Then occurred, with lightning speed, an unexpected thing.  Terry, recovering his balance, sprang forward, drew the bowie knife he always carried and plunged it, with a vicious thrust, into Hopkins’ neck.

CHAPTER L

THE COMMITTEE DISBANDS

Alice Windham and her little son, named Robert for his grandfather, were passing Coleman’s store, en route to Benito’s office; it was a pleasant, quiet afternoon, almost windless.  The infant Robert toddled manfully along on his five-year legs, holding tightly to his mother’s hand.

Men began to rush by, jostling them in their haste.  The child drew closer to his mother.  More men passed.  Some of them were carrying guns.  Coleman, emerging hurriedly, stopped at sight of Mrs. Windham.

“Better go inside,” he advised, “there’s trouble afoot.”  He picked up the now frightened child and escorted the mother to his office.  “Sit down,” he invited.  “It’s comfortable here ... and safe.”

Before she could thank him he was off.  At the door Miers Truett hailed him.  “Hopkins stabbed,” she heard him pant.  He had been running.  “May die ...  Terry did it.”

They went off together.  Other men stood in the doorway.  “By the Eternal!” one was saying.  “A Judge of the Supreme Court!  What will Coleman do?  They can’t arrest Terry.”

There was a silence.  Then the Monumental Fire Engine bell began to toll.  “Come on,” the second man spoke with a kind of thrill.  “That’s Coleman’s answer.”

* * * * *

Terry, Ashe and their companions ran pell mell up Jackson street until they reached the armory of the San Francisco Blues.  It was rather an ornate building, guarded by iron doors.  These stood open as the fugitives entered, but were immediately closed and guarded by a posse of pursuing Vigilantes, effectually preventing Law and Order reinforcements from the outside.

Meanwhile the wounded Hopkins, screaming that he was murdered, had been carried into the Pennsylvania Engine House close by.  Dr. Beverly Cole, the Vigilante surgeon chief, was summoned and pronounced the wound a serious one.  Thereupon the bell was tolled.

Half an hour later several thousand men under Marshal Doane marched to the armory.  In front of it he drew up his forces and knocked on the inner portal.

“What d’ye want?” came the heavy bass of David Terry, a little less arrogant than usual.

“The committee has ordered the arrest of yourself and your party,” answered Doane.  “Will you come quietly?”

There was excited murmuring; then Terry’s heavy tones once more:  “Do you mean that you will attack the person of a Supreme Court Justice?” he asked half incredulous.

“We will arrest all those who commit or attempt murder.”

More whispering.

“Very well,” said Terry.  “I will not subject my friends to violence....  But I warn you that the consequences will be serious.”