The most efficient leader of the citizens was a saloon-keeper by the name of Williams, familiarly called “Jakey.” He was an athletic man, and a determined enemy of the robbers, by whom he was held in great fear. He had been the hero of more than one desperate affray, and was regarded by Bob and Willoughby as the only obstacle in the way of their bloody project to kill the managers of the ball. The first act, therefore, in their contemplated tragedy was to dispose of him. Jakey at first sought to avoid them. They pursued him from house to house, till, tired of fleeing, he finally declared he would go no farther. Returning by a circuitous path, he was overtaken and fired upon by his pursuers while entering his saloon. He fired in return, and springing back, seized a loaded shotgun, and rushed into the street. Meantime, several citizens joined in the fight, which soon became general. The ruffians found themselves contending against fearful odds. Willoughby was slowly retreating with his face to his assailants, and firing as rapidly as possible. Cherokee Bob was pursuing the same strategy in an opposite direction. The twelfth fire exhausted Willoughby’s pistols. He turned to run, with Jakey in full pursuit. Exhausted from loss of blood, which was pouring from sixteen wounds, he soon fell, and, throwing up his hands, exclaimed to one of his pursuers who was in the act of firing, “For God’s sake, don’t shoot any more. I’m dying now,” and surrendered himself to death. Bob beat a retreat at the first fire. Dodging behind a corner, where his head only was exposed, he fired upon his pursuers until his pistols were nearly empty. While aiming for another shot, a ball fired from an opposite window brought him to the earth, mortally wounded. He was taken to his saloon, and died the third day after the affray, in the full, and to him, consolatory belief that he had killed Jakey Williams at the first fire of his revolver. He had a brother living at Lewiston. His last words were, “Tell my brother I have killed my man and gone on a long hunt.” His real name was Henry Talbert. Cynthia was now without a protector. At Bob’s request she soon joined her old lover, Bill Mayfield, at Boise. This reunion was destined to be of short duration. The following Spring Mayfield went to Placerville, Idaho, for a brief sojourn. A quarrel over a game of cards sprung up between him and one Evans. Mayfield drew his revolver, intending to settle it by a fatal shot, but Evans interposed, “I’m not heeled”—the mountain phrase for “I am not armed.” “Then go and heel yourself,” said Mayfield, sheathing his revolver, “and look out the next time you meet me, for I’m bound to kill you at sight. One of us must die.”