imes--if I know about it in advance. I'm sorry, Jim."

"They tell me King of William's going to print it in the _Bulletin_.
Better see him."

"No use," put in McGowan, "that fellow's so straight (he sneered the
word) that he leans over backward. Somebody'll fix him though ... you'll
see." The trio wandered off to Broderick's relief, making their exit
just as Cora entered the door. The gambler approached Richardson. They
had a drink together, some rather loud, conversation. Broderick feared
it would develop into a quarrel, but evidently they patched a truce
between them, for soon they went out arm in arm.

His thought turned to Alice Windham. In a kind of reverie he left the
Blue Wing, walking without sense of direction. It was getting dark; a
chilling touch of fog was in the air--almost, it seemed to Broderick,
like a premonition. On Clay, near Montgomery, he passed two men standing
in a doorway; it was too dark to see their faces. Some impulse bade him
stop, but he repressed it. Later he heard a shot, men running. But his
mood was not for street brawls. He went on.

CHAPTER XL

THE STORM GATHERS

It was Nesbitt who told Broderick of the murder. Nesbitt, of whom
Richardson had said the night before, "he slings a wicked pen."

"My God, Jim, this is awful!" Broderick exclaimed. "You're sure there's
no mistake ... I saw the two of them go out arm in arm."

"Mistake! I wish it were," cried Nesbitt angrily. "No, poor Billy
Richardson is dead. Cora's in jail.... They say Cora laughed when he
went to prison with Scannell.... Scannell and Mulligan!" He spat out the
words with a savage distaste.

"Let me show you something, Dave. A reporter from the New York _Express_
was out here gathering data--crime statistics for the year. He showed it
to me. Listen to this: Four hundred and eighty-nine murders in
California during ten months. Six executions by sheriffs, forty-six
hanged by mobs; that makes fifty-two in all."

He tapped the paper with his lean forefinger. "Probably two hundred of
these killings were local.... And in the entire history of this city
there's been exactly one legal execution. That was in 1852."

Broderick shook his head. "What are you going to do with that stuff?"
asked Broderick.

"Publish it in the _Bulletin_," returned Nesbitt decisively. "We're
going to stir things up."

They walked along together, Broderick's head bent in thought. Everywhere
people were discussing the evening's tragedy.