KIRBY SHOWS HIS HAND

That scene, with all its surroundings, remains indelibly impressed upon
my memory. It will never fade while I live. The long, narrow, dingy
cabin of the little _Warrior_, its forward end unlighted and in shadow,
the single swinging lamp, suspended to a blackened beam above where the
table had stood, barely revealing through its smoky chimney the after
portion showing a row of stateroom doors on either side, some standing
ajar, and that crowd of excited men surging about the fallen body of
Judge Beaucaire, unable as yet to fully realize the exact nature of
what had occurred, but conscious of impending tragedy. The air was
thick and stifling with tobacco smoke, redolent of the sickening fumes
of alcohol, and noisy with questioning voices, while above every other
sound might be distinguished the sharp pulsations of the laboring
engine just beneath our feet, the deck planks trembling to the
continuous throbbing. The overturned table and chairs, the motionless
body of the fallen man, with Kirby standing erect just beyond, his face
as clear-cut under the glare of light as a cameo, the revolver yet
glistening in his extended hand, all composed a picture not easily
forgotten.

Still, this impression was only that of a brief instant. With the next
I was upon my knees, lifting the fallen head, and seeking eagerly to
discern some lingering evidence of life in the inert, body. There was
none, not so much as the faint flutter of a pulse, or suggestion of a
heart throb. The man was already dead before he fell, dead before he
struck the overturned table. Nothing any human effort might do would
help him now. My eyes lifting from the white, ghastly face encountered
those of McAfee, and, without the utterance of a word, I read the
miner's verdict, and arose again to my feet.