"This old bell of yours is historical," he told Keith. "Its tolling called together the Vigilantes of '51."
They sat gossiping for an hour, half sleepy with reaction from the fatigues of the day, smoking slowly, enjoying themselves. Everything was very peaceful—the long slant of a sunbeam through dust motes, the buzz of an early bluebottle, the half-heard activities of some of the servants in the pantry beyond, preparing for the rush of the cocktail hour. Suddenly Johnny raised his head and pricked up his ears.
"What the deuce is that!" he exclaimed.
They listened, then descended to the big open engine-room doors and listened again. From the direction of Market Street came the dull sounds of turmoil, shouting, the growl and roar of many people excited by something. Across the Plaza a man appeared, running. As he came nearer, both could see that his face had a very grim expression.
"Here!" called Johnny, as the man neared them. "Stop a minute! Tell us what's the matter!"
The man ceased running, but did not stop. He was panting but evidently very angry. His words came from between gritted teeth.
"Fight," he said briefly. "Casey and James King of William. King's shot."
At the words something seemed to be stilled in Keith's mind. Johnny seized the man by the sleeve.
"Hold on," he begged. "I know that kind of a fight. Tell us."
"Casey went up close to King, said 'come on,' and instantly shot him before King knew what he was saying."