Adrian, caught in the outer eddies of that human maelstrom, found himself beside Juana Briones.  “The jury’s out,” she told him.  “Jury’s out!” the word swept onward.  Then there came a long and silent wait.  Once again the messenger appeared.  “Still out,” he bellowed, “having trouble.”  “What’s the matter with them?” a score of voices shouted.  Presently the messenger returned.  His face was angry, almost apoplectic.  One could see that he was having difficulty with articulation.  He waved his hands in a gesture of impotent wrath.  At last he found his voice and shouted, “Disagreed.  The jury’s disagreed.”

An uproar followed.  “Hang the jury!” cried an irate voice.  A rush was made for the entrance.  But two hundred armed, determined men opposed the onslaught.  The very magnitude of the human press defeated its own ends.  Men cried aloud that they were being crushed.  Women screamed.

Soon or late the defenders must have fallen.  But now a strange diversion occurred.  On the balcony appeared General Baker, noted as the city’s greatest orator.  In his rich, sonorous tones, he began a political speech.  It rang even above the excited shouts of the mob.  Instantly there was a pause, an almost imperceptible let-down of the tension.  Those who could not see asked eagerly of others, “What’s the matter now?  Who’s talking?”

“It’s Ed Baker making a speech.”

Someone laughed.  A voice roared.  “Rah for Ed Baker.”  Others took it up.

Impulsive, variable as the wind, San Francisco found a new adventure.  It listened spellbound to golden eloquence, extolling the virtues of a favored candidate.  Meanwhile Acting Sheriff Townes rushed his prisoners to the county jail without anyone so much as noticing their departure.

Presently three men came hurrying up and with difficulty made their way into the court room.

“Good God!  Are we too late?” the leader of the trio asked, excitedly.  He was the waterfront merchant who had recognized Berdue.

“Too late for the trial,” returned Coleman; “it’s over; the jury’s dismissed.  Disagreed.”

“And what are they doing outside?” cried the other, “are they hanging the prisoners?”

“No, the prisoners are safe,” returned Coleman, “though they had a close enough shave, I’ll admit.”  He laid a hand upon Benito’s shoulder and there came a twinkle to his eyes.  “Our young friend here had an inspiration—­better than a hundred muskets.  He sent Ed Baker out to charm them with his tongue.”

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE RECKONING

It was June on the rancho Windham.  Roses and honeysuckle climbed the pillars and lattices of the patio; lupin and golden poppies dotted the hillsides.  Cloud-plumes waved across the faultless azure of a California summer sky and distant to the north and east, a million spangled flecks of sunlight danced upon the bay.