimed was from her sister in Wichita. Only this letter came in by steamship, at the dock, and a letter from Wichita would’ve come by stagecoach or by mule, first through Fort Laramie, then on to Salt Lake City, then here.  I think that letter was from her husband in San Francisco.”

“Fine, fine,” Charlie conceded.  “But how did McCrae get hold of Kwan’s knife?”

“McCrae’s fast with this hands, has to be,” I explained.  “That’s how he cheats at cards. This afternoon, he entertained us with an impressive bit of legerdemain.”

“Of what?” Charlie said.

“A really good parlor trick,” I said.  “Worthy of a magician, which I suspect is in his background somewhere.  “He sometimes hides cards in his hand, with the help of that V-shaped ring.  After Colin tripped him, McCrae helped Kwan to his feet, ostensibly to be polite.  That’s when he took Kwan’s knife.”

Charlie stood up.  “All right,” he said.  “Dan and me will go have a talk with McCrae.” He pointed at me.  “But if you’re wrong on this, Sherman, I will be most displeased.”

“Fair enough, Charlie,” I agreed.

Fortunately for me, I was right, and Charlie’s veiled threat was never carried out.  Either hubris or negligence was Absalom’s undoing: when Charlie and Dan searched his room they found the incriminating pinstriped suit coat stuffed in a drawer –its left sleeve stained with blood- along with Bradford’s loaded pistol.  The stolen money Absalom had already parlayed into poker winnings.  When Clara was questioned, she confessed to paying Absalom two hundred dollars to get rid of her husband, after she read in the letter that her husband was coming to town.  Bradford had left for San Francisco with nearly all of the couple’s money, which he eventually lost there, too.  “I would’ve been a fool to let him do it all over again,” she said.

About a week later, everything had settled down as much as possible.  Kwan, once again a free man, left with his wife for Los Angeles, never to grace our humble city with his presence again.  Not that I blamed him.  Isaac and I were about to close shop for the day when a familiar face appeared at the counter, two familiar faces, albeit not the friendliest.  The old prospector and his prodigious progeny.

The old man glared at me hard.  “I hope you’re satisfied,” he said.

“Look sir,” I told him.  “I’m sorry if you’re not happy with my prices, but there are no refunds or exchanges, except in the unlikely event that my merchandise is defective.  That was a brand new shovel.”

“Shovel be damned!” he shouted.  “Thanks to you, I have to walk two miles outta my way to get an apple pie, ever since they closed Clara’s place.”  With that, he and his son departed, slamming the door in their wake.

I turned to a wide-eyed Isaac and smiled. “You just can’t be nice to some folks,” I said.