“Aye!  Aye!” came a thunder of voices, mingled with a few desultory “noes.”  Sheriff Jack Hayes rode up importantly on his prancing black charger.  “In the name of the law I command this proceeding to cease.”

“In the name of what law?” mocked Brannan, “the law you’ve been giving us for six months past?”

A roar of laughter greeted this retort.  The sheriff, red-faced, held up a hand for silence.  “I demand the prisoner,” he shouted.

Instantly there was a quiet order.  Fifty men in soldierly formation surrounded Jenkins.  “Take him, then,” a voice said pleasantly.  It was William Coleman’s.  The guards of the forward ranks threw back their cloaks, revealing a score of business-like short-barrelled shotguns.

Before this show of force, the gallant Hayes retreated, baffled.  He was a former Texan ranger, fearless to a fault; but he was wise enough to know when he was beaten.

“I’ve orders not to shoot,” he said, “but I warn you that all who participate in this man’s hanging will be liable for murder.”

Again came Brannan’s sneer.  “If we’re as safe as the last hundred men that took human life in this town, we’ve nothing to fear.”  Again a chorus of derision.  The sheriff turned, outraged, on his tormentor.  “You shall hear from me, sir,” he said indignantly, and wheeling his horse, he rode off.

“String him up on the flagpole,” suggested a bystander.  But this was cried down with indignation.  Several members who had been investigating now advanced with the recommendation that the hanging take place at the south-end of the old Custom House.

“We can throw the rope over a beam,” cried a tall man.  He was one of those who had pursued and caught Jenkins on the bay.  Now he seized the rope and called, “Come on, boys.”

There was a rush toward the southwest corner of the Plaza, so sudden that the hapless prisoner was jerked off his feet and dragged over the ground.  When the improvised gallows was reached he was half strangled, could not stand.  Several men supported him while others tossed the rope across the beam.  Then, with a shout, he was jerked from his feet into space.  His dangling figure jerked convulsively for a time, hung limp.

* * * * *

After the inquest Brannan met William Coleman at Vigilante headquarters.  “They were very hostile,” he declared; “the political gang is hot on our trail.  They questioned me as to the names on our committee.  I told them we went by numbers only,” he laughed.

“There have been threats, veiled and open,” said Coleman, soberly.  “King has lost several good banking accounts and my business has fallen off noticeably.  Friends have advised me to quit the committee—­or worse things might happen.”

Brannan took a folded paper from his pocket; it was a printed scrawl unsigned, which read: 

“Beware; or your house will be burned.  We mean business.”