One afternoon Keith walked down Kearney Street deep in discussion of an important Federal case with his friend, Billy Richardson, the United States Marshal. Although both just and an official, Richardson was popular with all classes save those with whom his duty brought him into conflict. They found their way deliberately blocked, and came out of the absorption of their discussion to recognize before them Charles Cora, an Italian gambler of considerable prominence and wealth. Cora was a small, dark man, nervously built, dressed neatly and carefully in the height of gambler fashion. He seemed to be terribly excited, and at once launched a stream of oaths at Richardson.

"What's the matter with you, Charley?" asked the latter, as soon as he had recovered from his surprise.

Cora, evidently too incoherent to speak, leaped at the marshal, his fist drawn back. Keith seized him around the body, holding his arms to his sides.

"Hold on; take it easy!" he panted. "What's up, anyway?"

Cora, struggling violently, gritted out:

"He knows damn well what's up."

"I'll swear I don't!" denied Richardson.

"Then what do you mean telling every one that my Belle insulted your wife last night at the opera house?" demanded Cora, ceasing to struggle.

"Belle?" repeated Richardson equably. "I don't know what you're talking about. Be reasonable. Explain yourself."

"Yes, I got it straight," insisted the Italian. "Your wife says it insults her to sit next to my Belle, and you go everywhere telling it. What right you got to do that? Answer me that!"

"Now look here," said Richardson. "I was with Jim Scott all last evening. My wife wasn't with me. If you don't believe me, go ask Scotty."

Cora had apparently cooled off, so Keith released him. He shook his head, grumbling, only half convinced. After a moment he moved away. The two men watched him go, half vexed, half amused.

"He's crazy as a pup about that woman," observed Richardson.

"Who is she?" inquired Keith.

"Why, Belle--you know Belle, the one who keeps that, crib up your way."

"That woman!" marvelled Keith.

He spent the afternoon in court and in his office. About half-past six, on his way home, he saw Cora and Richardson come out of the Blue Wing saloon together. They were talking earnestly, and stopped in the square of light from the window. Richardson was explaining, and Cora was listening sullenly. As Keith passed them he heard, the marshal say, "Well, is it all right?" and Cora reply, "Yes." Something caused him to look back after he had gone a dozen yards. He saw Cora suddenly seize Richardson's collar with his left hand, at the same time drawing a derringer with his right.

"What are you going to do?" cried Richardson loudly and steadily, without straggling, "Don't shoot; I am unarmed!"

Without reply Cora fired into his breast. The marshal wilted, but with iron strength Cora continued for several moments to hold up his victim by the collar. Then he let the body drop, and moved away at a fast walk, the derringer still in his right hand.

Keith ran to his friend, and with others carried him into a nearby drug store. The sound of the shot almost immediately brought out a crowd. Keith, bending over the body of the murdered man, could see them pressing about the windows outside, their faces showing white from the lamps in the drug- store window or fading into the darkness beyond. They crowded through the doorway until driven out again by some of the cooler heads. Conjectures and inquiries flew thick. All sorts of reports were current of the details, but the crowd had the main facts--Cora had shot Richardson, Richardson was dead, Cora had been taken to jail.

"Then he's safe!" they sneered savagely.

Men had been shot on the streets before, many men, some of them as well known and liked as Richardson; but not after public sentiment had been aroused as the _Bulletin_ had aroused it. The crowds continued to gather. Several men made violent street-corner speeches. There was some talk of lynching. A storm of yes and no burst forth when the question was put. Bells rang. A great mob surged to the jail, were firmly met by a strong armed guard, and fell back muttering.

"Who will be the next victim?" men asked. "What a farce!" cried some, in deep disgust. "Why, the jailer is Cora's especial crony!" stated others, who seemed to know. &quo............