Then the prosecution asked for a few minutes’ recess, announcing that it had a new witness to bring forward.  After much hurrying to and fro, and whispering and consulting among lawyers and court and prison officials, young Hopkins’s accomplice appeared on the witness-stand and turned State’s evidence.  He had learned of the intercepted letters, and, frightened by their probable result for himself, told the whole story of the crime, from the time Hopkins had first broached it to him until they were arrested in San Francisco.  And during the entire narration of the cold-blooded, brutal, and cowardly deed, old Dan Hopkins sat with his eyes on the witness, as steady and unflinching in color and nerve and muscle as if he had been listening to a lecture or a sermon.

I think he had decided, even then, what he would do, no matter what the finding of the jury might be.

At last it was all over; the jury listened to the judge’s charge, and filed out.  “It’s hanging, sure,” said the Newspaper Man.  “After that evidence and that charge there’s only one verdict they can bring in.  It’s a good thing as far as the boy’s concerned, but I do feel sorry for his governor.”

Every one felt so sure that the jury would soon return that none left their places, and a buzz of conversation soon filled the room.  Old Dan Hopkins sat with his arms folded, his head erect, and his eyes, steady and clear, upon the empty witness chair.  There were many sympathizing glances sent toward him, though no one approached or spoke to him; for it was evident from his compressed lips and frowning brow that he preferred to be left alone.  He had moved a little away from his son, and sat scarcely ten feet distant on my left.  When the jury returned, in less than half an hour, he bent upon them the same abstracted gaze and unmoved countenance.

The foreman stood up and glanced sadly toward the man who had been his friend and neighbor for many years.  There were tears in his eyes, and his voice broke and trembled as he gave their verdict, “Guilty of murder in the first degree.”

Not a sound broke the death-like stillness of the room as he sat down, and I noticed that every face within my view was turned away from the prisoner’s chair and the old man who sat near it.  The tense strain of the moment was broken by the prisoner’s counsel, who arose and began a motion for a new trial.

But the click of a revolver sharply halted his first sentence, as Dan Hopkins jumped to his feet with a sudden, swift movement of his right arm.  A dozen men leaped forward with outstretched arms crying, “Stop!  Stop!”

But even before they could reach him the report rang through the room, and just as they seized the father’s arms the son dropped to the floor, dead.  He waved back the men who were pressing around him.

“Stop!” he cried.  “Stand back a minute!” And they fell back instinctively.

He walked calmly to the judge’s desk and laid down his smoking pistol.  Then he folded his arms and faced about, with head thrown back, flashing eyes, and colorless face.  He looked at the sheriff, who, with the sense of official duty strong upon him, had stepped out from the huddled crowd and was coming toward him.