Casey, when informed of King’s death, trembled.  “Your trial begins tomorrow,” Doane informed him.  “They’ll finish with Cora tonight.”

* * * * *

Thursday morning carpenters were seen at work on the Vigilante building.  A stout beam was projected from the roof over two of the upper windows facing Sacramento street; to these pulleys were attached.

Platforms were extended from the window sills.  They were about three feet long and were seen to be hinged at the sills.  The ends were held up by ropes fastened to the beams overhead.

Stouter ropes next appeared, one end passing through the pulleys overhead, then they were caught up in nooses.  The other ends were in the committee rooms.

Men tested the platforms by standing on them; tried the nooses; found them strong.  Then the carpenters retired.  The windows were closed.

A crowd below looked up expectantly, but nothing happened until noon, when military companies formed lines along Sacramento, Front and Davis streets.  Cannon were placed to command all possible approaches.  The great alarm bell of the Vigilantes sounded.

By this time every roof near by was thronged with people.  A cry went up as the windows of Vigilante headquarters were opened.  At each stood a man, his arms pinioned.  He advanced to the edge of the platform.

* * * * *

Bells were tolling.  Black bunting was festooned from hundreds of doors and windows.  All the flags of the city were at half-mast, even those of ships in the Bay.

From the Unitarian Church on Stockton street, between Clay and Sacramento, came the funeral cortege on its way to the burial ground at Lone Mountain.  Everywhere along the route people stood with bared heads.

Little Joe King, a son of the murdered editor, 10 years of age, sat stiff and stunned by the strangeness of it all in a carriage beside Mrs. John Sime.  Mr. and Mrs. Sime were great friends of his father and mother, and Mrs. Sime, whom he sometimes called “Auntie,” had taken him into her carriage, since that of the widow was filled.

Little Joe did not know what to make of it all.  He knew, somehow, vaguely, that his father had been put into a long box that had silver handles and was covered with flowers.  He knew of that mystery called death, but he had not visualized it closely heretofore.  The thing overwhelmed him.  Just now he could only realize that his father was being honored as no one had ever before been honored in San Francisco.  That was something he could take hold of.

As the carriage approached Sacramento street the crowd thickened.  He heard a high-pitched voice that seemed almost to be screaming.  He made out phrases faintly: 

“...  God!...  My poor mother!...  Let nobody call ... murderer ...  God save me ... only 29 ...”