Port O' Gold Part 4

Brown kept shouting: "s.h.i.+p-shape, gents, and reg'lar; that's the word.

Place your vote and then you drinks.... Gord bless yer merry hearts."

Thus he harangued them into order and coaxed many a Russian, Spanish, English and American coin across his bar. Suddenly he looked into the eyes of Aleck McTurpin.

"Give me a brandy sling," the gambler ordered. He was in a rough mood, which ensues from heavy and continued drinking.

"Have ye voted, Aleck?" Brown inquired.

"I vote when I please," McTurpin answered sullenly, "and I drink when it suits me." He took from an inner pocket of his coat a derringer with silver mountings, laid it meaningly upon the bar. "I ordered a brandy sling."

Brown paled, but his eye did not waver. Almost casually, he spoke. "Stop your jokin', Aleck. Rules is rules."

McTurpin's fingers closed about the pistol. His eyes were venomous.

Then Benito Windham entered. Just inside the door he paused, uncertainly. "I have come to vote for Senor Bartlett as Alcalde,"

he declared.

A laugh greeted him. "You should not announce your choice," said Inspector Ward severely. "The ballot is supposedly secret."

McTurpin turned, his quarrel with Brown instantly forgotten. "Throw the little greaser out," he spoke with slow distinctness. "This is a white man's show."

There was a startled silence. "He's drunk," Brown told them soothingly.

"Aleck's drunk. Don't listen to him."

"Drunk or not, I back my words." He waved the weapon threateningly. "Sit down there," he ordered Windham. "If you want to vote you'll vote for a gentleman. Write Bob Ridley's name on your ballot, or, by G.o.d! I'll fix you." Benito, as if hypnotized, took a seat at the table and dipped his quill in the ink. The others stirred uneasily, but made no move. There was a moment of foreboding silence. Then a hearty voice said from the door: "What's the matter, gentlemen?"

No one answered. McTurpin, the pistol in his hand, still stood above Benito. The latter's fingers held the quill suspended. A drop of ink fell on the ballot slip unnoted. Brannan, with a puzzled frown, came forward, laid a hand upon the gambler's shoulder.

"What's the matter here?" he asked more sharply.

McTurpin turned upon him fiercely. "Go to h.e.l.l!" he cried. "I'm running this."

Brannan's voice was quiet. "Put the pistol down!" he ordered.

Deliberately McTurpin raised his weapon. "d.a.m.n you--" But he got no farther. Brannan's fist struck fairly on the chin. One could hear the impact of it like a hammer blow. There was a shot, a bullet spent against the rafters overhead. McTurpin sprawling on the sawdust-covered floor.

On Windham rancho the Senora Windham waited with a faith that knew no end for the coming of her husband. There had been vague reports from vaguer sources that he had been captured by the northern savages. Inez and Benito were forever at her side--save when the boy rode into town to cull news from arriving sailors. The Spanish rancheros had all withdrawn to the seclusion of their holdings and were on the verge of war against the new authorities of Yerba Buena.

Was.h.i.+ngton Bartlett, recently elected Alcalde, had abused his office by repeated confiscations of fine horses from the camponeras of Spanish-Californians, seizing them by requisition of military authority and giving orders on the government in exchange. This the Spaniards had borne in silence. But abuses had become so flagrant as to pa.s.s all bounds.

"We must arm and drive these robbers from our California," said Benito pa.s.sionately. "Sanchez has, in secret, organized one hundred caballeros.

Only wait. The day comes when we strike!"

"Benito," said his mother, sadly, "there has been enough of war. We cannot struggle with these Yankees. They are strong and numerous. We must keep the peace and suffer until your father comes."

"There is to be a grand ball at the casa of the Senor Leidesdorff," said Inez. "El Grande Commandante of the Yankee squadron comes amid great ceremony. I will gain his ear. Perchance he will undo the wrongs of this Bartlett, the despoiler."

"Inez mia," said her brother, "do not go. No good will come of it. For they are all alike, these foreigners."

"Ah!" she cried, reproachfully, "you say that of the Senor Brannan? Or of Don Nathan?"

"They are good men," Benito answered, grudgingly. "Have it as you will."

Yerba Buena did honor to Commodore Stockton under Leidesdorff's ever-hospitable roof. Hundreds of candles burned in sconces and chandeliers, festoons of bunting and greenery gave the big room a carnival air; Indian servitors flitted silently about with trays of refreshments, and the gold lace and braid of America's navy mingled picturesquely with the almost spectacular garb of stately Spanish caballeros. The commodore, though undersized, was soldierly and very brisk of manner. Stockton seemed to Inez a gallant figure. While she danced with him, she found his brisk directness not unpleasing. He asked her of the rancheros and of reports that came to him of their dissatisfaction with American authority.

"They seem so cordial," he said, "these Spanish gentlemen. I cannot believe that they hate us, as it is said."

"Ah, Senor." Inez' smile had faded and her deep and troubled eyes held his. "They have cause for hatred, though they come in all good will to welcome you."

As it chanced, they pa.s.sed just then close to a little group in which Alcalde Bartlett made a central figure. Two of Stockton's aids were hanging on his words.

"Tomorrow, gentlemen, we shall go riding. I will find you each a worthy mount. We raise fine horses on the ranches."

The fiery Sanchez, strolling by, overheard as well. Eyes ablaze, he went on swiftly joining Vasquez and De Haro near the door. They held low converse for an instant with their smouldering glances on the pompous Bartlett. Then they hurried out.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Ah, Senor," Inez' smile had faded ... "they have cause for hatred."]

CHAPTER VII

THE RANCHEROS REVOLT

Five hors.e.m.e.n rode into the morning suns.h.i.+ne down El Camino Real toward the south. One was Was.h.i.+ngton Bartlett, alcalde of Yerba Buena, whose rather pursy figure sat with an ungainly lack of grace the mettled horse which he bestrode. It was none other than Senora Windham's favorite and beloved mare "Diablo," filched from the Windham stables several days before. In compensation she received a bit of paper signifying that the animal was commandeered "for military necessity."

The rancheros were patient fellows, Bartlett reflected. If his conscience smote him sometimes, he took refuge in the knowledge that America was still at war with Mexico and that these horses were the property of alien enemies. Non-combatants, possibly. Yet they had failed in declaration of allegiance to the United States.

"I'll show you some excellent horseflesh today," he promised his companions. "And, what's better, you shall have your pick."

"Well, that's extraordinarily good of you, alcalde," said the man who rode beside him. "But ... do you mean one gets these glorious animals--for love?"

"Not--er--exactly," Bartlett answered. "You see, my deputies and officers, like yourself, must ride about to make their observations and reports. Such are the needs of war."

"Of course," another rider nodded understandingly. "And as alcalde you have many deputies."

"As well as many--er--observation officers like ourselves to supply," a third supplemented, slyly dropping one eyelid.

The fourth man said nothing for a time. Then, rather unexpectedly, he asked: "And what do you give them in exchange, alcalde?"

Bartlett turned in some surprise. "I give them notes of hand," he answered half resentfully. "Notes redeemable in American gold--when the war is over."

"And, are these notes negotiable security? Will your shop-keepers accept them in lieu of coin?"

"At proper discounts--yes," said Bartlett, flus.h.i.+ng.