Remembering this, King seized a desk pad, wrote on it some words of
memoranda. Then he straightway forgot Casey in the detail of work.

When the Bulletin was off the press, the pad, with its written
inscription, caught his eye and he shoved it into a side pocket.

"Well, I'm going home," he said to Nesbitt. "Must buy a few things for
the children."

Nesbitt looked up half absently from his writing. "Afternoon," he
greeted. "Better take your derringer. Don't know what might happen."

King shrugged himself into the talma cape, which he usually wore on the
streets. It is doubtful if he heard Nesbitt's warning. With a nod to
Gerberding he sauntered slowly out, enjoying the mellow spring
sunshine, filtering now and then through wisps of fog. As he turned into
Montgomery street he almost collided with Benito Windham, who, brief
case under arm, was striding rapidly southward. They exchanged a cordial
greeting. Benito looked after the tall courtly figure crossing
Montgomery street diagonally toward a big express wagon. Benito thought
he could discern a quick nervous movement back of it. A man stepped out,
directly across King's path.

He was James P. Casey, tremendously excited. His right hand shook
violently. His hat was on one side of his head; he was apparently
intoxicated. King did not notice him until they were almost abreast.

Casey's arm was outstretched, pointed at King's breast. "Draw and defend
yourself," he said loudly. He shut his eyes and a little puff of smoke
seemed to spring from the ends of his fingers, followed in the fraction
of a second by a sharp report.

Benito ran with all his might toward the men. He did not think that King
was hit, for the editor turned toward the Pacific Express office. On the
threshold he stumbled. A clerk ran out and caught the tall figure as it
collapsed.

Benito looked about for King's assailant. He saw a group of men on
Washington street, but was unable to distinguish Casey among them,
though McGowan's lanky form was visible.

At Benito's feet lay a pocket-memorandum marked with a splash of red.
The young man picked it up and read:

"Piano for Annie.

"Crayons for Joe.

"Candy--"

A man with a medicine case shouldered his way in. He was Dr. Hammond.
"Get a basin," he ordered, "some warm water." He unbuttoned the wounded
man's coat, looking grave as he saw the spreading red stain on
his shirt.

"Will he get well, doctor?" shouted a dozen voices.

[Illustrati