Clarence. Bret Harte

      “But the city of San Francisco has no jurisdiction here,” said Colonel Starbottle, turning a bland smile towards his fellow-members. “I am—er—sorry to inform you that you are simply trespassing, sir.”

      “I am here also as deputy sheriff,” returned the stranger coolly. “We were unable to locate the precise place of this meeting, although we knew of its existence. I was sworn in this morning at Santa Inez by the judge of this district, and these gentlemen with me are my posse.”

      There was a quick movement of resistance by the members, which was, however, again waived blandly aside by Colonel Starbottle. Leaning forward in a slightly forensic attitude, with his fingers on the table and a shirt frill that seemed to have become of itself erectile, he said, with pained but polite precision, “I grieve to have to state, sir, that even that position is utterly untenable here. I am a lawyer myself, as my friend here, Judge Beeswinger—eh? I beg your pardon!”

      The officer of the law had momentarily started, with his eyes fixed on Judge Beeswinger, who, however, seemed to be quietly writing at the table.

      “As Judge Beeswinger,” continued Colonel Starbottle, “will probably tell you and as a jurist himself, he will also probably agree with me when I also inform you that, as the United States government is an aggrieved party, it is a matter for the Federal courts to prosecute, and that the only officer we can recognize is the United States Marshal for the district. When I add that the marshal, Colonel Crackenthorpe, is one of my oldest friends, and an active sympathizer with the South in the present struggle, you will understand that any action from him in this matter is exceedingly improbable.”

      The general murmur of laughter, relief, and approval was broken by the quiet voice of Judge Beeswinger.

      “Let me see your warrant, Mr. Deputy Sheriff.”

      The officer approached him with a slightly perplexed and constrained air, and exhibited the paper. Judge Beeswinger handed it back to him. “Colonel Starbottle is quite right in his contention,” he said quietly; “the only officer that this assembly can recognize is the United States Marshal or his legal deputy. But Colonel Starbottle is wrong in his supposition that Colonel Crackenthorpe still retains the functions of that office. He was removed by the President of the United States, and his successor was appointed and sworn in by the Federal judge early this morning.” He paused, and folding up the paper on which he had been writing, placed it in the hands of the deputy. “And this,” he continued in the same even voice, “constitutes you his deputy, and will enable you to carry out your duty in coming here.”

      “What the devil does this mean, sir? Who are you?” gasped Colonel Starbottle, recoiling suddenly from the man at his side.

      “I am the new United States Marshal for the Southern District of California.”