Coleman bowed.  “I thank you, gentlemen,” he said, then crisply, like so many whip-cracks, he called the names of eleven men.  One by one they answered and the crowd made way for them.  Silently and in a body they departed.

“There’s a leader for you,” exclaimed Adrian to his brother-in-law.  Benito nodded, eyes ashine with admiration.  Presently there was a stir among the crowd.  The jury was returning.  “Well, gentlemen,” the mayor raised his voice, “what is the verdict?”

Coleman answered:  “We recommend that the prisoners be tried by the people.  If the legal courts wish to aid they’re invited.  Otherwise we shall appoint a prosecutor and attorney for the prisoners.  The trial will take place this afternoon.”

“Hurray!  Hurray!” the people shouted.  The cheers were deafening.

CHAPTER XXII

THE PEOPLE’S JURY

Benito, as he elbowed his way through a crowd which ringed the city hall that afternoon, was impressed by the terrific tight-lipped determination of those faces all about him.  It was as though San Francisco had but one thought, one straight, relentless purpose—­the punishment of crime by Mosaic law.  The prisoners in the county jail appeared to sense this wave of retributive hatred, for they paced their cells like caged beasts.

It was truly a case of “The People vs.  Stuart (alias Berdue) and Windred,” charged with robbery and assault.  Coleman and his Committee of Twelve were in absolute charge.  They selected as judges, three popular and trusted citizens, J.R.  Spence, H.R.  Bowie and C.L.  Ross.  W.A.  Jones was named the judge’s clerk and J.E.  Townes the whilom sheriff.

While the jury was impaneling, Brannan spoke to Benito:  “Twelve good men and true; the phrase means something here.  Lord, if we could have such jurymen as these in all our American courts.”

Benito nodded.  “They’ve appointed Bill Coleman as public prosecutor; that’s rather a joke on Bill.”

Judge Spence, who sat between his two colleagues, presiding on the bench, now spoke: 

“I appoint Judge Shattuck and—­er—­Hall McAllister as counsel for the defendants.”

There was a murmur of interest.  Judge Shattuck, dignified, a trifle ponderous, came forward, spectacles in hand.  He put them on, surveyed his clients with distaste, and took his place composedly at the table.  Hall McAllister, dapper, young and something of a dandy, advanced with less assurance.  He would have preferred the other side of the case, for he did not like running counter to the people.

Amid a stir the prisoners were led forward to the dock.  Judge Spence, looking down at them over his spectacles, read the charges.  “Are you guilty or not guilty?” he asked.

Windred, the younger, with a frightened glance about the court room, murmured almost inaudibly, “Not guilty.”  The other, in a deep and penetrating voice, began a sort of speech.  It was incoherent, agonized.  Benito thought it held a semblance of sincerity.