shouting threats and waving their
firebrands. "They're a hell-bent crew," he said to William Coleman. "Is
your posse ready?"

"Yes," he answered, "they've assembled near the dock. I've twenty
companies."

"Good.... You'll need 'em all."

As he spoke a tongue of flame leaped upward from the darkness. Another
and another.

"They've fired the lumber yards," the chief said. "I expected that.
There is fire apparatus on the spot.... It's time to move."

He spurred forward, rounding up his officers. Coleman rode silently
toward the entrance of the docks. Very soon a bugle sounded. There were
staccato orders; then a tramp of feet.

The Citizens' army moved in perfect unison toward the fires. Already
engines were at work. One blaze was extinguished. Then came sounds of
battle. Cries, shots. Coleman and his men rushed forward.

Stones and sticks flew through the air. Now and then a pistol barked.
The mounted police descended with a clatter, clubbing their way into the
throng. But they did not penetrate far, so dense was the pack; it hemmed
them about, pulling officers from their horses. The fire engines had
been stopped. One of them was pushed into the bay.

More fires leaped from incendiary torches. The rioters seemed
triumphant. Then Coleman's brigade fell upon them.

Whack, whack, whack, fell the pick-handles upon the backs, shoulders,
sometimes heads of rioters. It was like a systematic tattoo. Coleman's
voice was heard directing, here and there, cool and dispassionate. A
couple of locomotive headlights threw their glare upon the now
disordered gangsters. Whack! Whack! Whack!

Suddenly the rioters, bleating, panic-stricken, fled like frightened
sheep. They scattered in every direction leader*-less, completely
routed. The fire engines resumed work. An ambulance came up and the work
of attending the wounded began. The fight was over.

CHAPTER LXVII

DENNIS KEARNEY

Weeks went by and brought no further outbreak. Chinatown which, for a
time, was shuttered, fortified, almost deserted, once again resumed its
feverish activities. In the theaters, funny men made jokes about the
labor trouble. In the East strikes had abated. All seemed safe and
orderly again.

But San Francisco had yet to deal with Dennis Kearney.

Dennis, born in County Cork just thirty years before, filled adventurous
roles since his eleventh year, mostly on the so-called "hell-ships"
which beat up and down the mains of trade. In 1868 he firs