Terry answered "Yes" immediately. Broderick, who was endeavoring to adjust the unfamiliar stock of the foreign pistol to his grasp, did not hear. McKibben repeated, "Are you ready, Dave?" in an undertone. Broderick looked up with nervous and apologetic haste, "Yes, yes, quite ready," he replied.
"One," called Colton. Broderick's pistol spoke. Discharged apparently before aim could be taken; his bullet struck the ground at Terry's feet. Broderick, now defenseless, waited quietly. "Two," the word came. Terry, who had taken careful aim, now fired. Broderick staggered, recovered himself. His face was distorted with pain. Slowly he sank to one knee; sidewise upon his elbow, then lay prone.
It was Sunday, September 18th. In the plaza a catafalque had been erected, draped in black. Upon it stood a casket covered with flowers. An immense crowd was about it, strangely silent. Across the platform a constant stream of people filed, each stopping a moment to gaze at a face that lay still and peaceful, seemingly composed in sleep. It was a keen and striking face; the forehead bespoke intellect and high resolve; the jaw and chin indomitable; aggressive bravery. Over all there was a stamp of sadness and of loneliness that caught one's heart. Friends, political compatriots and erstwhile enemies paid David Broderick a final tribute as they passed; few without a twitching of the lips. Tears ran down the faces of both men and women. The crowd murmured. Then the splendid moving voice of Colonel Baker poured forth an oration like Mark Anthony above the bier of Caesar:
"Citizens of California: A Senator lies dead.... It is not fit that such a man should pass into the tomb unheralded; that such a life should steal, unnoticed, to its close. It is not fit that such a death should call forth no rebuke...."
His majestic voice rolled on, telling of Broderick's work, his character, devotion to the people. He assailed the practice of duelling, the bitter hatreds of a slave-impassioned South. His voice shook with emotion as he ended:
"Thus, O brave heart! we bear thee to thy rest. As in life no other voice so rung its trumpet blast upon the ear of freemen, so in death its echoes will reverberate amid our valleys and mountains until truth and valor cease to appeal to the human heart.
"Good friend! True hero! Hail and farewell."
Terry, who had taken careful aim, now fired. Broderick staggered, recovered himself. Slowly he sank to one knee.