kicked him in the head, and the second man, holding a knife low down in his right hand, took the moment to move in.
Jean struck swiftly with the barrel of his pistol, hastily drawn. The descending weapon caught the knife-wrist and the knife clattered on the dock, the man dropping to his knees clutching a broken wrist. The man he kicked was on his feet now but Jean had him stopped with the gun muzzle. “Can you swim?” Jean asked pleasantly.
“Huh?”
“I hope you can,” LaBarge continued, “because you’re jumping in.”
“I’ll be damned if—!”
“Jump.” LaBarge spoke conversationally. “If you can’t swim, you can drown, but don’t try climbing back on this dock or I’ll part your hair with a bullet.” “You won’t get away with this!” The man was impotent with fury. “Yankee will—!”
“Jump ... I’ll talk to Yankee.”
“He’ll smash yer!” The man shouted from the dock edge. “He’ll blind yer! He’ll bash yer bloody fyce! He’ll—“ The pistol lifted and drew a line on the man’s head. The water would be cold but a grave was colder still. As Jean’s arm straightened the fellow jumped. There was a splash and then the floundering of a poor swimmer. Jean LaBarge turned and walked to the others. Freel was sitting up, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his nose. The knifeman clutched his broken wrist, moaning. “Yankee shouldn’t send boys to do a man’s job,” he said, and catching Freel by the coat he jerked him to his feet. Twisting him around, Jean began to go through the hoodlum’s pockets.
Freel tried to pull away but Jean threatened him with the gun barrel. “You can take it standing still or lying on the dock with a split skull. Make up your mind.”
“I’ll stand,” Freel said hoarsely.
There were several gold coins in his pockets, and the coins were Russian. Jean pocketed the lot, then went to the man with the broken wrist. “Yours, too.” “I ain’t got a thing!” he protested. “They wasn’t to pay me—“ “Stand up!”
Shakily, the man got to his feet. There were three gold coins in his pocket. The man began to curse bitterly.
“You didn’t do the job,” LaBarge told them. “I’ll return these to Yankee.”
“I wish you would!” Freel’s voice was bitter. “I just wish you had the guts.”
That area of San Francisco of the 1850’s and 60’s that lay back of Clark’s Point was a hellhole of dives and brothels. Robbery was too frequent to warrant mention, and murder a nightly occurrence. To walk that area in safety one must be a pimp, a prostitute, or a thug, and along such streets as Pacific, Jackson, Washington, Davis, Drum, Front, Battery and East (the Embarcadero) moved some of the choicest rascals unhung. The shanghaiing of sailors was a major industry, engaged in by at least twenty gangs who worked in close association with keepers of brothels and cheap saloons.
Another closely allied gang was that which specialized in claim jumping within the city. The absent owner of a lot might return to find a thug in possession who enforced his point of possession with a pistol. Litigation was a long-drawn-out affair and more often than not decided in favor of the claim jumper. All of this Jean LaBarge knew and like most residents accepted it as part and parcel of a booming seaport with gold in the back country. Trouble had so far avoided him and he had avoided trouble.
Freel and his men had acted, without doubt, as directed by Yankee Sullivan. Now the lads of Sydney Town must be taught, once and for all, that action against Hutchins or himself would meet with immediate reprisal. One sign of weakness and they would be stripped of all they possessed. He could move against Denny O’Brien, but such a move would not be nearly so effective as against Sullivan himself.
Yankee Sullivan, born James Ambrose, in County Cork, Ireland, had grown up in the slums of East London. As a hard-fisted young Irishman in Whitechapel he won a
Jean struck swiftly with the barrel of his pistol, hastily drawn. The descending weapon caught the knife-wrist and the knife clattered on the dock, the man dropping to his knees clutching a broken wrist. The man he kicked was on his feet now but Jean had him stopped with the gun muzzle. “Can you swim?” Jean asked pleasantly.
“Huh?”
“I hope you can,” LaBarge continued, “because you’re jumping in.”
“I’ll be damned if—!”
“Jump.” LaBarge spoke conversationally. “If you can’t swim, you can drown, but don’t try climbing back on this dock or I’ll part your hair with a bullet.” “You won’t get away with this!” The man was impotent with fury. “Yankee will—!”
“Jump ... I’ll talk to Yankee.”
“He’ll smash yer!” The man shouted from the dock edge. “He’ll blind yer! He’ll bash yer bloody fyce! He’ll—“ The pistol lifted and drew a line on the man’s head. The water would be cold but a grave was colder still. As Jean’s arm straightened the fellow jumped. There was a splash and then the floundering of a poor swimmer. Jean LaBarge turned and walked to the others. Freel was sitting up, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his nose. The knifeman clutched his broken wrist, moaning. “Yankee shouldn’t send boys to do a man’s job,” he said, and catching Freel by the coat he jerked him to his feet. Twisting him around, Jean began to go through the hoodlum’s pockets.
Freel tried to pull away but Jean threatened him with the gun barrel. “You can take it standing still or lying on the dock with a split skull. Make up your mind.”
“I’ll stand,” Freel said hoarsely.
There were several gold coins in his pockets, and the coins were Russian. Jean pocketed the lot, then went to the man with the broken wrist. “Yours, too.” “I ain’t got a thing!” he protested. “They wasn’t to pay me—“ “Stand up!”
Shakily, the man got to his feet. There were three gold coins in his pocket. The man began to curse bitterly.
“You didn’t do the job,” LaBarge told them. “I’ll return these to Yankee.”
“I wish you would!” Freel’s voice was bitter. “I just wish you had the guts.”
That area of San Francisco of the 1850’s and 60’s that lay back of Clark’s Point was a hellhole of dives and brothels. Robbery was too frequent to warrant mention, and murder a nightly occurrence. To walk that area in safety one must be a pimp, a prostitute, or a thug, and along such streets as Pacific, Jackson, Washington, Davis, Drum, Front, Battery and East (the Embarcadero) moved some of the choicest rascals unhung. The shanghaiing of sailors was a major industry, engaged in by at least twenty gangs who worked in close association with keepers of brothels and cheap saloons.
Another closely allied gang was that which specialized in claim jumping within the city. The absent owner of a lot might return to find a thug in possession who enforced his point of possession with a pistol. Litigation was a long-drawn-out affair and more often than not decided in favor of the claim jumper. All of this Jean LaBarge knew and like most residents accepted it as part and parcel of a booming seaport with gold in the back country. Trouble had so far avoided him and he had avoided trouble.
Freel and his men had acted, without doubt, as directed by Yankee Sullivan. Now the lads of Sydney Town must be taught, once and for all, that action against Hutchins or himself would meet with immediate reprisal. One sign of weakness and they would be stripped of all they possessed. He could move against Denny O’Brien, but such a move would not be nearly so effective as against Sullivan himself.
Yankee Sullivan, born James Ambrose, in County Cork, Ireland, had grown up in the slums of East London. As a hard-fisted young Irishman in Whitechapel he won a
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