Port O' Gold Part 21

Benito nodded to Robert Parker, whose hotel was rising, phoenix-like from its ashes.

"Things are coming along," he said with a gesture toward the buildings.

"Have you seen anything of Dave Broderick?"

Parker shook the rain-drops from his hat. "Saw him going toward the Bella Union," he replied. "They say he's as good as elected. A fine State senator he'll make, too." Taking Benito's arm, he walked with him out of earshot of those nearby.

"Benito," his tone was grave. "They tell me you've resumed possession of your ranch."

"Yes," confirmed the younger. "Half a dozen of my old servants are there with Mrs. Windham and myself. I've bought a little stock on credit and all's going well."

For a moment Parker said nothing; then, almost in Benito's ear, he spoke a warning: "Do you know that McTurpin is back?"

CHAPTER XXVIII

ON THE TRAIL OF McTURPIN

Benito, in a mood of high excitement, strode uphill toward the Bella Union, pondering the significance of Parker's startling information.

So McTurpin had come back.

He had been about to ask for further details when one of the hurrying workmen called his informant away. After all it did not matter much just how or when the gambler had returned. They were sure to meet sooner or later. Once more Windham's hand unconsciously sought the pistol in his pocket. At the entrance of the Bella Union he halted, shook the rain from his hat, sc.r.a.ped the mud from his feet upon a pile of gunnysacks which served as doormats, and went into the brilliant room. Since the temporary closing of the Eldorado, this place had become the most elegant and crowded of the city's gaming palaces. A mahogany bar extended the length of the building; huge hanging lamps surrounded by ornate cl.u.s.ters of prisms lent an air of jeweled splendor which the large mirrors and pyramids of polished gla.s.ses back of the counter enhanced. On a platform at the rear were several Mexican musicians in rich native costumes tw.a.n.ging gaily upon guitars and mandolins. Now and then one of them sang, or a Spanish dancer pirouetted, clicking her castanets and casting languis.h.i.+ng glances at the ring of auditors about her. These performers were invariably showered with coins. Tables of all sizes filled the center of the room from the long roulette board to the little round ones where drinks were served. Faro, monte, roulette, rouge et noir, vingt-un, chuck-a-luck and poker: each found its disciples; now and then a man went quietly out and another took his place; there was nothing to indicate that he had lost perhaps thousands of dollars, the "clean-up" of a summer of hards.h.i.+ps at the mines. A bushy bearded miner boasted that he had won $40,000 and lost it again in an hour and a half. Henry Mellus offered him work as a teamster and the other accepted.

"Easy come, easy go," he commented philosophically and, lighting his pipe from one of the sticks of burning punk placed at intervals along the bar, he went out.

In an out-of-the-way corner, where the evening's noise and activity ebbed and flowed a little more remotely, Benito discovered Broderick chewing an unlighted cigar and discussing the probabilities of election with John Geary. They hailed him cordially, but in a little while Geary drifted off to learn further news of the polls.

"And how is the charming Mrs. Windham?" asked Broderick.

"Well and happy, thank you," said Benito. "She loves the old place.

Cannot you dine with us there tonight?"

"With real pleasure," Broderick returned. "In this raw, boisterous place a chance to enjoy a bit of home life, to talk with a high-bred woman is more precious than gold."

Benito bowed. "It is not often that we have a Senator for a guest," he returned, smiling.

Broderick placed a hand upon his shoulder almost paternally. "I hope that is prophetic, Benito," he said. "I'm strangely serious about it.

This town has taken hold of me--your San Francisco."

They turned to greet Sam Brannan, now a candidate for the ayuntamiento or town council. "How goes it, Sam?" asked Broderick.

"Well enough," responded Brannan. He looked tired, irritated. "There's been a conspiracy against us by the rowdy element, but I think we've beaten them now."

Broderick's brow clouded. "We need a better government; a more effective system of police, Sam," he said, striking his first against the table.

"What we need," said Brannan, "is a citizens' society of public safety; a committee of vigilance. And, mark my word, we're going to have 'em.

There's more than one who suspects the town was set afire last December."

"But," said Broderick, "mob rule is dangerous. The const.i.tuted authorities must command. They are the ones to uphold the law."

"But what if they don't?" Brannan's aggressive chin was thrust forward.

"What then?"

"They must be made to; but authority should not be overthrown. That's revolution."

"And where, may I ask, would human liberty be today if there'd never been a revolution?" Brannan countered.

Benito left them. He had no stomach for such argument, though he was to hear much more of it in years to come. Suddenly he recalled the man who had tried to coach the Kanaka; who had glared so murderously at Mellus.

Those eyes had been familiar; something about them had made him grip his pistol, an impulse at which afterward he had laughed. But now he knew the reason for that half-involuntary action. Despite the beard and mustache covering the lower portion of his face completely; despite the low-pulled hat, the disguising ulster, he knew the man.

McTurpin.

The hot Spanish temper which he had never entirely mastered, flamed like a scorching blast across Benito's mind. He saw again McTurpin smiling as he won by fraud the stake at cards which he had laid against Benito's ranch; he seemed to hear again the gambler's sneering laugh as he, his father and Adrian had been ambushed at the entrance of his home; in his recollection burned the fellow's insult to his sister; the abduction of Alice, his wife; the murder of his partner. He was certain that McTurpin had somehow been at the bottom of it. Swiftly he was lost to all reason. He took the weapon from his pocket, examined it carefully to make certain that the caps were unimpaired by moisture. Then he set forth.

At the polling station he made casual inquiries, but the ballot-box stuffer for some time had not been seen.

"Charley Elleard ran him off, I think," said Frank Ward, laughing. "He'd have voted Chinamen and Indians if he'd had his way. But if you're looking for the rascal try the gambling house at Long Wharf and Montgomery street; that's where his kind hang out."

Later in the spring of 1850 Montgomery street was graded. Now it was a sloping streak of mud, the western side of which was several feet above the other. Where Long Wharf, which was to be cut through and called Commercial street, intersected, or rather bisected Montgomery, stood a large building with a high, broad roof. Its eaves projected over a row of benches, and here, sheltered somewhat from the rain, a group of Mexicans and Chilenos lounged in picturesque native costumes, smoking cigarettes. Through the door came a rollicking melody--sailor tunes played by skillful performers--and a hum of converse punctuated by the click of chips and coin. Benito entered. The room was blue with cigarette smoke, its score of tables glimpsed as through a fog. Sawdust covered the floor and men of all nationalities mingled quietly enough at play of every kind. A stream of men came and went to and from the gaming boards and bar.

Benito ordered a drink, and surveyed the room searchingly. The man he sought was not in evidence. "Is McTurpin here?" he asked the bartender.

If that worthy heard, he made no answer; but a slight, agile man with sly eyes looked up from a nearby table, "What d'ye want of him, stranger?"

An arrogant retort sprang to Benito's lips, but he checked it. He bent toward the questioner confidentially. "I've news for Alec," he whispered; "news he ought to know--and quickly."

CHAPTER XXIX

THE SQUATTER CONSPIRACY

Instantly the slight man rose. He had narrow eyes, shrewd and calculating and the sinuous motions of a contortionist. Linking his arm with Benito's, he smiled, disclosing small, discolored teeth. There was something ratlike about him, infinitely repellant. "Come, I'll tyke ye to 'im," he volunteered.

But this did not suit Benito's purpose. "I must go alone," he said emphatically.

The other eyed him with suspicion. "Then find him alone," he countered, sullenly. But a moment later he was plucking at Benito's elbow. "What's it all abaout, this 'ere news? Cawn't ye tell a fellow? Give me an inklin'; trust me and I'll trust you; that's business."

Benito hesitated. "It's about the ranch," he returned at a venture.

"Ow, the rawnch. Well, you needn't 'ave been so b.l.o.o.d.y sly about it.

Alec isn't worried much abaout the rawnch. 'E's bigger fish to fry. But you can see 'im if you wants. 'E's at the Broken Bottle Tavern up in Sydney Town."

They had a drink together; then Benito parted from his informant, ruminating over what the little man, so palpably a "Sydney Duck,"

had told him.

Benito surveyed his reflection in a gla.s.s. In his rain-bedraggled attire he might pa.s.s for one of the Sydney Ducks himself. His boots were splashed with mud, his sc.r.a.pe wrinkled and formless. He pulled the dripping hat into a disheveled slouch, low down on his forehead.