Government was but a name in Yerba Buena. A gringo engineer named Fremont with a rabble of adventurers had overthrown the valiant Vallejo at Sonora and declared a California Republic. He had spiked the cannon at the Presidio. And now a gringo sloop-of-war was in the bay, some said with orders to reduce the port. Almost simultaneously an English frigate came and there were rumors of a war between the Anglo-Saxon nations.
The prefect, Don Rafael Pinto, had already joined the fleeing Governor Castro. Commandante Francisco Sanchez, having sent his soldiers to augment the Castro forces in the south, was without a garrison and had retired to his rancho.
Nevertheless, had the Senora Windham, with her son and daughter, called upon Sub-prefect Guerrero in hope of justice. Her rancho was being taken from her. Already McTurpin had pre-empted a portion of the grant and only the armed opposition of the Windham vaqueros prevented an entire dispossession.
Though Guerrero listened, courteous and punctilious, he had obviously no power to afford relief. He was a curiously nervous man of polished manners whose eyelids twitched at intervals with a sort of slow St. Vitus' dance.
"What can I do, Senora?" with a blend of whimsicality and desperation. "I am an official without a staff. And Sanchez a commander stripped of his soldados." He stepped to the door with them and looked down upon the dancing, rippling waters of the bay, where two ships rode.
"Let these gringos fight it out together. This McTurpin is an Inglese, I am told, from their far colony across the sea. If the Americanos triumph take your claim to them. If not, God save you, my senora. I cannot."
Don Guillermo Richardson, the former harbormaster, came up the hill as Dona Anita emerged from the Alcalde's office. He was a friend of her husband--a gringo--but trusted by the Spanish Californians, many of whom he had befriended. To him Mrs. Windham turned half desperately, confessing in a rush of words her family's plight. "What is to become of us?" she questioned passionately. "Ah, that my Roberto were here! He would know how to deal with these desperadoes." She gestured angrily toward the sloop-of-war which rode at anchor in the Bay.
"You have nothing to fear, my friend," returned Richardson with a trace of asperity. "Commodore Sloat is a gentleman. He is, I understand, to seize Monterey and raise the the American flag there tomorrow. Yet his instructions are that Californians are to be shown every courtesy."
"And our rancho?" cried the boy. "Will the Americano Capitan restore it to us, think you, Don Guillermo?"
"I know not," said the other sadly. "You should have thought of that before you gambled it away, my son."
Benito hung his head. Richardson passed on and the trio made their way toward the beach. There they found Nathan Spear in excited converse with John Cooper and William Leidesdorff.
They were discussing the probability of an occupation by the American marines. "If they come ashore," said Leidesdorff, "I'll invite them to my new house. There's plenty of rum for all, and we'll drink a toast to Fremont and the California Republic as well."
"Hurrah! Hurrah!" came a cheer from several bystanders.
"I invite you all," cried Leidesdorff, waving his hands and almost dancing in his eagerness. "Every man-jack of you in all Yerba Buena."
"How about the ladies, Leidesdorff?" called out a sailor.
"Ah, forgive me, Senora, Senorita!" cried the Dane remorsefully. He swept off his wide-brimmed hat with an effort, for he had a fashion of jamming it very tightly upon his head. He laid a hand enthusiastically upon the shoulders of both Spear and Cooper. "It grows better and better. Tomorrow, if the Captain is willing," he jerked his head toward the Portsmouth, "tomorrow evening we shall have a grand ball. It shall celebrate the day of independence."
"But tomorrow is the eighth of July," said Cooper.
"What matter?" Leidesdorff exclaimed, now thoroughly enthusiastic. "It's the spirit of the thing that counts, my friends."
A crowd was assembling. Mrs. Windham and her daughter drew instinctively aside. Benito stood between them and the growing throng as if to shield them from a battery of curious glances.
"Will the ladies accept?" asked Leidesdorff with another exaggerated salute.
Senora Windham, haughty and aloof, had framed a stiff refusal, but her daughter caught her hand. "Do not antagonize them, mother," she said in an undertone. "Let us meet this Gringo Commandante of the ship. Perhaps," she smiled archly, "it is not beyond the possibilities I may persuade him into giving aid."
The elder woman hesitated, glanced inquiringly at Nathan Spear who stood beside them. He nodded. "The ladies will be pleased," he answered in their stead. Another cheer met this announcement.
Yerba Buena awoke to the sunrise of July 8, 1846, with a spirit of festive anticipation and a certain relief.
Today the American sloop-of-war would land its sailors and marines to take possession of the port. Today the last remaining vestige of the Latin's dominance would end. A strange flag, curiously gay with stripes and stars, would fly above the customs house; strange men in uniforms of blue, and golden braid, would occupy the seats of power. Even the name of Yerba Buena would be altered, it was said. New Boston probably would be its title.
Early morning brought ox-carts laden with gay, curious Spanish ladies from surrounding ranches, piquant eager senoritas with vivacious gestures of small hands and fluttering fans; senoras plump and placid, slower in their movements and with brooding eyes. They wore their laciest mantillas, silkiest gowns and daintiest footwear to impress the alien invader. And, beside their equipages, like outriders in the cortege of a queen, caballeros and vaqueros sat their caracoling steeds.
Sailors from the trade and whaling ships, trappers, hunters and the motley populace of Yerba Buena made a colorful and strangely varied picture, as they gathered with the rancheros about the Plaza.
At 8 o'clock four boats descended simultaneously from the Portsmouth's sides. They were greeted by loud cheers from the Americans on shore and watched with excited interest by the others. The boats landed their crews near the spring where a sort of wharf had been constructed. They returned for more and finally assembled seventy marines, a smaller number of sailors and the ship's band. Captain Montgomery, in the full dress uniform of a naval commander, reviewed his forces. Beside him stood Lieutenant John S. Misroon, large, correct and rather awkward, with long, restless arms; a youthful, rosy complexion and serious blue eyes. Further back, assembling his marines in marching order, was Lieutenant Henry Watson, a smaller man of extraordinary nervous energy. Montgomery gave the marching order. Fife and drum struck up a lively air and to its strains the feet of Yerba Buena's first invading army kept uncertain step as sailors and marines toiled through the sand. Half a thousand feet above them stood the quaint adobe customs house, its red-tiled roof and drab adobe walls contrasting pleasantly with the surrounding greenery of terraced hills. Below it lay the Plaza with its flagpole, its hitching racks for horses and oxen.
Here the commander halted his men. "Lieutenant Watson," he addressed the senior subaltern, "be so good as to request attendance by the prefect or alcalde.... And for heaven's sake, fasten your coat, sir," he added in a whispered aside.
Saluting with one hand, fumbling at his buttons with the other, Watson marched into the customs house, while the populace waited agape; but he returned very soon to report that the building was untenanted. Captain Montgomery frowned. He had counted on the pomp and punctilio of a formal surrender--a spectacular bit of history that would fashion gallant words for a report. "Haul down the flag of Mexico," he said to Lieutenant Misroon. "Run up the Stars and Stripes!"
Lieutenant Misroon gazed aloft, then down again, embarrassed. "There is no flag, sir," he responded, and Montgomery verified his statement with a frowning glance. "Where the devil is it, then?" he asked explosively.
A frightened clerk appeared now at the doorway of the custom house. He bowed and scraped before the irate commander. "Pardon, Senor Commandante," he said, quaveringly, "the flag of Mexico reposes in a trunk with the official papers of the port. I, myself, have seen the receiver of customs, Don Rafael Pinto, place it there."
"And where is Don Rafael?"
"Some days ago he joined the Castro forces in the South, Senor."
"Well, well!" Montgomery's tone was sharp; "there must be someone in command. Who is he?"
"The Sub-Prefect has ridden to his rancho, Commandante."
"That disposes of the civil authorities," Montgomery reflected, "since Port-Captain Ridley is in jail with Fremont's captives." He turned to the clerk again. "Is there not a garrison at the Presidio?"
"They have joined the noble Castro," sighed the clerk, recovering his equanimity. "There is only the commander Sanchez, Senor. He is also at his rancho."
Despite his irritation, Captain Montgomery could not miss the humor of the situation. A dry chuckle escaped him. "Run up the flag," he said to Lieutenant Misroon, and the latter hastened to comply. An instant later the starry banner floated high above their heads. A cheer broke out. Hats flew into the air and from the ship's band came the stirring strains of America's national air. Then, deep and thunderous, a gun spoke on the Portsmouth. Another and another.
Captain Montgomery, stiff and dignified, lifted his hand and amid an impressive silence read the proclamation of Commodore Sloat, in which all citizens of captured ports were assured of fair and friendly treatment and invited to become subjects of the United States. He suggested the immediate formation of a town militia. Leidesdorff came bustling forward.
"My house is at your service, gentlemen," he said. "And tonight," he removed his hat and bowed toward the ladies, "tonight I bid you all to be my guests and give our new friends welcome." He saluted Montgomery and his aids, who, somewhat nonplussed, returned the greeting.
Nathan Spear elbowed his way to the commander's side. With him came Senora Windham and the smiling Senorita Inez. Benito lingered rather diffidently in the background with a group of Spanish Californians, but was finally induced to bring them forward. There were general handshakings. Many other rancheros, now that the ice was broken, brought their wives and daughters for an introduction to the gringo commandante, and Montgomery, his good humor restored, kissed many a fair hand in response to a languishing smile. It seemed a happy and a friendly seizure. Inez said, eyes a-sparkle, "We shall see you at the ball this evening, Senor Commandante."
"I shall claim the first dance, Senorita," said the sailor, bowing low. Her heart leaped as they left him, and she squeezed her brother's arm. "He is a kindly man, Benito mio. I shall tell him of this interloper--this McTurpin. Have no fear."
Benito smiled a little dubiously. He had less faith than Inez in the future government of the Americans.
Aleck McTurpin, tired but exhilarated, rode toward the Windham rancho on the morning after Leidesdorff's ball. He had made a night of it and he was in high fettle. The Senorita Windham had granted him a dance despite her brother's scowling disapproval. Out of the charm of that brief association there had come into the gambler's mind a daring plan. To the Senorita Inez he had spoken of his claim upon the Windham rancho through her brother's note won on the gambling table. He had touched the matter very gently, for McTurpin knew the ways of women and was not without engaging qualities when they stood him in good stead.
Now he rode toward a tryst with Inez Windham and his heart leaped at the prospect of another sight of her; within him like a heady wine there was the memory of her sparkling eyes, the roguish, mischievous, half-pouting mouth. The consciousness of something finer than his life had known aroused in him strange devotional impulses, unfamiliar yearnings.
He and the Senorita were to meet and plan a settlement of McTurpin's claim against the rancho. He had asked her to come alone, and, after a swift look, half fearful, half desperate, she consented. It was an unheard-of thing in Spanish etiquette. But he believed she would fulfill the bargain. And if she did, he asked himself, what should he say--or do? For, perhaps, the first time in his life McTurpin was uncertain.
Suddenly the road turned and he came upon her. She stood beside her horse, the morning sunlight in her wondrous dark hair. The ride had brought fresh color to her face and sparkle to her eyes. McTurpin caught his breath before the wonder and beauty of her. Then he sprang from his horse and bowed low. The Senorita Inez nodded almost curtly.
"I have little time, Senor," she said, uneasily. "You are late. I may be missed." Her smile was all the more alluring for its hint of panic. "Can we not come to the point at once? I have here certain jewels which will pay a portion of the debt." She unclasped from her throat a necklace of pearls he had noted at the ball. She held them out toward him. "And here is a ring. Have you brought the paper?"
McTurpin held up a protesting hand. "You wrong me, Senorita," he declared. "I am a gambler. Yes ... I take my chance with men and win or lose according to the Fates. But I have yet to rob a woman of her trinkets."
"It is no robbery," she demurred, hastily. "Take them, I beseech you, and return the note. If it is not enough, we will pay more ... later ... from the proceeds of the ranch."
"Senorita," said McTurpin eagerly, "let us compromise this matter more adroitly. Should I make no further claim upon your ranch than that which I possess, why may we not be neighbors--friends?"
She tried to protest, but he rushed on, giving her no opportunity. "Senorita, I am not a man devoid of culture. I am not a sailor or a trapper like those ruffians below. Nor a keeper of shops. Senorita, I will give up gambling and become a ranchero. If--" he stammered, "If I--"
Inez Windham took a backward step. Her breath came sharply. In this man's absurd confusion there was written plainer than his uncompleted words could phrase it, what he meant.
"No, no," her little hands went out as if to ward off some repulsive thing. "Senor--that is quite impossible."
McTurpin saw the look of horror, of aversion. He felt as though someone had struck him in the face. There was a little silence. Then he laughed, shortly.
"Impossible?" the tone was cutting. "We shall see.... This is now a white man's country. I have offered to divide the rancho. What if I should take it all? Where would you go? You, the proud Senora and the shiftless young Benito?"
The Senorita Inez' lips curled. "When my father comes he will know how to answer you," she told him, hotly.
"If he were alive he would have come long since," McTurpin answered. "Many perish on the northern trails." He took a step toward her. "Do you know that this morning 200 more Americans arrived on the ship Brooklyn? They are armed and there is talk of 'running out the greasers.' Do you know what that means? It were well to have a friend at court, my little lady."
"Go!" the girl blazed at him. "Go, and quickly--liar that you are. My brother and his vaqueros will know how to protect my mother and me." She sprang upon her horse and galloped toward the rancho. McTurpin, red and angry, watched her disappearing in a whirl of dust.
"Look, my brother! He has spoken truly." Inez and Benito had ridden to the pueblo for a confirmation of McTurpin's words. They hitched their horses at the rack in Portsmouth Square and walked down toward the landing place. A large ship lay in the offing. Between her and the shore many small boats laden with passengers and varied cargoes plied to and fro.
Inez, as they descended, noted many women clad in the exaggerated hoopskirts, the curious, short, gathered bodices and the low hats of the early forties. She thought this apparel oddly ugly, though the faces were not unattractive. They stood in knots, these women, some of them gazing rather helplessly about. The younger ones were surrounded by groups of admirers with whom they were chatting animatedly. There were also many children capering in the sand and pointing out to one another the strange sights of this new place. The men--hundreds of them it seemed to Inez--were busied with constructive tasks. Already there were many temporary habitations, mostly tents of varied shapes and sizes. Bonfires blazed here and there. Stands of arms in ordered, regular stacks, gave the scene a martial air. Piles of bed-clothing, household effects, agricultural implements, lay upon the sand. A curious instrument having a large wheel on one side caught the girl's attention. Near it were square, shallow boxes. A pale, broad-shouldered man with handsome regular features and brooding, poetic eyes stood beside the machine, turning the wheel now and then, and examining the boxes. He seemed to be a leader, for many people came to ask him questions which he answered with decision and authority.
"Who is that?" asked Inez of Nathan Spear and Leidesdorff as the two approached. "And what is the strange contrivance upon which he has his hand?"
"It is a printing press," Spear answered. "Yerba Buena is soon to have a paper for the chronicling of its metropolitan affairs. The man? Oh, that's Sam Brannan, the elder of this band of Mormons."
"Is it true that they have come to drive us from our homes?" asked Inez fearfully.
"Who, the Mormons? Lord forbid," retorted Spear. He beckoned to the elder, who approached and was presented. Inez, as she looked into his kindly eyes, forgot her fears. Brannan eagerly explained his printing press. She left him feeling that he was less enemy than friend.
Captain John J. Vioget's house was the busiest place in Yerba Buena, and John Henry Brown its most important personage. The old frame dwelling built by a Swiss sailor in 1840 had become in turn a billiard hall and groggery, a sort of sailors' lodging house and a hotel. Now it was the scene of Yerba Buena's first election. About a large table sat the election inspectors guarding the ballot box, fashioned hastily from an empty jar of lemon syrup. Robert Ridley, recently released from Sutter's Fort, where he had been imprisoned by the Bear Flag party, was a candidate for office as alcalde. He opposed Lieutenant Washington Bartlett, appointed to officiate pro tem by Captain Montgomery. Brown was busy with his spirituous dispensing. It was made a rule, upon Brannan's advice, that none should be served until he had voted.
Brown kept shouting: "Ship-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 God! 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 hell!" he cried. "I'm running this."
Brannan's voice was quiet. "Put the pistol down!" he ordered. Deliberately McTurpin raised his weapon. "Damn 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.
Washington 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 pass all bounds.
"We must arm and drive these robbers from our California," said Benito passionately. "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 passed 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.
"Ah, Senor," Inez' smile had faded ... "they have cause for hatred."
Five horsemen rode into the morning sunshine down El Camino Real toward the south. One was Washington 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, flushing.
"I have heard," the other remarked almost musingly, "that they are redeemable at from fifteen to twenty per cent. And that the only man who accepts them at even half of their face value is McTurpin the gambler."
"That is not my business," Bartlett answered brusquely. The quintet rode on, absorbed and silent. Below them swept green reaches of ranch land, dotted here and there with cattle and horses or the picturesque haciendas of old Spanish families. The camino stretched white and broad before them, winding through rolling hillocks, shaded sometimes by huge overhanging trees.
"Isn't this Francisco Sanchez, whom we go to visit, a soldier, a former commandante of your town, alcalde?" asked a rider.
"Yes, the same one who ran away when Montgomery came." Bartlett laughed. "It was several days before he dared come out of the brush to take a look at the 'gringo invader.'"
"I met him at the reception to Commodore Stockton," said the man who rode beside Bartlett. "He didn't impress me as a timid chap, exactly. Something of a fire-eater, I'd have said."
"Oh, they're all fire-eaters--on the surface," Bartlett's tone was disdainful. "But you may all judge for yourselves in a moment. For, if I'm not mistaken, he's coming up the road to meet us."
"By jove, he sits his horse like a king," said Bartlett's companion, admiringly. "Who are those chaps with him? Looks like a sort of--reception committee."
"They are Guerrero and Vasquez and--oh, yes, young Benito Windham," Bartlett answered. He spurred his horse and the others followed; there was something about the half careless formation of the four riders ahead which vaguely troubled the alcalde.
"Buenos dias, caballeros," he saluted in his faulty Spanish.
"Buenos dias, senors," Sanchez spoke with unusual crispness. "You have come for horses, doubtless, amigo alcalde?"
"Ah--er--yes," said Bartlett. "The necessities of war are great," he added apologetically.
"And suppose we refuse?" Benito Windham pressed forward, blazing out the words in passionate anger. "Suppose we deny your manufactured requisitions? Whence came the horse you sit like a very clown? I will tell you, tyrant and despoiler. It was stolen from my mother by your thieves."
"Benito, hold your peace," said Sanchez sternly. "I will deal with this good gentleman and his friends. They shall be our guests for a time."
As though the words had been a signal, five lariats descended apparently from a clear sky, each falling over the head of a member of Bartlett's party. They settled neatly and were tightened, pinning the arms of riders helplessly.
"Well done, amigos," commented Sanchez as a quintet of grinning vaqueros rode up from the rear. "As you have so aptly said, the necessities of war are paramount, alcalde."
"What's the meaning of this?" demanded Bartlett. "Release us instantly, or you shall suffer. Do you think," he sneered, "that a handful of greasers can defy the United States?"
"Perchance, with so important an official as the great Alcalde Bartlett for your hostage, we can reach a compromise on certain points," said Sanchez. "Come, you shall suffer no hardship, if you accept the situation reasonably."
"I warn you that this means death or imprisonment to all of you," Bartlett shouted.
"Ah, senor, the risks of war are many." Sanchez' teeth flashed. He clucked to his horse and the little cavalcade wound, single-file, up a narrow horse-trail toward the hills.
They passed many bands of horsemen, all armed, saluting Sanchez as their chief. Among them were owners and vaqueros from a score of ranches. There was something grim, determined in their manner which foreboded serious trouble.
One of Bartlett's fellow-captives leaned toward him, whispering: "Those fellows mean business. They're like hornets if you stir 'em up too far, these greasers."
"Yes, by Jove! And they mean to sting!" said another.
Yerba Buena was in an uproar. Sanchez' capture of Alcalde Bartlett and his party had brought home with a vengeance the war which hitherto was but an echo from far Mexico. Now the peaceful pueblo was an armed camp. Volunteers rode in from San Jose, San Juan and other nearby pueblos, asking for a chance to "fight the greasers." All the ranches of the countryside buzzed with a martial ardor. Vaqueros, spurred with jangling silver-mounted harness, toward Francisco Sanchez' stronghold in the Santa Clara hills to battle with the "gringo tyrants."
Commander Hull of the "Warren" had sent a hundred sailors and marines from his sloop, post haste, to quell the rebellion. Couriers rode to and fro between his headquarters in the custom house and the punitive expedition under Captain Ward Marston which was scouting the Santa Clara plains in search of the enemy.
Even now the battle waged, no doubt, for Marston that morning reported a brush with the enemy, had asked for reinforcements. Hull had sent post haste a pack of ill assorted and undrilled adventurers from among the new arrivals. That was 9 o'clock and now the sun had passed its noon meridian--with no courier.
William Leidesdorff came strolling up, his expression placid, smiling as always. He was warm from toiling up the hill and paused, panting, hat in hand, to mop his brow with a large red 'kerchief.
"Ha! Commander!" he saluted. "And how goes it this morning?"
Hull glanced at him half irritated, half amused. One could never quite be angry at this fellow nor in tune with him. Leidesdorff, with his cherubic grin, his plump, comfortable body, the close-cropped hair, side whiskers and moustache, framing and embellishing his round face with an ornate symmetry, was like a bearded cupid. Hull handed him the latest dispatch. "Nothing since then, confound it!" he said gloomily.
"Ah, well," spoke Leidesdorff, with unction, "one should not be alarmed. What is that cloud of dust on the horizon? A courier perhaps."
It proved to be Samuel Brannan, dusty and weary, with dispatches from Captain Ward which Hull almost snatched from his hand. A group of men and women who had watched his arrival, gathered about asking questions. Nathan Spear spoke first. He had been too ill to join the Americans, but had furnished them horses and arms. "How goes it with our 'army,' Sam?" he asked.
"None too well," said Brannan. "Those greasers can fight and they've a good leader. Everyone of them would die for Sanchez. And everyone's a sharpshooter. For a time they amused themselves this morning knocking off our hats--it rather demoralized the recruits."
Hull, with an imprecation, crushed the dispatch and turned to Brannan. "We must have more men and quickly," he announced. "Ward asks for instant reinforcements.... Can you recruit--say fifty--from your colony?"
"Impossible," said Brannan, shortly. "I have sent all who can ride or manage a rifle." He came a little closer and regarded the commander steadily. "Did Ward write anything about a parley?" he inquired.
"Yes," said Hull. "He indicates that peace might be arranged if I will give a guarantee against further horse or cattle commandeering."
"May I suggest that such a course is wise--and just?"
"Damn it, sir! You'd have me treat with these--these brigands!" the other shouted. "Never. They've defied the United States by laying violent hands on an official. They've wounded two of my marines."
He turned to the crowd which had assembled. "Do you hear that? Two Americans wounded. Five held in captivity--including your alcalde. Shall we stand that passively? Shall we let the enemy dictate terms?"
"No, no!" a voice shouted. "Fight to the last ditch. Kill the greasers. Hang them to a tree. I'm with you, horse and gun. Who else?"
"I, I, I," a score made answer. They pressed forward. "Who's to lead us?" asked the first speaker.
Brannan stepped forward but Commander Hull raised a protesting hand. "I shall send a corporal of marines from the Warren. You will rest your horse, since I cannot spare you a fresh mount, and hold yourself in readiness to act as a courier, Mr. Brannan." He summoned an orderly and sent him to the Warren with an order to Corporal Smith. Meanwhile the volunteers assembled in the square, thirty-four in all; men of half a dozen nationalities. One giant Russian loomed above them, a Goliath on a great roan horse. And near him, to accentuate the contrast, an elderly moustached, imperialed Frenchman on a mare as under-sized and spirited as himself.
Brannan and Leidesdorff watched them galloping down the camino ten minutes later under the guidance of a smart young corporal.
"I trust it will soon be over," said the former. "I saw Benito Windham riding beside Sanchez in the battle today."
The Senorita Inez' head was high that afternoon when McTurpin came upon her suddenly in the patio of the Windham hacienda. She rose haughtily. "Senor, this intrusion is unpardonable. If my brother was within call--" McTurpin bowed low. There was a touch of mockery in his eye. "It is about your brother that I've come to talk with you, Miss Inez."
The girl's hand sought her breast. "Benito! He is not--" Words failed her.
"No, not dead--yet," McTurpin answered.
"God in Heaven! Tell me," said the girl, imploringly! "He is wounded? Dying?" McTurpin took a seat beside her on the rustic bench. "Benito isn't dead--nor wounded so far as I know. But," his tone held an ominous meaning, "it might be better if he were."
"I--I do not understand," said Inez, staring.
"Then let me make it clear." McTurpin struck a fist against his palm. "Your brother is American. Very well. And what is an American who takes up arms against his country?"
The girl sprang up. "It is a lie. Benito fights for freedom, justice only--"
"That is not the view of our American Commander," McTurpin rose and faced her. "The law of war is that a man who fights against his country is a traitor." His eyes held hers hypnotically. "When this revolt is over there will be imprisonment or pardon for the Spanish-Californians.But Benito will be hanged."
Inez Windham swayed. One hand grasped at the bench-back for support; the other clutched her bodice near the throat. "Benito," she said almost in a whisper. Then she turned upon McTurpin furiously. "Go," she cried. "I do not believe you. Go!"
But McTurpin did not stir. "It is the law of nations," he declared, "no use denying it, Miss Windham."
"Why did you come to tell me this? To torture me?"
"To save you--and your brother?"
"How?" she asked fiercely.
"I have influence with Alcalde Bartlett." The gambler smiled. "He owes me--more than he can pay. But if that fails ..." he turned toward her eagerly, "I have means to accomplish his escape."
"And the price," she stammered. "There is a price, isn't there?"
His gaze met hers directly, "You, little Inez."
Two riders, a man and a veiled woman evidently young, halted their horses in Portsmouth Square, where the former alighted and offered an arm to his companion. She, however, disdaining his assistance, sprang lightly from the saddle and, turning her back on him, gazed, motionless, toward the bay. There was something arresting and curiously dramatic about the whole performance, something that hinted of impending tragedy. The slight figure with its listless droop and stony immobility caught and clutched the sympathies of Nathan Spear as he was passing by. The man was Alec McTurpin; the girl, no doubt, some light o' love from a neighboring pueblo. Yet there was a disturbing familiarity about her.
Spear watched them go across the square toward the City Hotel, a long, one-story adobe structure built by Leidesdorff as a store and home. On the veranda stood the stocky figure of Proprietor Brown, smoking a long pipe and conversing with half a dozen roughly dressed men who lounged about the entrance. He looked up wonderingly as McTurpin approached. The latter drew him to one side and appeared to make certain demands to which Brown acquiesced by a curt nod, as if reluctant. Then the man and woman passed around a corner of the building, the loungers peering curiously after them.
A little later Spear observed the gambler issue forth alone and journey rapidly toward the landing dock. He noted that a strange ship rode at anchor. It must have come within the hour, he decided. Impelled by curiosity, he descended in McTurpin's wake.
"What ship is that?" he asked of Leidesdorff.
"I haven't learned her name. She's from the north coast with a lot of sick men. They've the scurvy and flux, I'm told. Dr. Jones has gone aboard."
"I wonder what McTurpin's doing at the ship?" said Spear. "He'll get no gambling victims out of ailing seamen."
"It's something else he wants, I fancy," said Bob Ridley, coming from the dock toward them. "He's looking for a preacher--"
"Preacher?" cried the other men in unison.
"Yes," responded Ridley. "Aleck's going to be married, the sly dog. And since the padres will have nothing to do with him, he's hard pressed. Perhaps the wench is a stickler for proprieties," he laughed. "Someone told him there was a sky pilot aboard the ship!"
Inez Windham removed her veil. She was in a small room, almost dark, where McTurpin had left her after locking the door on the outside. It was like a cell, with one small window high and narrow which let in a straggling transmitted light, dimming mercifully the crude outlines of a wooden stool, a bedstead of rough lumber, covered by soiled blankets, a box-like commode upon which stood a pitcher and basin of heavy crockery.
The walls were very thin. From beyond them, in what was evidently a public chamber, came snatches of talk interspersed with oaths, a click of poker chips and coin, now and then a song. An odor of rank tobacco seeped through the muslin-covered walls. With a sudden feeling of nausea, of complete despair, the girl threw herself face down upon the bed.
For a time Inez lay there, oblivious to all save the misery of her fate. If only her father had not gone with those northern engineers! If only Benito were here to advise her! Benito, her beloved brother, in whose path the gallows loomed. It was that picture which had caused her to yield to McTurpin. Even darker, now, was the picture of her own future. A gambler's wife! Her hand sought a jewelled dagger which she always carried in her coiffure. Her fingers closed about the hilt with a certain solace. After Benito was safe--
Voices in the next room caught her interest by a mention of the Santa Clara battle.
"Hull is fighting mad," she heard. "He promises to bring the greasers to their knees. It's unconditional surrender or no quarter, Brannan says."
"First catch your pig--then butcher it," said another, meaningly. "The Spaniards have the best of it thus far. Hull's shouting frantically for reinforcements. Well, he won't get me. I think the rancheros have their side as well as we. If this stiff-necked commander would listen to reason."
"He hasn't heard the other side," the first speaker resumed. "If he knew what Alcalde Bartlett had done to these poor devils through his horse and cattle raids--"
A third man laughed. "He'll never learn that, partner, have no fear; who'll tell him?"
"Well, here's to Uncle Sam," said a fourth voice. Followed a clink of glasses. Inez Windham sat up swiftly and dried her eyes. A daring thought had come to her.
Why should not she tell Commander Hull the truth!
She rose and smoothed her ruffled gown. A swift look from the window revealed that the road was clear. Inez began tugging at the door. It resisted her efforts, but she renewed the battle with all the fury of her youthful strength. Finally the flimsy lock gave a bit beneath her efforts; a narrow slit appeared between the door and jamb in which she forced her hands and thus secured a great purchase. Then, one foot against the wall, she tugged and pried and pulled until, with a sudden crack, the bar to liberty sprang open.
She was free.
Just across the Plaza the custom house looked down at her, the late sun glinting redly on its tiles. There, no doubt, she would find Commander Hull. She hastened forward.
"Not so fast, my dear!"
A hand fell on her shoulder rudely. With, a gasp she looked up at McTurpin.
Beside the gambler, whose eyes burned angrily, Inez perceived a tall, lean, bearded stranger.
"Let me go!" she demanded.
"I have brought the parson," said McTurpin. "We can be married at once."
"I--I--let us wait a little," stammered Inez.
"Why?" the gambler asked suspiciously. "Where were you going?"
"Nowhere," she evaded, "for a walk--"
"Well, you can walk back to the hotel, my lady," said McTurpin. "I have little time to waste. And there's Benito to consider," he concluded. Suddenly he put an arm about her waist and kissed her. Inez thought of her brother and tried to submit. But she could not repress a little cry of aversion, of fear. The bearded man stepped forward. "Hold up a bit, partner," he drawled. "This doesn't look quite regular. Don't you wish to marry him, young lady?"
"Of course she does," McTurpin blustered. "She rode all the way in from her mother's ranch to be my wife." He glared at Inez. "Isn't it true?" he flung at her. "Tell him."
She nodded her head miserably. But the stranger was not satisfied. "Let go of her," he said, and when McTurpin tailed to heed the order, sinewy fingers on the gambler's wrist enforced it.
"Now, tell me, Miss, what's wrong?" the bearded one invited. "Has this fellow some hold on you? Is he forcing you into this marriage?"
Again the girl nodded dumbly.
"She lies," said McTurpin, venomously, but the words were scarcely out of his mouth before the stranger's fist drove them back. McTurpin staggered. "Damn you!" he shouted, "I teach you to meddle between a man and his woman."
Inez saw something gleam in his hand as the two men sprang upon each other. She heard another blow, a groan. Screaming, she fled uphill toward the custom house.