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Updated: June 7, 2025
I ain't squealin' on a pal when I tell you this, neither," with a little flash of his old defiance. "Broderick's no pal of mine. The dirty cur. He could of got me clear.... He wanted to make 'em give me up, to git the reward.... Their game is to make folks think you been doing these things, and to send you up for 'em."
Are you a witch or a magician?" asked Olivia, in her astonished voice. It was pure guess-work on Mrs. Broderick's part, but as usual her keen wits had grazed the truth. Olivia, who had a healthy girlish appetite, had risen from the midday meal almost as hungry as when she had sat down. The dish of hashed mutton had been small, and if Olivia had eaten her share, Martha would have fared badly.
"But they'll never save it. Looks like a clean sweep of the block." Broderick's commanding figure could be seen rushing hither and thither. "No use," Benito heard him say to one of his lieutenants. "Water won't stop it. Not enough.... Is there any powder hereabouts?" "Powder!" cried the other with a blanching face. "By the Eternal, yes! A store of it is just around the corner.
The San Francisco papers for that matter, all the journals of the nation printed Broderick's words conspicuously. And, as they held with North or South, with Abolition or with Slavery, they praised or censured him.
Broderick was intensely surprised, for she quite flushed up with excitement. "Go on. Tell me everything from the beginning. I will not interrupt," she said, quickly, and Olivia, nothing loath, gave a graphic account of the afternoon at Galvaston House. "Is it not grand, Aunt Madge?" she finished, but Mrs. Broderick's voice was not so steady as usual as she answered,
An outraged people deposed Judge Hardy, who so feebly prosecuted the slayer of Broderick. Every avenue was guarded. Conspiracy fled to back rooms and side streets. Here were no Federal wrongs to redress. On the spot where Broderick's body lay, under Baker's oratory, the multitude listened to the awakened patriots of the West. The Pacific Coast was saved.
Broderick's voice and eyes alike were eager. "He swallowed it whole," laughed Pollard. Broderick laughed with him, and then suddenly, the laughter going out of his voice, his hand shutting down tight upon Pollard's arm and drawing him away further from the door, deeper into the shadows, his words almost a whisper, he said: "He danced with Winifred. You saw that?" "Yes, damn him.
But she knew, too, that Henry Pollard was taking no chances he did not have to take. He was a man to play close to the table. She had time to determine that she would succeed in this one vital point, time to hope, to fear, to lose hope a dozen times, before her chance came. She heard a step on the walk under the pear trees, Broderick's step, she thought swiftly, despairingly.
Then, with a careful eye to every shell, he loaded them again. When he once more threw his door open and went outside his eyes were a little regretful but very, very hard. He was inclined to believe that Winifred was mistaken in judging Ben Broderick's to be the brains of this thing. He thought that he saw Pollard's hand directing.
About eighty spectators, friends of the participants, were present. The distance was the usual ten paces. Both pistols had hair triggers, but Broderick's was more delicately set than Terry's, so much so that a jar might discharge it. Broderick's seconds were inexperienced men, and no one realized the importance of this difference. At the word both raised their weapons.
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