"Bah!" cried Kemble, and stalked out muttering. Brannan laughed. "He'sriding his hobby consistently. But he'll come down. So you've had nonews from Benito?"
"No," said Inez gloomily. "Perhaps it is too soon. Perhaps he has had noluck to tell us of as yet. But I wish he would write just a line."
"Well, well, cheer up, my dear," said Brannan, reassuringly. "Benito cantake care of himself. Next week I return to my store in the gold lands,and I'll have an eye out for the lad. How does your work go, Adrian?"
"Poorly," answered Stanley. "Labor's too high to make money. Why, thecommon laborers who were satisfied with a dollar a day, now ask ten, andmechanics twenty. Even the Indians and the immigrants learn at once thecrazy price of service."
"San Francisco. Port o' Gold!" apostrophized the Mormon gaily. He wenton his way with a friendly wave of the hand. His steps were bent towardAlcalde Hyde's headquarters. Hyde had made many enemies by his set,opinionated ways. There was talk of putting Rev. Thaddeus Leavenworth inhis place. But Brannan was by no means certain this would solve theproblem. He missed Leidesdorff sadly. The latter's sudden death had lefta serious hiatus. He was used to talking problems over with the genial,hospitable Dane, whose counsel was always placid, well considered.
Congress had failed to provide a government for California. SanFrancisco grumbled; more than all other towns she needed law.Stevenson's regiment had been disbanded; its many irresponsibles, heldpreviously in check by military discipline, now indulged their bent forlawlessness, unstinted. Everything was confusion. Gold-dust was thelegal tender, but its value was unfixed. The government accepted it at$10 per ounce, with the privilege of redemption in coin.
The problem of land grants was becoming serious. There were more thanhints of the alcalde's speculation; of illegal favors shown to friends,undue restrictions placed on others. Brannan shook his head as heclimbed Washington street hill toward the alcalde's office. In the plazastood a few mangy horses, too decrepit for sale to gold seekers.Gambling houses and saloons ringed the square and from these proceededdrunken shouts, an incessant click of poker chips; now and then aburst of song.
The sound of a shot swung him swiftly about. It came from the door of anoisy and crowded mart of chance recently erected, but already the sceneof many quarrels. The blare of music which had issued from it swiftlyceased. There was a momentary silence; then a sound of shuffling feet,of whispering voices.
A man ran out into the street as if the devil were after him; anotherfollowed, staggering, a pistol in his hand. He fired one shot and thencollapsed with horrid suddenness at Brannan's feet. The other man raninto Portsmouth Square, vaulted to the saddle of a horse and spurredfuriously away.
Brannan stooped over the fallen figure. It was that of a brawny, beardedman, red-shirted, booted, evidently a miner. That he was mortallywounded his gazing eyes gave evidence. Yet such was his immense vitalitythat he muttered, clutching at his throat--staving off dissolution withthe mighty passionate vehemence of some dominating purpose. Brannan bentto listen.
"Write," he gasped, and Brannan, with an understanding nod, obeyed. "Ibequeath my claim ... south fork ... American River ... fifty feet fromend of Lone Pine's shadow ... sunset ... to my pard ... Benito Wind--"His voice broke, but his eyes watched Brannan's movements as the latterwrote. Dying hands grasped paper, pencil ... signed a scrawlingsignature, "Joe Burthen." Then the head dropped back, rolled for amoment and lay still.
CHAPTER XVIII
NEWS OF BENITO
Brannan turned from contemplation of the dead to find himself surroundedby a curious, questioning group. A bartender, coatless, red-faced,grasping in one hand a heavy bung-starter as if it were a weapon ofdefense; a gambler, sleeves rolled up, five cards clutched in nervousfingers; half a dozen sailors, vaqueros, a ragged miner or two andseveral shortskirted young women of the class that had recently driftedinto the hectic night-life of San Francisco. All were whisperingexcitedly. Some of the men, with a show of reverence, removedtheir hats.
"Do you know who did this?" Brannan asked.
"I saw it," cried one of the women. She was dressed as a Spanish dancerand in one hand held a tambourine and castanets. "They fight," she gavea little smirk of vanity, "about me."
Brannan recognized her as Rosa Terranza, better known as Ensenada Rose.She had been the cause of many rivalries and quarrels.
"Dandy" Carter, the gambler, let down his sleeves and thrust the cardsinto his pocket.
"Rose was dealin' faro," he explained, "and this galoot here bucks thegame.... He lose. You un'erstan'. He lose a lot o' dust ... as much asforty ounces. Then--just like that--he stops." The gambler snapped hisfingers. "He says, 'My little gal; my partner! God Almighty! I'ma-wrongin' them!' He starts to go, but Rose acts mighty sympathetic andhe tells her all about the kid."
"Hees little girl," the dancer finished. "I say we dreenk her healthtogether, and he tell me of the senorita. He draw a picture of his claimwith trees and river and a mountain--ver' fine, like an artist. And hesay, 'You come and marry me and be a mother to my child'." She laughedgrimly. "He was ver' much drunk ... and then--"
"That Sydney Duck comes in," said Dandy Carter. "He sits down at thetable with 'em. They begins to quarrel over Rose. And the fust I knowsthere was a gun went off; the girl yells and the other man vamooses,with this feller staggerin' after."
"He shot from under the table," a sailor volunteered. "'Twas murder.Where I come from they'd a-hanged him for't."
"But who was he?" Brannan asked the question in another form. The girland Dandy Carter looked at one another, furtively. "I--don't know hisname," the girl said, finally.
"Don't any of you?" Brannan's tone was searching. But it brought noanswer. Several shook their heads. Ensenada Rose shivered. "It's cold. Igo back in," she said, and turned from them. Brannan stopped her with asudden gesture. "Wait," he ordered. "Where's the map ... the paper thisman showed you ... of his mine?"
Ensenada Rose's eyes looked into Brannan's, with a note of challenge herchin went up. "Quien sabe?" she retorted. Brannan watched the slender,graceful figure vanish through the lighted door. In her trail thegambler and bartender followed. Presently a burst of music issued fromthe groggery; a tap-tap-tap of feet in rhythm to the click of castanets.Already the tragedy was forgotten. Brannan found himself face to facewith the sailor. "I'll help you carry him--somewhere," he said. Heraised the dead man's shoulders from the ground, and Brannan, followinghis suggestion, took the other end of the grim burden, which they boreto the City Hotel. Brannan, in the presence of Alcalde Hyde, searchedBurthen's clothing for the plan which Rosa had described. But they didnot find it; only a buckskin bag with a few grains of gold-dust at thebottom, a jackknife, a plug of tobacco, a scratched daguerreotype of ayoung girl with corkscrew curls and friendly eyes.
* * * * *
Next evening Nathan Spear chanced in to see the Stanleys. "Sam Brannan'sgone," he told them. "Said he'd let you know about Benito. And here's aletter from Alcalde Colton of Monterey--who's at the gold-fields now."
"Has he seen my brother?" Inez questioned, eagerly.
Spear began to read: "Young Benito Windham has been near here for afortnight. I am told, without much luck, He had to sell his horse andsaddle, for the price of living is enormous; finally he paired off witha man named Burthen--strapping, bearded Kansan with a little daughter,about 17. They struck a claim, and Burthen's on the way to San Franciscofor supplies. I'll tell you more when I have seen the lad and had a talkwith him. The girl, I understand, was keeping house for them. A pretty,wistful little thing, they tell me, so I'd better keep an eye onFriend Benito."
"Have you seen this Burthen? Is he here?" asked Stanley.
"He was robbed--and killed last night at the Eldorado."
"Sanctissima!" cried the girl, and crossed herself. "Then the littleone's an orphan. And Benito--"
"Her guardian, no doubt."
Spear laughed. "He writes that a miner gave $24 in gold-dust for a boxof seid
litz powders; another paid a dollar a drop for laudanum to curehis toothache. Flour is $400 per barrel, whisky $20 for a quart bottle,and sugar $4 a pound. 'It's a mad world, my masters,' as Shakespeareputs it, but a golden one. By and by this wealth will flow into yourcoffers down in San Francisco. Just now there is little disturbance, butit is bound to come. Several robberies and shootings have already takenplace. There is one man whom I'd call an evil genius--a gambler, ahandsome ruffian and a dead shot, so they tell me. It's rumored that hehas a fancy for the little Burthen girl. Lord save her! Perhaps youknow the rascal, for he hails, I understand, from San Francisco, oneAlexander McTurpin."
The three surveyed each other in a startled silence.
"Benito and he are sure to quarrel," Inez whispered. "Madre Dolores!What can we do?"
"Perhaps I'd better run up to the mines," said Adrian. "I've my ownaffair, you know, to settle with this fellow."
"No, no, you must not," cried his wife in quick alarm.
Spear smiled. "I wouldn't fret," he spoke assuringly. "Sam's gone up tosee this fellow ... on a little business of his own."
CHAPTER XIX
THE VEILED WOMAN
Several months went by with no news from Benito. James Burthen had beenburied in the little graveyard on a hill overlooking the bay. And thatended the matter in so far as San Francisco was concerned.
In the Alta California, a consolidation of two rival papers, appeared abrief notice chronicling the death of an unidentified miner, whoseassassin, also nameless, had escaped. Ensenada Rose, described as anexotic female of dubious antecedents and still more suspicious motives,had left the Eldorado on the morning after the shooting "for partsunknown." She was believed to hold some "key to the tragic mystery whichit was not her purpose to reveal."
But killings were becoming too familiar in the growing town to excitemuch comment. San Francisco's population had quadrupled in the past halfyear and men were streaming in by the hundreds from all quarters of theglobe. Flimsy bunk-houses were hastily erected, springing up as if bymagic overnight. Men stood in long lines for a chance at these sorryaccommodations and the often sorrier meals which a score of enterprisingculinary novices served at prices from one dollar up. Lodging was $30per month and at this price men slept on naked boards like sailors in aforecastle, one above the other. Often half a dozen pairs of blanketsserved a hundred sleepers. For as soon as a guest of these palatialhostelries began to snore the enterprising landlord stripped his body ofits covering and served it to a later arrival.
"If the town grows much faster it will be a tragedy," remarked Adrianto James Lick that afternoon. Lick had bought a city lot at Montgomeryand Jackson streets and had already sold a portion of it for $30,000. Hewas a believer in San Francisco's future, and at San Jose his flourmill, once contemptuously called "Lick's folly," was grinding grainwhich at present prices brought almost its weight in gold.
"Things always right themselves, my boy," he said. "Don't worry. Keeppegging away at your sand lots. Some day you'll be a millionaire."
"But half of these people are homeless. And every day they come faster.In our neighborhood are a dozen ramshackle tents where these poor devilskeep 'bachelors' hall' with little more than a skillet and a coffee pot.They call it 'ranching.'" He laughed. "What would our old land baronshave thought of a rancho four by six feet, which the first of our tradewinds will blow into the bay?"
"The Lord," said Lick, devoutly, "tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.And also to the homeless squatter on our sandy shores."
"I hope you're right," responded Stanley. "It does me good to hearsomeone speak of God in this godless place. It is full of thieves andcut-throats; they've a settlement at the base of the hill overlookingClark's Point. No man's life is safe, they tell me, over there."
Lick frowned. "They call it Sydney Town because so many Australianconvicts have settled in it. Some day we'll form a citizens' committeeand run them off."
"Which reminds me," Lick retorted, "that McTurpin came to town thismorning. With a veiled woman ... or girl. She looks little more thana child."
Adrian surveyed the other, startled. "Child?" His mind was full of vaguesuspicions.
"Well, she didn't weigh more than a hundred. Yes, they came--both on onehorse, and the fellow's companion none too well pleased, I should say.Frightened, perhaps, though why she should be is a puzzle." Lickshrugged his shoulders.
"Has he taken the girl to his--the ranch?" asked Adrian.
"Don't know. I reckon not," Lick answered. "They ate at the City Hotel.He'd a bag full of dust, so he'll gamble and guzzle till morning mostlikely." He regarded his friend keenly, a trifle uneasily. "Come, Adrian... I'll walk past your door with you."
"I'm not going home just yet, thanks," Stanley's tone was nervouslyevasive.
"Well, good-night, then," said the other with reluctance. He turnedsouth on Kearny street toward his home. Stanley, looking after him,stood for a moment as if undetermined. Then he took his way across thePlaza toward the City Hotel.
In the bar, a long and low-ceiling room, talk buzzed and smoke from manypipes made a bluish, acrid fog through which, Adrian, standing in thedoorway, saw, imperfectly, a long line of men at the bar. Others sat attables playing poker and drinking incessantly, men in red-flannelshirts, blue denim trousers tucked into high, wrinkled boots. They worewide-brimmed hats, and cursed or spat with a fervor and vehemence thatindicated enjoyment. Adrian presently made out the stocky form ofMcTurpin, glass upraised. Before him on the bar were a fat buckskin bagand a bottle. He was boasting of his luck at the mines.
A companion "hefted" the treasure admiringly. "Did you make it gamblin',Alec?" he inquired.
"No, by Harry!" said the other, tartly. "I'm no gambler any more. I'm arespectable gentleman with a mine and a ranch," he emptied his glassand, smacking his lips, continued, "and a beautiful young girl thatloves me ... loves me. Understand?" His hand came down upon the other'sshoulder with a sounding whack.
"Where is she?" asked the other, coaxingly. "You're a cunning hombre,Alec. Leave us have a look at her, I say."
"Bye and bye," McTurpin spoke more cautiously. "Bye and bye ... then youcan be a witness to the marriage, Dave." He drew the second man asideacross the room, so near to Adrian that the latter stepped back to avoiddiscovery.
"She's a respectable lass," he heard McTurpin whisper. "Yes, it's marryor nothing with her ... and I'm willing enough, the Lord knows. Can yefind me a preacher, old fellow?"
He could not make out the other's reply. Their voices died down to animperceptible whisper as they moved farther away. Stanley thought theyargued over something. Then the man called Dave passed him and wentswiftly up the hill.
Vaguely troubled, Stanley returned to the veranda. It was unoccupied forchilly evening breezes had driven the loungers indoors. Absently hepaced the creaking boards and, having reached a corner of the building,continued his promenade along what seemed to be the rear of thebuilding. Here a line of doors opened on the veranda like the upperstaterooms of a ship.
Why should he trouble his mind about McTurpin and a paramour? thoughtAdrian. Yet his thought was curiously disturbed. Something Spear hadread from a letter vexed him dimly like a memory imperfectly recalled.What was there about McTurpin and a child? Whose child? And what had itto do with the veiled woman who had ridden with the gambler from themines. Impishly the facts eluded him. Inez would know. But Inez must notbe bothered just now--at this time.
He paused and listened. Was that a woman sobbing? Of course not. Onlyhis nerves, his silly sentiment. He would go home and forget thewhole thing.
There it was again. This time he could not be mistaken. Noiselessly hemade his way toward the sound. It stopped. But presently it came again.From where? Ah, yes, the window with a broken pane.
Soft, heartbroken, smothered wailing. Spasms of it. Then an interlude ofsilence. Adrian's heart beat rapidly. He tip-toed to the window, triedthe door beside it. Locked. After a moment's hesitation he spoke,softly: "Is someone in trouble?"
A CALL IN THE NIGHT
There was no answer. For a second time Adrian's mind fought a beliefthat sense had tricked him. Now and then a shout from the bar-roomreached him as he waited, listening. The wind whistled eerily throughthe scant-leaved scrub-oaks on the slopes above.
But from the room at the window of which he listened there came nosound.
Adrian felt like one hoaxed, made ridiculous by his own sentimentality.He strode on. But when he reached the farther corner some involuntaryimpulse turned him back. And again the sound of muffled sobbing came tohim from the open window--fainter now, as though an effort had been madeto stifle it.
Once more he spoke: "I say, what's the trouble in there? Can I help?"
Almost instantly a face appeared against the pane--a tear-stained face,terrified and shrinking.
"Oh!" said a voice unsteady with weeping. "Oh! sir, if there is a heartin your breast you will help me to escape--to find my father."
Her tone, despite agitation, was that of extreme youth. She was not ofthe class that frequent gambling halls. Both her dress and her mannerproclaimed that. Adrian was perplexed. "Are you--" he hesitated, fearingto impart offense, "are you the girl who came with McTurpin?"
"Yes, yes," she spoke hurriedly. "He told me my father was ill. Hepromised to take me to him. Instead, he locked me in this room. Hethreatened--oh! he is a monster! Will you help me? Do you know myfather, sir?"
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