“Yes, he’ll be a problem, if the other one’s released,” said Broderick.  “Unless King dies this whole eruption of the Vigilantes will fall flat.”

Benito nodded, half reluctantly.  “It seems—­like destiny,” he muttered.  Suddenly his head jerked upward.  “What is that?”

A man came running out of the Montgomery Block.  He seemed excited.  His accelerated pace continued as he sped down Sacramento street.  Presently another made his exit; ran like mad, uphill, toward the jail.

Dr. Hammond, looking very grim, came hurriedly out of the door and entered a closed carriage.  It drove off instantly.  Then everything went on as usual.  The two men stood there, watchful, expectant.  The town seemed unusually still.  A flag on a two-story building flapped monotonously.  Then a man across the street ran out of his store and pointed upward.  A rope was thrown from an upper window of the Montgomery Block.  Someone picked it up and carried it to The Bulletin Building, pulled it taut.  On a strip of linen had been hastily inscribed the following announcement, stretched across the street: 

“THE GREAT AND GOOD IS DEAD.  WHO WILL NOT MOURN?”

CHAPTER XLVI

RETRIBUTION

Cora’s trial was in progress.  In the upper front room of Vigilante headquarters sat the tribunal upon whose decision Cora’s fate would rest.  They were grouped about a long table, twenty-nine men, the executive committee.  At their head sat William Coleman, grim and stern, despite his clear complexion and his youthful, beardless mien.  Near him, Isaac Bluxome, keen-eyed, shrewd, efficient, made notes of the proceedings.

Cora, affecting an air of nonchalance, and, as ever, immaculate in dress, sat between his counsel, Miers F. Truett and Thomas J.L.  Smiley, while John P. Manrow acted as the prosecutor.

The gambler’s eyes were fixed upon the trio when he was not searching the faces of those other silent men about the board.  They were dressed in black.  There was about them an air of impassivity almost removed from human emotion, and Cora could not but contrast them with the noisy, chewing, spitting, red-shirted jury at his previous trial, where Belle Cora’s thousands had proved efficacious in securing disagreement.  There would be no disagreement here.  Instinctively, Cora knew that.

Marshal Doane entered.  He held in his hand a folded paper.  Coleman and the others looked at him expectantly.  “It is my great misfortune to report that James King of William is dead,” said Doane.  There was a buzz of comment, almost instantly stilled by Coleman’s gavel.  “Damn!” said the gambler under his breath.

“Gentlemen, we will proceed with the trial,” Coleman spoke.  The examination of witnesses went on.  But there was a difference.  Cora noticed it.  Sometimes, with an involuntary, shuddering gesture, he touched the skin above his flowing collar.