Sherman stroked his chin.  “This place is not impregnable by any means,” he remarked.  “The first thing we must do is to secure the buildings on each side.”

“Too late,” groaned Scannell.  “I tried to find lodgings for some of my guards at Mrs. Hutchinson’s boarding house.  She slammed the door in my face.  I tried the other side and found that Coleman and Bluxome had an option on it.  They’ve already sent men to guard both places.”

“Then,” Sherman told them, “you cannot defend this jail against a well planned attack.  Perhaps they’ll not resort to force,” he added hopefully.  “The Governor’s coming down to talk with Coleman.”

CHAPTER XLIII

GOVERNOR JOHNSON MEDIATES

On the second day after the shooting, Governor J. Neely Johnson arrived on the evening boat.  Mayor Van Ness had sent him a panicky message, imploring him to drop all else and hasten to San Francisco.  The Mayor and William K. Garrison met him at the dock.  They almost pushed the Governor into a carriage which was driven hastily to the International Hotel.

In his room, behind closed doors, the Governor spoke a trifle irritably:  “What the devil’s all this row about, Van Ness?  The town seems quiet enough.  You spoke of civil war.”

“Coleman’s organized another Vigilance Committee,” Garrison took it upon himself to answer.  “You know how impulsive San Franciscans are.  They’re in for anything.  Two thousand have already joined.  They’ve bought all the arms in town except a few that Sheriff Scannell seized in the militia armories.  Scannell’s sent out a hurry call for deputies—­”

“But,” broke in the Governor, incredulously, “you say Coleman’s doing this.  I can’t believe it.  Coleman’s a good man, a quiet fellow.  He’s my friend.  I’ll go to him at once.”

He rose, but Garrison, the politic, raised his hand.  “Let him come to you.  Summon him.  The effect is much better.”

“As you say,” acceded Johnson with a smile.  “Send for Coleman, with my compliments.”  He resumed his seat and picked up an Evening Bulletin, shaking his head.  “Poor King, I hear he’s dying.”

“A dangerous man,” remarked Garrison as he left the room.

“He is a lot less dangerous alive—­than dead,” the Mayor shivered.  “As a reformer he’d soon have ceased to interest the public.  Nobody interests them long.  But as a martyr!” he threw up his hands.  “God help San Francisco!”

They discussed the dangers of a public outbreak till a knock at the door interrupted them.

It proved to be Garrison, accompanied by the Vigilante chief.  “Hello, Coleman,” the Governor greeted, cordially.  The two shook hands.  “What’s this I hear about your Vigilante recrudescence?” He smote his hands together with a catechising manner.  “What do you people want?”

“We want peace,” responded Coleman.

“And, to get it, you prepare for war.  What do you expect to accomplish?”