or."

Casey drew the knife; raised it dramatically. "I'll not let them take
me," he shouted, as if to bolster up courage by the sound of his own
voice. "I'll never leave this place alive."

Sheriff Scannell, summoned by a deputy, looked over his shoulder. "Oh,
yes, you will," he muttered. In his tone were pity and disdain.

* * * * *

Early Tuesday afternoon Benito and Broderick met in front of the
Montgomery Block. The former had just been released from duty at
Committee Headquarters, where a guard of 300 men was, night and day,
maintained.

"Casey has spent most of his time writing since we captured him," Benito
told his friend. "He recovered his nerve when he found we'd no intention
of hanging him without a trial. Of course, if King should live, he'll
get off lightly. And then, there's Cora--"

"Yes, he'll be a problem, if the other one's released," said Broderick.
"Unless King dies this whole eruption of the Vigilantes will fall flat."

Benito nodded, half reluctantly. "It seems--like destiny," he muttered.
Suddenly his head jerked upward. "What is that?"

A man came running out of the Montgomery Block. He seemed excited. His
accelerated pace continued as he sped down Sacramento street. Presently
another made his exit; ran like mad, uphill, toward the jail.

Dr. Hammond, looking very grim, came hurriedly out of the door and
entered a closed carriage. It drove off instantly. Then everything went
on as usual. The two men stood there, watchful, expectant. The town
seemed unusually still. A flag on a two-story building flapped
monotonously. Then a man across the street ran out of his store and
pointed upward. A rope was thrown from an upper window of the Montgomery
Block. Someone picked it up and carried it to The Bulletin Building,
pulled it taut. On a strip of linen had been hastily inscribed the
following announcement, stretched across the street:

"THE GREAT AND GOOD IS DEAD. WHO WILL NOT MOURN?"

CHAPTER XLVI

RETRIBUTION

Cora's trial was in progress. In the upper front room of Vigilante
headquarters sat the tribunal upon whose decision Cora's fate would
rest. They were grouped about a long table, twenty-nine men, the
executive committee. At their head sat William Coleman, grim and stern,
despite his clear complexion and his youthful, beardless mien. Near him,
Isaac Bluxome, keen-eyed, shrewd, efficient, made notes of the
proceedings.

Cora, affecting an air of