The sheriff, red-faced, held up
a hand for silence. "I demand the prisoner," he shouted.
Instantly there was a quiet order. Fifty men in soldierly formation
surrounded Jenkins. "Take him, then," a voice said pleasantly. It was
William Coleman's. The guards of the forward ranks threw back their
cloaks, revealing a score of business-like short-barrelled shotguns.
Before this show of force, the gallant Hayes retreated, baffled. He was
a former Texan ranger, fearless to a fault; but he was wise enough to
know when he was beaten.
"I've orders not to shoot," he said, "but I warn you that all who
participate in this man's hanging will be liable for murder."
Again came Brannan's sneer. "If we're as safe as the last hundred men
that took human life in this town, we've nothing to fear." Again a
chorus of derision. The sheriff turned, outraged, on his tormentor. "You
shall hear from me, sir," he said indignantly, and wheeling his horse,
he rode off.
"String him up on the flagpole," suggested a bystander. But this was
cried down with indignation. Several members who had been investigating
now advanced with the recommendation that the hanging take place at the
south-end of the old Custom House.
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