It was observable that the gang began to draw together from that day. Minor differences of opinion in its members were sunk in the common need of a united front. Daily, Masterson, Buckley, Vance, McDowell, Carberry, and their followers could be seen swaggering in groups. Their attitude was defiant. It would not have surprised Aurora to learn any morning that Palmer or Rogers had been shot down. The vengeance of the gunmen fell instead on Johnson, the rancher who had sent Rogers to get back the stolen horse. He was warned not to show his face in Aurora. The ranchman disregarded the threat and came to town each week to sell his produce. He made the trip once too often. His body was found one morning lying in the street. During the night he had been murdered. Hugh was standing in front of the Novacovich building when he heard of the killing. The man who told him whispered a word in his ear. Instantly the express messenger walked to his cabin. He drew out a sawed-off shot gun from beneath the bed and passed down Main Street to the Wingate building. Already forty or fifty men were present, the pick of the town. More were pouring in every minute. Captain Palmer was the leader. As Hugh looked from his cold stern face to those of the grim men about him he knew that a day of judgment had come. An organization of vigilantes was completed in a few minutes. There was no debate, no appeal from the decision of the chair. These citizens meant business. They were present to get results swiftly and efficiently. The men were divided into companies with captains. One group was sent to take charge of the Armoury, where the weapons of the Esmeralda Rangers were kept. Palmer checked off a list of gunmen to be arrested. This commission was given to Hugh. He divided his company into groups and set about finding the men whose names he had on the list. Most of the desperadoes were taken completely by surprise. They were captured in bed after being aroused from sleep. Hugh himself broke down the door of Jack Daily’s room after the man had refused to open it. The two faced each with a revolver in his hand. Daily saw other men at the head of the stairs back of McClintock. “What’s all this row about?” he asked. “W. R. Johnson was killed in the night. You’re wanted, Jack,” the young man answered. “Killed, was he? Well, he had it comin’,” jeered the gunman. “You’ve heard about the pitcher that went once too often to the well, I reckon.” “We’ve heard about that pitcher, Jack. Have you?” asked Hugh significantly. Daily tried to carry things off with a swagger. “Been elected sheriff overnight, young fellow, in place of Francis?” “Just a deputy. Drop that gun.” The desperado hesitated. Then, with a forced laugh, he tossed his revolver upon the bed. “You’re feelin’ yore oats since Dutch showed a yellow streak, McClintock.”