Reborn in 1878: America's Number One Bandit

Chapter 114 San Francisco Riots

The roar of nearly a thousand rioters was a physical force capable of shaking a building.

Behind Barkley, the usually arrogant police officers were now as white as corpses.

This is San Francisco, not the fucking Paris Commune!
Barkley was also a little scared, but he couldn't back down.

He absolutely could not back down in front of this group of inferiors.

Senator Crestwood's order still echoed in his ears: "Find the murderer and hang him!"

He had already decided to make the thirteen arrested Irish youths take the blame.

This is not only Harrison's case, but also Martin's case—a huge credit to him for removing the "temporary" title from the damned words "deputy" mayor and "interim chief"!

If we release him now, he will become a laughing stock across the United States.

He would never allow this to happen!

"alert!"

Barkley roared, "Raise the barricades! Everyone, load your guns!"

"If you bastards dare take another step forward, I'll beat the shit out of you! Open fire!"

The windows on the second and third floors of the police station were all pushed open, revealing dozens of dark gun barrels, including Spencer repeating rifles and Remington shotguns.

At the main entrance, a dozen or so police officers knelt on the ground, forming the first line of defense, their guns pointed at the Irishmen in the front row.

The crowd's roar abruptly ceased.

The Irishmen standing in the front row were instantly extinguished by fear.

They are thugs, not soldiers.

The axe and crowbar in his hand were a pathetic joke in front of the row of neatly arranged rifles dozens of meters away.

The crowd began to stir; those in the front rows wanted to back up, while those in the back rows, unaware of what was happening, continued to push forward, and chaos began to spread.

This is exactly the result Declan wanted.

A climax that was forcibly interrupted, a revolution that was castrated.

He glared fiercely at Barkley on the steps and suddenly waved his hand behind him.

"withdraw!"

This order surprised everyone.

Declan offered no explanation.

He shoved his way through the crowd and turned to leave with his equally silent trusted henchmen.

The rioters looked at each other in bewilderment, and in the end, they could only follow him away, cursing and swearing.

On the steps of the police station.

As Barkley watched the dark mass of people slowly disperse, his knees buckled, and he almost knelt on the ground.

He quickly grabbed the door frame to avoid embarrassing himself in front of everyone.

"Ah……"

He was panting heavily, a surge of ecstasy welling up inside him.

Barkley, by himself, with his iron will and tough methods, scared off thousands of armed thugs!

He couldn't help but burst into laughter.

"See that?" he said smugly to Monroe beside him. "These Irish bastards are just a bunch of cowardly dogs! As long as you're tougher than them, they'll only be fit to lick your boots!"

Sheriff Monroe didn't say anything, but just wiped the dust off the gun barrel with disgust.

"go with!"

Barkley waved his hand dismissively, exuding official authority: "Go call the reporters at the Sentinel! Tell them that I, Barkley, remained calm under pressure tonight, immediately deterred a thousand rioters, and upheld law and order in San Francisco!"

"This is practically my political medal! The senator will definitely look at me in a new light!"

Barkley was already immersed in the heroic scenario of "one man saving the city," and had even started brainstorming tomorrow's newspaper headlines.

On the other side, in the Celtic Fist tavern in the Irish community.

"boom!"

A drunkard slammed his glass on the ground: "Declan! You coward! You took us out, and now you've brought us back like dogs!"

"Pat and Michael are still in jail."

Why did you chicken out? Huh?

The drunkard yelled and charged toward Declan.

Just as he was about to get close, one of Declan's henchmen suddenly stepped forward and delivered a clean, swift straight punch to the drunkard's chin.

"Crack!"

His jawbone shattered instantly. The drunkard's curses turned into agonizing screams, his mouth filled with blood and broken teeth.

The whole place was dead silent.

Declan stood up, stepped on the drunkard's hand, and slowly increased the pressure until he heard a cracking sound.

"Ahhhh!"

"Who else? Who else thinks I'm a coward? Or is it..."

"You bunch of brainless idiots, trying to use your birds to block someone's bullets?"

He grabbed the collar of the man closest to him: "Tell me, what the hell are you going to use to flush? Your wife's big ass?"

"Didn't you see there are guns on the other side?"

Declan roared, "My brothers Declan, do you think your lives matter? Huh? We're going to save people, not to fucking die!"

"I'm telling you, we're only temporarily evacuating! Who the hell said I wasn't going to save my brothers?"

"Then what do we do?" someone asked, trembling.

Declan laughed: "They have guns, so we fucking need to have guns too!"

"We want to buy guns! We want to buy more and bigger guns than they do! We want to fuck their sons' police station to smithereens with bullets!"

These words reignited the fighting spirit of the crowd.

"Buy a gun!"

"Yes! Buy guns!"

"Where's the money?" Declan roared. "Guns don't grow from a whore's cunt! You have to pay for them! Hand over all your money! Every single penny! This is to save our hero!"

The crowd was completely incited.

They rushed home in a frenzy and took out all their savings.

Rings, pocket watches, his wife's jewelry, and even a few precious gold coins...

Half an hour later, seven or eight thousand eagle dollars were piled up on the table in front of Declan.

"That's all the fuck?"

"This amount of money isn't even enough for his mother to buy coffins for his brothers!"

Declan roared, "Not enough! Far from enough!"

"What should we do then?" Everyone was in despair.

"We may not have money, but some people do!"

Declan grabbed his coat: "Come with me! We're going to find our esteemed Irish brothers and 'borrow' money' from those bankers living in mansions!"

Mr. Patrick O'Malley's shipping company.

The gilded brass sign looked particularly impressive under the gaslights of the upscale neighborhood.

Declan punched the oak door directly.

"Open the door! Open the door!"

"Damn it, if you don't open the door, I'll tear it down!"

Hundreds of vicious Irish thugs, carrying torches, blocked the neighborhood where wealthy businessmen lived.

Finally, the door opened a crack.

An elderly butler in a tuxedo cautiously poked his head out: "Who are you? This is a private residence..."

Declan shoved the butler aside and, with a dozen or so trusted henchmen, swaggered inside.

The living room was brightly lit.

Shipping magnate Patrick O'Malley, along with several other Irish bankers and businessmen, watched in horror as the uninvited guests arrived.

"Declan".

O'Malley tried to remain calm: "Do you know what you're doing? You're trespassing! Believe me, one phone call from me and Barkley will..."

Declan stepped forward and slapped the wine glass out of his hand.

"Don't fucking mention that fat pig to me! O'Malley, I only have one question for you."

Are you still Irish?

“I…” O’Malley was speechless.

"Or not?"

"Yes."

“Good!” Declan nodded emphatically: “Yes, that makes things easier.”

“My brothers have been arrested by the cops for protecting the dignity of us Irish people. We must go and rescue them.”

"The cops have guns, we don't. We need to buy guns."

“You need money to buy a gun.” He stared at O’Malley. “I’m here to borrow money.”

A tall, thin banker immediately screamed, "This is extortion! This is robbery! You scoundrel!"

Declan ignored him and said slowly, "I've heard that you guys have been complaining about how chaotic the streets are lately. We buy guns to protect ourselves. What if one day the cops go crazy, break into your mansions, and take your beautiful wives and daughters? Wouldn't that be terrible?"

He patted O'Malley on the shoulder: "You didn't want this to happen, did you?"

This veiled threat turned the faces of the wealthy businessmen present deathly pale.

Declan pointed out the window: "My impatient brothers are all waiting outside. If I go out empty-handed, I'm afraid they might impulsively burn down your nice house." "You devil!"

"Scoundrel!"

"How much do you want?"

“Not much.” Declan held up five fingers: “Fifty thousand eagle dollars.”

"Fifty thousand? Why don't you just rob someone!"

"Isn't this just robbing you?" Declan grinned.

Ten minutes later, Declan, satisfied, had his men carry out several heavy boxes.

"Thank you, generous gentlemen."

He also bowed politely and said, "God will bless you."

"Get out! Get out of my house!" O'Malley was trembling with anger.

"Don't you dare get involved with this again!"

Declan walked outside and stood on the steps, facing the nearly one thousand anxiously waiting rioters.

He suddenly opened a box, and the gleaming silver eagles inside stung everyone's eyes in the firelight.

"Brothers! Mr. O'Malley, and our respected fellow merchants, have heard of our plight! They have been incredibly generous, donating fifty thousand silver dollars!"

"They said this is to buy guns for our Irish brothers to protect themselves! Quick! Thank our generous compatriots!"

"Ooooooh!"

"Long live Mr. O'Malley!"

Long live the Irish!

In the living room, O'Malley and the group of wealthy businessmen were so angry at the deafening cheers of gratitude outside that they nearly fainted.

"Fuck your mother, Declan!"

The huge sum of over 60,000 silver dollars was secretly delivered by Declan to Lawson's stronghold in Chinatown.

A few hours later, an unassuming horse-drawn carriage pulled a shipment from Ross Fine Arts’ dark warehouse and delivered it to the Irish community.

"A gun! It's a gun!"

"We have guns!"

The Irish were all in a frenzy, no longer caring about the quality of the guns.

This batch of goods consisted entirely of defective and old muzzle-loading guns discarded by Ross Precision Machinery. They were rusty, with the rifling almost worn down, and some of the triggers were loose.

But it's okay.

Having a gun and not having a gun are two completely different concepts.

When a man holds this cold steel in his hand, he is no longer a sheep to be slaughtered.

"drink wine!"

Declan has released several large barrels of cheap whiskey. "Tonight, let's drink until we drop! To our heroes, drink!"

Alcohol emboldens the timid. Fear is cast aside, and hatred ferments wildly under the catalysis of alcohol.

"Kill all those sons of bitches cops!"

"Rescue Pat!"

Burn down their doghouse!

Late at night.

Dekland stood on high ground, facing the drunken, weapon-wielding monster army he had personally built, and smiled with satisfaction.

"it's time."

He led this army of vengeance into the streets once more.

Upon receiving the news, the police station immediately went on high alert.

"Damn it! These bastards dare to come?" Barkley glared, preparing to stage another scene of fighting a thousand men alone.

Declan stood at the police station entrance once again.

"Barkley, fucking release him right now!"

"Dream on!" Barkley retorted from behind a sandbag bunker.

Declan stopped wasting words and immediately raised his own Winchester rifle.

"boom!"

On the steps, a police officer who had just poked half his head out suddenly had a burst of blood on his forehead and fell backward.

The whole place was dead silent.

Then Declan raised his gun and roared at the top of his lungs, "Kill all the cops! Save our brothers!"

"Ooooooh!"

In an instant, gunfire erupted.

"Fight back! Fight back!" Casey fired wildly.

The two sides immediately engaged in fierce fighting.

Although the police officers were few in number, they were well-equipped, with breech-loading and automatic weapons.

They occupied advantageous terrain, commanding a high vantage point and unleashing fierce firepower.

The Irish thugs, armed with their old, broken guns, were quickly overwhelmed, with seven or eight of them being shot down in their first charge.

"Retreat! Retreat! The firepower is too intense!"

"Ha ha!" a police officer laughed arrogantly, "This rabble! Kill them all!"

Just when the officers thought victory was in their grasp...

A gunshot, unlike any other, suddenly rang out.

The officer who was laughing the loudest was shot between the eyebrows, and his smile froze instantly.

The assassins, who had been hiding in the crowd, finally made their move.

Their guns were different from those of the thugs, and their marksmanship was even more different.

Each bullet fired is like a checkpoint being called by the King of Hell, one shot, one kill.

"Cover! Cover me!"

Tom has been shot!

"Damn it! Suppressive fire!"

One by one, the officers fell. The situation reversed instantly.

"Come on!"

"The cops can't hold out any longer!"

Thugs are best at taking advantage of an easy victory.

Upon seeing the dead bodies of their comrades, their ferocity was fully unleashed. Howling, they surged into the police station gate, stepping over the corpses of their companions.

The massacre began.

The rioters were blinded by rage, killing anyone they saw and smashing anything in sight.

Declan kicked open the cell door.

Inside the cell, all thirteen Irish youths were hanging from the beams, their bodies cold.

Faced with this scene, Declan was actually somewhat excited.

The best excuse has arrived.

He turned to the mob rushing in and screamed in a grief-stricken voice, "Too late! We're too late! These damned uniformed butchers killed our hero!"

"revenge!"

The rioters have completely gone mad.

"Charge out!" Declan shouted, raising his arm. "Barkley's escaped! Go to the rich neighborhood! Go to the senator's house and catch him!"

"Kill all these hypocritical white elites!"

The streets of San Francisco are in complete chaos.

The Golden Palace.

Matteo, the boss of the Latin Quarter, stood on the bar, facing his hundreds of eager Mexican compatriots.

"Guys! Did you hear gunshots? The Irish are taking over land, gold, and women!"

"Haven't we Mexicans been bullied enough by these white pigs? Now's our chance for revenge!"

"If the Irish can rob, why the hell can't we?"

The Mexican rioters, their eyes bloodshot, grabbed machetes and old guns and stormed into the streets.

The Siren's Song.

The Dutch district boss, Gis, was also inciting his sailors and smugglers.

"Those potato vendors and bean sellers have all made their move! San Francisco is ownerless tonight! Whoever grabs it first gets to keep it!"

"Brothers! Let's go out and enjoy the feast!"

Following Lawson's instructions, they tacitly sealed off all exits from San Francisco.

Further away, in Sacramento, the capital of California.

A mysterious group of Irish bandits quietly appeared on the outskirts of the city.

Their target was the state government's arsenal.

The California National Guard's attention was successfully drawn.

San Francisco is unusually lively tonight.

PS: 5 chapters, 20,000 words in total, please vote with monthly tickets!
(End of this chapter)