Original subtitles

(gentle music)

- [Dion] Anything could happen around San Francisco

in 1851, and usually did.

It was an age of the bizarre and unexpected.

It left its mark on those who followed.

More than 20 years later,

a famous thief would win the reputation as Black Bart,

the bandit who exchanged a verse for his victim's gold.

But we who lived in San Francisco in the '50s

knew the real poet bandit

from whom Black Bart stole, not only method,

but verse as well.

- [Bandit] Throw down the box!

(box rattles)

I've labored long and hard for bread,

for sugar coated buns,

but on my corns too long you've tread,

you no good sons of guns!

(gun bangs)

(driver yelps)

- Hyah!

♪ Californy-ay ♪

♪ Californy-ay ♪

- [Announcer] "The Californians."

♪ I've come to live where life is best ♪

♪ In the golden west ♪

♪ I'm gonna strike it rich in Californy-ay ♪

♪ Californy-ay ♪

- [Sam] Where's Jack McGivern?

Hey, they got the box again!

(group chatters)

- Listen Sam, where'd it happen, when?

- Early this morning, 'bout dawn.

On the east pass.

- Well, how many?

- Well, there was just one of 'em.

He gave me this, some kind of a form.

- Sam, what happened?

Your not hurt, are you?

- No sir, but they got the box.

- Oh, fine.

That was vigilante money from a committee in Sacramento.

- Maybe you better notify the police.

- The police won't help us.

The robbery happened outside the city jurisdiction.

- Yes, I know.

Now we've got to ride out ourselves.

Look Sam, we'll need you along as guide.

Now go to the livery stable and get a mount

and charge it to me, huh?

All right, come on then.

(tense music)

Did you get a good look at him Sam?

- Yes sir.

He had a flour sack over his head.

- Was he a big man?

- Maybe.

- Small then, huh?

- Maybe.

- Now look, Sam, he was either big or small,

which was he?

- Well, I'll tell you Jack.

While I was looking at him,

he was looking at me over a double barreled shotgun

and a colt.

And it made him look mighty big too.

- Jack, Hamish, over here.

(birds chirp)

Well, he waited here, all right.

Must have waited quite a while,

he left a lot of footprints.

What size boot would you say made a mark like that?

- I don't know Dion, five, six maybe.

I'd say he was pretty short man, about 5'2", 5'4" maybe.

- No sir, he was bigger than that.

- Oh. Then we're looking for a tall man with small feet.

- And a clean living one at that.

- Why do you say that, Dion?

- You can see for yourself.

He waited here quite a while for the stage,

but he didn't smoke and he didn't chew.

- Fine, now we're looking for a clean living bandit

who is also a poet.

- He ought to be jailed on either account.

(tense music)

That was our introduction to the literary bandit

who called himself The Poet.

(gun bangs)

Who robbed only when a stagecoach had no guard

and laughed at the traps we set for him.

He robbed ten stages within as many weeks.

Each time the procedure was the same.

Each time he left a snatch of his retched bursts.

- So here I've stood while wind and rain

have set the trees a sobbing

and risked my life for that dang stage

that wasn't worth the robbing.

Signed, PO 8, poet.

- Eh, terrible.

(Jack laughs)

- Your tea too strong, Mr. Patrick?

- No, no, no, Collie.

No, it's the poets verse,

it upsets my friend dreadfully.

- Oh?

I thought some of it's rather good.

- Uh, you did did ya?

- To be sure, it has meter,

a certain rhythm and swing to it.

- Well, I think the man who wrote it ought to swing.

- It reminds me

of some of the things written by master Francois.

- Francois who?

- Francois Villon, a great poet, gentlemen.

And a great rogue. Yes, indeed.

Do you know the little quatrain he composed

the night before he was supposed to be hanged?

- No, I don't think I do.

Tell us, won't you?

- For my sins, I am Francois.

Born at Paris, near to Punta.

Soon my neck in rope by three

shall test what weight my carcass be.

(Collie laughs)

What spirit, what wonderful dauntless spirit.

- Well, that, uh, that deserves a cigar, Collie.

- Oh, uh, no Mr. Patrick, thank you.

I, I consider my body a temple

not to be profaned by tobacco or spirits.

No offense intended Mr Patrick.

- None taken.

You ready?

- What's your hurry?

All right.

See you later, Collie.

- Ta ta.

- [Dion] Did you notice that?

- Notice what?

- Collie, he doesn't smoke.

- Well, so, he doesn't smoke.

- Look, he buys his shoes from you,

what size does he wear?

- I don't know, six or seven or-

Oh, now wait a minute, you don't seriously believe

that Collie is The Poet do you?

- Why not?

Tall man, small feet.

- Now, really.

- The clues are all right there in the verse

for anybody with wit enough to see 'em.

I've labored long and hard for bread.

- That's just a phrase, Dion, a manner of speaking.

- But was there ever a line that applied more to a baker?

- You can't try a man on that kind of evidence, Dion.

- All right, try this one,

I rob the rich to feed the poor

which hardly is a sin.

A widow ne'er knocked at my door

but would I let her in?

Signed, PO 8.

- I think that's a beautiful sentiment, Dion.

- What about the poet's mask?

Made out of a flour sack, isn't it?

- What about it?

Flour sacks are easily come by.

- Did you know that Collie Andrews

has a string of pensioners as long as your arm?

Widows, sick people.

- Can't condemn a man for his charity, do you?

- Well, it's a pretty lavish charity

for a man who depends on a hole in the wall bakery

for his living.

- Why would a little man like Collie want to do such things?

- I don't know.

Maybe the little man wants to feel big.

(tense music)

I talked to Collie Andrew's pensioners.

He'd given them money, food, paid their rent,

bought medicine for them.

They couldn't tell me much more than that Collie Andrews

was a fine man.

I found myself agreeing with them.

He's always been a charitable man.

But up until ten weeks ago his charities

were confined to a occasional food baskets

or bakery goods.

- When did The Poet start robbing the stages?

- Just about ten weeks ago.

Since then I'd say that Collie's good works

have cost him almost $5,000.

- That's a lot of money for a small baker to be giving away.

- Well, why don't we bring him in?

- We can't.

There's no real evidence that he's The Poet.

- We work within the framework of the law.

We demand evidence before we take a man in.

- We could sweat him, make him confess.

- Your new to vigilantes committee, Hamish,

or you'd know that we don't try to force confessions.

- Even if we did, I wouldn't have the heart to sweat Collie.

It'd be different if we could catch him in the act.

- And just how would you go about that?

- Offer him some bait that he can't resist.

Money, lots of money

with no guard and no posse.

- How much money?

- $4,000.

- Oh?

- Me, I'm riding shotgun.

He's gonna sneak it out of town.

First thing tomorrow, he's gonna to sneak it out of town.

- Where is he shipping it?

- A committee in Sacramento.

- Drink it Mr. Glourie, it'll do you good.

- Collie Andrews rode out early this morning

and Dion followed him.

Now let Collie make his play first,

then leave the rest to Dion, huh?

- Oh, but I'd still like to see some of the other boys

out there.

- We've tried that Sam, and it doesn't work.

Too many men scare The Poet off.

- Jack, just let me get him under the sights of this-

- None of that, now we want him alive.

Now, good luck to both of you.

And don't take any foolish chances.

(box scrapes)

I feel bad enough as it is sending two of my friends

out as decoys.

- I ain't worried a bit about myself, Jack.

No, sir.

- Now look here,

if you get any foolish notions,

don't forget that you've got a family!

- But I had to forget some of those things

when I joined the vigilantes, didn't I?

Don't you worry about me Jack,

I'll be all right.

- Good luck.

- [Sam] Thank you.

(tense music)

(gun fires)

(hooves clop)

(birds chirp)

(somber music)

- Dion!

Where were you?

- What happened?

- He hit us when we came round the bend.

We did just like McGivern told us.

Threw the box down and, and waited for you to take him.

Where were you Dion, where were ya?

- Nevermind that.

Why'd he shoot the driver?

- I made a play when you didn't show.

I got one shot off.

I missed.

He didn't.

- Was it The Poet?

- It was Collie Andrews.

(intense music)

- What's that?

You ne'er again will rob a stage.

What?

Did you so, faith I didn't know it.

Was that what threw poor Thermous in a rage,

I thought you were convicted as a poet.

(paper rustles)

Dion found this in the empty express box.

- A callous, cruel thing to write

just after killing a man.

- Yes.

But was yourself that was calling them poor unfortunate men

not so long ago.

(door slams)

- We searched the bakery, Collie's gone.

(paper rustles)

You know, this thing bothers me.

The printing's different

and it doesn't sound like The Poet.

The lines, they don't seem to have the same rhythm.

- Now look here, this is no time for a literary discussion.

He stole vigilante funds

and killed a member of the committee.

Collie is a murderer, Dion!

I mean to see him hang.

(tense music)

(paper rustles)

(drawer slams)

- Turn around Mr. Patrick, slowly.

Sit down Mr. Patrick.

(coat rustles)

(footsteps patter)

- You come back to kill me too?

- No.

I've come to ask your help.

- Help?

You murdered a man and you come to me for help?

- Mr. Patrick, I, I give you my word

that I didn't kill anybody,

not anybody, Mr. Patrick.

I just couldn't do a think like that.

- Are you trying to say your not The Poet?

- Oh no sir, I'm The Poet,

I freely admit it.

I'm a thief and I'm willing to pay for it,

but I'm not a murderer.

You must believe me sir.

You must.

- You come in here with a gun ready to blast me

and you tell me your not a killer?

- Will this prove anything?

- I'll have to take you in.

- I only ask you to do what you can

to prove me innocent of murder.

(chair creaks)

- How'd you get into this mess?

- I never thought it would lead to this.

I never had the feeling that I was committing a crime.

To me it was more like a game,

a gay, romantic game.

Like something out of the books.

- Books?

- The books I read.

The wonderful books that could make a man like me forget

his own porkyness.

I was always meager, sir.

A thin and meager youth.

A small and meager man.

But when I read the books

I was tall and handsome,

debonair.

A Dick Turpin and daring.

Master Rabole in my gusty riveled enjoyment of life.

My good friend Francois Villon in verve and wit.

I wanted to be so many things

that I'm not.

- So you took to holding up stages, huh?

- But I never harmed anyone.

You'll go with me to the police?

- No, to the vigilantes, Collie.

It was vigilante money you stole.

(somber music)

- They've been out a long time.

- Well, that's a good sign.

It means that even Hamish Glourie's identification

didn't convince them of your guilt.

(footsteps patter)

(chairs squeak)

- Prisoner will rise.

Colin Andrews,

you have been tried before the vigilantes committee

of San Francisco and found guilty of the crimes of robbery

and murder.

- No, I-

- It is the sentence of this committee

that you be put to death by hanging

until all life has left your body.

May God have mercy on your soul.

The sentence will be carried out at daybreak,

you have until then to make peace with your maker

for all of your crimes.

(tense music)

(footsteps scrape)

(gentle music)

(door clicks)

- Jack, you can't hang him.

- He's guilty.

- Of those other robberies, yes.

Collie admits that.

But he didn't admit this one

and you didn't prove he did it.

- He received a fair trial.

- You were going to hang him

from the minute that he walked into that room.

- There's no doubt of his guilt.

He was convicted on evidence, Dion.

He was identified by verses which he admits writing,

by a flour sack which he used to disguise himself

and finally,

by Hamish Glourie's positive identification of him.

- How could Hamish be so sure when the man had a flour sack

over his head?

Jack, you always stood for fairness and patience.

Why have you changed now?

- Why have I changed?

I'll tell you why.

I was the one that set the trap for The Poet.

I was the one who sent a friend to his death.

- Are you trying to wash out your regret

in another man's blood?

- Heavens, I won't stand for that, Dion!

- And I won't stop thinking it!

Not unless you give me a chance to prove he's innocent.

- How?

- I want to ride out and inspect the scene of the crime.

The spot where we found the express box.

I want to measure any footprints the man may have left

while he was in hiding.

- There's no time for that now.

- You can give me the time!

- All right. You have two hours.

- Two hours? That's not enough.

- Two hours I said.

(tense music)

(hooves clop)

- Two hours to save a mans neck.

It was a 45 minute ride to the scene of the crime

if you half killed a horse to make it.

(crickets chirp)

(lantern squeaks)

There were tracks all right,

lots of tracks.

Mine, McGivern's,

all the men who had flocked to the scene of the crime.

Plenty of tracks leading into the clearing,

none leading out toward the deep brush

where a bandit would most likely tether his horse.

(tense music)

(leaves rustle)

- All right Joe.

(hand thumps)

(hooves clop)

(footsteps thump)

(fist knocks)

- Mr. Weir!

Mr. Weir, wake up in there!

(fist knocks)

- [Mr. Weir] Who is it?

- Dion Patrick, I've got to see ya.

(footsteps patter)

Are these records accurate?

- Mr. Patrick, I pride myself on keeping excellent records

right down to the last dotted I.

- All right, bring him along.

- Stop!

Your hanging the wrong man.

I told you there were things about this murder

that bothered me.

The verse we found,

it wasn't the kind of verse that Collie Andrews

would write.

And the printing bothered me,

it wasn't the same as on the other notes.

- We went through all this at his trial, Dion.

- Did we Hamish?

- Look, we're only doing what we have to do.

Now, get-

- Wait, there's some other things.

In every robbery The Poet committed,

there were signs that he waited a long time

in the coach that he was about to hold up.

There were no such signs at the time of the murder.

Well, there was one thing left behind

when the thief opened the strongbox,

something so small he didn't even notice he'd lost it.

This.

This scrap of pocket handkerchief spoiled his plan.

- Will you get to the point, Dion?

- I found this where the thief dropped it

and on it was another little thing,

a laundry mark.

F, 1, 4, 7.

And the same agency that sends my laundry to Honolulu

by clipper, Weir's Tobacco Shop.

Then I found that number

here in Wayd's records.

And the name of the man who lost the handkerchief

when he scrambled to hide his loot and get back to the road

to pretend that he'd been injured

when the stage team bolted.

Hamish Glourie, I accuse you of murder.

(tense music)

(men chatter)

(gentle music)

Are you, uh, are you giving thanks for your deliverance?

- No, indeed.

I was composing a poem.

(gentle music)

- I don't need to tell you gentlemen

that we made a mistake,

almost a terrible mistake.

And it was my fault.

It was my anger, my sorrow at the loss of a friend

and my conviction that I was right

that led an innocent man almost to the gallows.

There's an inherent danger in organizations

such as ours,

that men do what they think is right

instead of what the law says is right.

This is something that we've got to guard against

in the future.

As you know,

the guilty man has been handed over to the courts

and needless to say, there is no doubt of his punishment.

I want to thank you all, gentlemen.

Good night.

(footsteps patter)

Where's Collie?

- He's in the city jail.

He's going to plead guilty to highway robbery.

- And I hope they won't be hard on the poor man.

- I don't think they will.

Say, he sent you something,

calls it his tribute.

(paper rustles)

- Hm.

I rob the rich to feed the poor

which hardly is a sin.

A widow ne'er knocked at my door

but what I let her in.

So blame me not for what I've done

I don't deserve your curses.

And if for any cause I am hung

let it be for my verses.

(gentle music)

♪ California ♪

♪ Oh I travel here, I travel there ♪

♪ I guess I've been most everywhere ♪

♪ But I like where I am today ♪

♪ And here is where I'll stay ♪

♪ Now, one thing I just can't endure ♪

♪ Is being broke and being poor ♪

♪ So I come west to take the cure ♪

♪ And here is where I'll stay ♪

♪ I've come to Californy-ay ♪

♪ Californy-ay ♪

♪ There's gold in them thar hills ♪

♪ In Californy-ay ♪

♪ I've come to live where life is best ♪

♪ In the golden west ♪

♪ I'm going to strike it rich in Californy-ay ♪

♪ Californy-ay ♪

♪ Californy-ay ♪

♪ There's gold in them there hills ♪

♪ In Californy-ay ♪

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