“Mr. Coleman, what are you and your committee plotting?  Can’t this trouble be adjusted here and now?”

Coleman accepted the situation.  He saw that opposition forces had been active.

“We are tired of outlawry and assassination, Governor,” he answered.  “We’ve determined to endure them no longer.  Street shooting’s got to stop!”

“I agree with you,” the Governor admitted.  “I’ve come down from Sacramento to aid.  But this is a matter for the courts, and not for you to adjust.  Our judges are honest.  You can’t impugn a man like Norton.”  He lowered his voice.  “I’ll see that Norton tries the case; that a grand jury indicts Casey.  I’ll do everything I can to force a trial, a conviction—­and a speedy execution....  I’ve no right to make such promises.  But I’ll do it—­to save this city the disgrace of a mob.”

Coleman raised his head.  “This is no mob.  You know it, Governor,” he answered.  “We’ve no faith in Sheriff Scannell nor his juries.”  He turned to Sherman.  “This committee is a deliberative body, sir; regularly organized with officers and men, an executive council.  The best men in the city are its members....”

“And you are its Czar,” remarked Garrison, tauntingly.

“I am chairman by their choice—­not mine,” said Coleman, tartly.  “To show you that I make no personal decisions, I will call other members of the council.”  He bowed and withdrew, returning in a few moments with the brothers Arrington, Thomas Smiley, Seymour and Truitt.  The two sides went over the ground a second time.  Smiley insisted that Casey be delivered to the Vigilantes.  Johnson suggested that the committee continue its labors, but permit the court to try Casey, even in the event of King’s death.  An impasse loomed.  Finally came Coleman’s ultimatum:  “If Sheriff Scannell will permit ten of our members to join the guard over Casey, this committee will agree to make no overt move—­until our guards are withdrawn and you are notified.”

“Done,” agreed the Governor, hastily.

CHAPTER XLIV

THE TRUCE IS BROKEN

On the Garvez ranch, at sunset, the 17th of May, David Broderick found a gracious interval of peace.  It seemed almost incredible to be dining in the patio with Benito and Alice against a background of fragrant honeysuckle and early roses.  The long sloping mesas were bright with golden poppies; fleecy white clouds bedecked the azure of a western sky, flushing now with carmine tints.  Cowbells tinkled musically faint with distance and from the vaquero quarters came a herder’s song, a woman’s laughter, the tinkle of a guitar.

“What are you dreaming of, my friend?” asked Alice Windham, gently.

“It is very like a dream,” he smiled at her, “this place of yours.  So near the city.  Yet so far removed in its enchantment....

“Down there,” he pointed toward the town, where lights were springing up out of the dusk, “a man lies dying ... and a mob plots vengeance.”