He answered her with a vehemence close to anger. "Politicians cannot choose their weapons. They must fight fire with fire ... or lose." For a moment the talk lagged. Then Benito, with his sprightly gossip, sent it rolling on. "Sherman has turned Jim Casey and his _Sunday Times_ out of the Turner-Lucas building ... for attacking the banks." "He threatened to, some time ago," said Broderick.... "How goes it with your law, Benito?" "Well enough," said Windham, as his wife rose. She left them to attend the child, which had awakened. Broderick stared after her, a brooding hunger in his eyes. Presently, he, too, arose, and despite Benito's urging, departed. It was dusk when he reached the Blue Wing saloon, where "Judge" McGowan awaited him. A burly, forceful man, with bushy eyebrows, a walrus moustache perpetually tobacco-stained, and an air of ruthless command. "Where've you been?" he asked, impatiently, but did not wait for an answer. "Casey's in trouble again." "What's the matter now?" asked Broderick with a swift, half anxious uplift of the chin. "Oh, not his fault exactly," said the other. "Five of Gwin's men attacked him. Tried to kill him probably. But Jim's a tough lad. He laid one out, took his pistol and shot another. The rest vamoosed. Jim's in jail ... for disturbing the peace," he added, chuckling grimly. "Well, Billy Mulligan will let him out," responded Broderick. "If not, see Scannell. Do you need bail?" He reached into his pocket and took out a roll of banknotes. "You'll attend to it, Ned?" he asked hurriedly. "Yes, yes," returned the tall man. "That's all right.... I wish it hadn't happened, though. We're none too strong ... with seven murderers in the jail.... They'll bring up Casey's prison record at the examination. See if they don't." Broderick turned away. At the bar he greeted "General" Billy Richardson, deputy United States Marshal. They had a drink together. "James King of William's crusading with The Bulletin," said Richardson, "he threatens to run all the crooks out of town. It's making a good deal of talk." "But King's not a newspaper man," retorted Broderick, puzzled. "He's a banker. How's he going to run a journal? That takes money--experience." "Quien sabe?" Richardson vouchsafed. "Sinton of Selover and Sinton's his financial backer. Jim Nesbitt helps with the writing. You know Nesbitt, don't you? Slings a wicked pen. But King writes his own editorials I'm told. He's got a big job on his hands--cleaning up San Francisco.... You ought to know, Dave Broderick," he laughed meaningly. "Here's to him, anyhow." "Don't know if I should drink to that or not," Broderick ruminated, smiling. "May get after me. I'll take a chance, though. King's straight. I can always get on with a straight man." He raised his glass.