"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.
"We can throw the rope over a beam," cried a tall man. He was one of those who had pursued and caught Jenkins on the bay. Now he seized the rope and called, "Come on, boys."
There was a rush toward the southwest corner of the Plaza, so sudden that the hapless prisoner was jerked off his feet and dragged over the ground. When the improvised gallows was reached he was half strangled, could not stand. Several men supported him while others tossed the rope across the beam. Then, with a shout, he was jerked from his feet into space. His dangling figure jerked convulsively for a time, hung limp.
After the inquest Brannan met William Coleman at Vigilante headquarters. "They were very hostile," he declared; "the political gang is hot on our trail. They questioned me as to the names on our committee. I told them we went by numbers only," he laughed.
"There have been threats, veiled and open," said Coleman, soberly. "King has lost several good banking accounts and my business has fallen off noticeably. Friends have advised me to quit the committee--or worse things might happen."
Brannan took a folded paper from his pocket; it was a printed scrawl unsigned, which read:
"Beware; or your house will be burned. We mean business."