Men with shovels, leveling the sand-hills, piled the wagons high with shimmering grains which were ... dumped into pile-surrounded bogs. San Francisco reached farther and farther out into the bay.
San Francisco never could remember when the first rumor of gold reached it. Gold was to mean its transformation from a struggling town into a turbulent, riotous city, a mecca of the world's adventurers.
Benito Windham, early in the spring of '48 brought home an echo of it from San Jose. One of Sutter's teamsters had exchanged a little pouch of golden grains for a flask of aguardiente. Afterward he had told of finding it in the tail-race of Marshall's mill on the south fork of the American River. Little credence had been given his announcements. In the south, near San Fernando Mission, gold had long ago been found, but not in sufficient quantities to allure the fortune hunter.
"See, is it not pretty?" asked Benito, pouring out a handful of the shining stuff which he had purchased from the teamster.
"Pretty, yes, but what's it worth?" asked Adrian, dubiously.
"Some say it's true value is $16 for an ounce," responded Inez, her eyes shining. "Samuel Brannan had a letter from a member of his band who says they wash it from the river sand in pans."
"Sam's skeptical, though," retorted Stanley. "And, as for me, I've a mine right here in San Francisco." He spoke enthusiastically. "Moving sandhills into the bay. Making a new city front out of flooded bogs! That's realism. Romance. And what's better, fortune! Isn't it, my girl?"
Inez' eyes were proud. "Fortune, yes, and not a selfish one. For it is making others richer, San Francisco better."
"Which is well enough for you," returned Benito with a hint of sullenness. "But I am tired of clerking for Ward & Smith at two dollars a day. There's no romance in that." With a quick, restless motion he ran the golden dust through his fingers again. "I hope they are true, these stories. And if they are--" he looked at the others challengingly, "then I'm off to the mines, muy pronto."
"Come," said Stanley, "let us have a game of chess together." But Benito, with a muttered apology, left them and went out. San Francisco had streets now, since the O'Farrell survey's adoption by the council. The old Calle de Fundacion had become Dupont street and below it was Kearny street, named after the General and former Governor. To the west were parallel roads, scarcely worthy of the name of thoroughfares, christened in honor of Commodore Stockton, Surgeon Powell of the sloop-of-war Warren, Dr. Elbert Jones, Governor Mason, Chaplain Leavenworth, the present Alcalde, and George Hyde, the former one. Thomas Larkin, former counsel at Monterey, was also to be distinguished. East and west the streets had more haphazard names. Broadway and California were the widest, aside from the projected Market street, which would have a lordly breadth of 120 feet. Some were named after Presidents--Jackson, Washington and Clay.
The council had authorized two long wharves, one at the foot of Clay street, 547 feet long. This was a great undertaking and had caused much discussion pro and con. But now it was almost completed and a matter of much civic pride. Large ships, anchored at its terminus, were discharging cargo, and thither Benito bent his course, head bent, hat pulled well down on his forehead, until a rousing slap on the back spun him around almost angrily. He looked into the wise and smiling eyes of Edward C. Kemble.
"Well, lad," the editor of theCalifornian Staraccosted, "I hear you've been to San Jose. What's new up there, if I may ask you?"
"Very little ... nothing," said Benito, adding, "save the talk of gold at Marshall's mill."
"Pooh!" exclaimed the editor. "Marshall's mill, and Mormon island! One would think the famous fairy tale of El Dorado had come true."
"You place no credence in it, then?" asked Benito, disappointed.
"Not I," said Kemble. "See here," he struck one fist into the palm of another. "All such balderdash is bad for San Francisco. We're trying to get ahead, grow, be a city. Look at the work going on. That means progress, sustained stimulus. And along come these stories of gold finds. It's the wrong time. The wrong time, I tell you. It'll interfere. If we get folks excited they'll pull out for the hills, the wilderness. Everything'll stop here.... Then, bye and bye, they'll come back--busted! Mark my words, BUSTED! Is that business? No."
He went off shaking his head sagely. Benito puzzled, half resentful, gazed after him. He abandoned the walk to the dock and returned with low-spirited resignation to his tasks at Ward & Smith's store.
For several months gold rumors continued to come. Citizens, fearing ridicule, perhaps, slipped unobtrusively out of town, to test their truth. Kemble was back from a trip to the so-called gold fields. Editorially, he made sport of his findings. He had seen feather-brained fortune-seekers gambling hopelessly with fate, suffering untold hardships for half the pay they could have gained from "honest labor."
Now and then a miner, dirty and disheveled, came in ragged clothes to gamble or drink away the contents of a pouch of "dust." It was at first received suspiciously. Barkeepers took "a pinch for a drink," meaning what they could grasp with their fingers, and one huge-fisted man estimated that this method netted him three dollars per glass.
San Francisco awoke to a famine in butcher-knives, pans and candles. Knives at first were used to gouge out auriferous rock, and soon these common household appurtenances brought as high as twenty-five dollars each. Candles ere long were the equivalent of dollars, and pans were cheap at five dollars each.
Still San Francisco waited, though a constant dribble of departures made at last perceptible inroads on its population. Then, one May afternoon, the fat was in the fire.
Samuel Brannan, who had been at his store in New Helvetia, rode through the streets, holding a pint flask of gold-dust in one hand, swinging his hat with the other, and whooping like a madman:
"Gold! Gold! Gold! From the American River!"
As if he had applied a torch to the hayrick of popular interest, San Francisco flamed with fortune-seeking ardor. Next morning many stores remained unopened. There were neither clerks nor proprietors. Soldiers fled from the garrison, and Lieutenant William T. Sherman was seen galloping northward with a provost guard to recapture a score of deserters. Children found no teacher at the new schoolhouse and for months its doors were barred. Cargoes, half-discharged, lay on the wharves, unwarehoused. Crews left en masse for the mines, and ships floated unmanned at anchor. Many of them never went to sea again.
On every road a hegira of the gold-mad swept northward, many afoot, with heavy burdens, the more fortunate with horses and pack animals. Men, old, young, richly dressed and ragged--men of all conditions, races, nations.
The end of May, in 1848, found San Francisco a manless Eden. Stanley, struggling with a few elderly Indians and squaws to carry on his work, bemoaned the madcap folly bitterly.
Samuel Brannan rode through the streets, holding a pint flask of gold-dust in one hand ... and whooping like a madman: "Gold! Gold! Gold! From the American River!"
But Benito, with shining eyes, rode on to what seemed Destiny and Fortune. Ward & Smith's little shop lay far behind him. Even his sister and her busy husband. Before him beckoned Gold! The lure, adventure, danger of it, like a smiling woman. And his spirit stretched forth longing arms.
By the end of June more than half of San Francisco's population had departed for the mines. They went by varied routes, mostly on horseback. Rowboats, which a month ago had sold for $50, were now bringing ten times that sum, for many took the river route to the gold fields. Others toiled their way through the hills and the Livermore Valley. The ferry across Carquinez Straits at Benicia, was thronged to the danger of sinking.
Those who stayed at home awaited eagerly the irregular mails which straggled in from unsettled, unorganized, often inaccessible regions where men cut and slashed the bowels of the earth for precious metal, or waded knee-deep in icy torrents, washing their sands in shallow containers for golden residue. No letter had come from Benito to Inez or Adrian. But Robert Windham wrote from Monterey as follows:
"My Children: Monterey is mad with the gold-lust, and our citizens are departing with a haste that threatens depopulation. Until recently we had small belief in the tales of sudden fortune started by the finds at Marshall's mill. Alcalde Colton dispatched a messenger to the American River on the 6th of June, and, though he has not returned, others have brought the news he was sent to gain. On the 12th a man came into town with a nugget weighing an ounce and all Monterey Buzzed with excitement. Everyone wanted to test it with acids and microscopes. An old woman brought her ring and when placed side by side, the metal seemed identical; it was also compared with the gold knob of a cane. Some declare it a humbug, but it is generally believed to be genuine gold.
"Governor Mason, who has been messing with Alcalde Colton and a naval officer named Lieutenant Lanman, is now compelled to bake his own bread. The trio roast their coffee and cook what meals they eat. Even the negro who blacked their boots went gold hunting and returned after a few weeks with $2000.
"Yesterday I met a rough-looking fellow who appeared to be starving. He had a sack on his shoulder in which was gold-dust and nuggets worth $15,000. You should have seen him a few hours later--all perfumed and barbered, with shiny boots; costly, ill-fitting clothes and a marvelous display of jewelry.
"Alcalde Colton is going to the mines next month. He laughed when he told me of Henry Bee, the alguacil or jailor of San Jose. This man had charge of ten prisoners, some of whom were Indians, charged with murder. He tried to turn them over to the alcalde, but the latter was at the mines. So Bee took his prisoners with him. It is said their digging has already made him rich and that he'll let them loose. There is no one to chide him. And no one to care."
Later in the day Sam Brannan and Editor Kemble looked in on the Stanleys. "It's sheer insanity!" exploded Kemble. "The soldiers have gone--left their wives and their children to starve. Even the church is locked. Governor Mason has threatened martial law in the mining regions, which are filled with cutthroats and robbers. It's said he contemplates giving furloughs of two or three months to the gold-fevered troops which remain. Was there ever such idiocy?"
"You're wrong, Ed," Brannan told him. "This gold boom is the biggest thing that's ever happened. It'll bring the world to our door. Why, Mason has reported that gold enough's been taken from the mines already to pay for the Mexican war."
"Bah!" cried Kemble, and stalked out muttering. Brannan laughed. "He's riding his hobby consistently. But he'll come down. So you've had no news from Benito?"
"No," said Inez gloomily. "Perhaps it is too soon. Perhaps he has had no luck 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 can take 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, the common laborers who were satisfied with a dollar a day, now ask ten, and mechanics twenty. Even the Indians and the immigrants learn at once the crazy price of service."
"San Francisco. Port o' Gold!" apostrophized the Mormon gaily. He went on his way with a friendly wave of the hand. His steps were bent toward Alcalde Hyde's headquarters. Hyde had made many enemies by his set, opinionated ways. There was talk of putting Rev. Thaddeus Leavenworth in his place. But Brannan was by no means certain this would solve the problem. He missed Leidesdorff sadly. The latter's sudden death had left a 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. San Francisco grumbled; more than all other towns she needed law. Stevenson's regiment had been disbanded; its many irresponsibles, held previously in check by military discipline, now indulged their bent for lawlessness, unstinted. Everything was confusion. Gold-dust was the legal 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 than hints of the alcalde's speculation; of illegal favors shown to friends, undue restrictions placed on others. Brannan shook his head as he climbed Washington street hill toward the alcalde's office. In the plaza stood a few mangy horses, too decrepit for sale to gold seekers. Gambling houses and saloons ringed the square and from these proceeded drunken shouts, an incessant click of poker chips; now and then a burst of song.
The sound of a shot swung him swiftly about. It came from the door of a noisy and crowded mart of chance recently erected, but already the scene of many quarrels. The blare of music which had issued from it swiftly ceased. 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; another followed, staggering, a pistol in his hand. He fired one shot and then collapsed with horrid suddenness at Brannan's feet. The other man ran into Portsmouth Square, vaulted to the saddle of a horse and spurred furiously away.
Brannan stooped over the fallen figure. It was that of a brawny, bearded man, red-shirted, booted, evidently a miner. That he was mortally wounded his gazing eyes gave evidence. Yet such was his immense vitality that he muttered, clutching at his throat--staving off dissolution with the mighty passionate vehemence of some dominating purpose. Brannan bent to listen.
"Write," he gasped, and Brannan, with an understanding nod, obeyed. "I bequeath my claim ... south fork ... American River ... fifty feet from end of Lone Pine's shadow ... sunset ... to my pard ... Benito Wind--" His voice broke, but his eyes watched Brannan's movements as the latter wrote. Dying hands grasped paper, pencil ... signed a scrawling signature, "Joe Burthen." Then the head dropped back, rolled for a moment and lay still.
Brannan turned from contemplation of the dead to find himself surrounded by a curious, questioning group. A bartender, coatless, red-faced, grasping in one hand a heavy bung-starter as if it were a weapon of defense; a gambler, sleeves rolled up, five cards clutched in nervous fingers; half a dozen sailors, vaqueros, a ragged miner or two and several shortskirted young women of the class that had recently drifted into the hectic night-life of San Francisco. All were whispering excitedly. Some of the men, with a show of reverence, removed their hats.
"Do you know who did this?" Brannan asked.
"I saw it," cried one of the women. She was dressed as a Spanish dancer and in one hand held a tambourine and castanets. "They fight," she gave a 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 cards into his pocket.
"Rose was dealin' faro," he explained, "and this galoot here bucks the game.... He lose. You un'erstan'. He lose a lot o' dust ... as much as forty ounces. Then--just like that--he stops." The gambler snapped his fingers. "He says, 'My little gal; my partner! God Almighty! I'm a-wrongin' them!' He starts to go, but Rose acts mighty sympathetic and he tells her all about the kid."
"Hees little girl," the dancer finished. "I say we dreenk her health together, and he tell me of the senorita. He draw a picture of his claim with trees and river and a mountain--ver' fine, like an artist. And he say, 'You come and marry me and be a mother to my child'." She laughed grimly. "He was ver' much drunk ... and then--"
"That Sydney Duck comes in," said Dandy Carter. "He sits down at the table with 'em. They begins to quarrel over Rose. And the fust I knows there 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 girl and Dandy Carter looked at one another, furtively. "I--don't know his name," the girl said, finally.
"Don't any of you?" Brannan's tone was searching. But it brought no answer. Several shook their heads. Ensenada Rose shivered. "It's cold. I go back in," she said, and turned from them. Brannan stopped her with a sudden gesture. "Wait," he ordered. "Where's the map ... the paper this man showed you ... of his mine?"
Ensenada Rose's eyes looked into Brannan's, with a note of challenge her chin went up. "Quien sabe?" she retorted. Brannan watched the slender, graceful figure vanish through the lighted door. In her trail the gambler and bartender followed. Presently a burst of music issued from the groggery; a tap-tap-tap of feet in rhythm to the click of castanets. Already the tragedy was forgotten. Brannan found himself face to face with the sailor. "I'll help you carry him--somewhere," he said. He raised the dead man's shoulders from the ground, and Brannan, following his suggestion, took the other end of the grim burden, which they bore to the City Hotel. Brannan, in the presence of Alcalde Hyde, searched Burthen's clothing for the plan which Rosa had described. But they did not find it; only a buckskin bag with a few grains of gold-dust at the bottom, a jackknife, a plug of tobacco, a scratched daguerreotype of a young girl with corkscrew curls and friendly eyes.
Next evening Nathan Spear chanced in to see the Stanleys. "Sam Brannan's gone," he told them. "Said he'd let you know about Benito. And here's a letter 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 a fortnight. I am told, without much luck, He had to sell his horse and saddle, for the price of living is enormous; finally he paired off with a man named Burthen--strapping, bearded Kansan with a little daughter, about 17. They struck a claim, and Burthen's on the way to San Francisco for supplies. I'll tell you more when I have seen the lad and had a talk with 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 on Friend 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 little one's an orphan. And Benito--"
"Her guardian, no doubt."
Spear laughed. "He writes that a miner gave $24 in gold-dust for a box of seidlitz powders; another paid a dollar a drop for laudanum to cure his 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 Shakespeare puts it, but a golden one. By and by this wealth will flow into your coffers down in San Francisco. Just now there is little disturbance, but it is bound to come. Several robberies and shootings have already taken place. There is one man whom I'd call an evil genius--a gambler, a handsome ruffian and a dead shot, so they tell me. It's rumored that he has a fancy for the little Burthen girl. Lord save her! Perhaps you know the rascal, for he hails, I understand, from San Francisco, one Alexander 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 own affair, 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 to see this fellow ... on a little business of his own."
Several months went by with no news from Benito. James Burthen had been buried in the little graveyard on a hill overlooking the bay. And that ended the matter in so far as San Francisco was concerned.
In the Alta California, a consolidation of two rival papers, appeared a brief notice chronicling the death of an unidentified miner, whose assassin, also nameless, had escaped. Ensenada Rose, described as an exotic female of dubious antecedents and still more suspicious motives, had left the Eldorado on the morning after the shooting "for parts unknown." She was believed to hold some "key to the tragic mystery which it was not her purpose to reveal."
But killings were becoming too familiar in the growing town to excite much comment. San Francisco's population had quadrupled in the past half year and men were streaming in by the hundreds from all quarters of the globe. Flimsy bunk-houses were hastily erected, springing up as if by magic overnight. Men stood in long lines for a chance at these sorry accommodations and the often sorrier meals which a score of enterprising culinary novices served at prices from one dollar up. Lodging was $30 per month and at this price men slept on naked boards like sailors in a forecastle, one above the other. Often half a dozen pairs of blankets served a hundred sleepers. For as soon as a guest of these palatial hostelries began to snore the enterprising landlord stripped his body of its covering and served it to a later arrival.
"If the town grows much faster it will be a tragedy," remarked Adrian to James Lick that afternoon. Lick had bought a city lot at Montgomery and Jackson streets and had already sold a portion of it for $30,000. He was a believer in San Francisco's future, and at San Jose his flour mill, once contemptuously called "Lick's folly," was grinding grain which at present prices brought almost its weight in gold.
"Things always right themselves, my boy," he said. "Don't worry. Keep pegging 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 devils keep 'bachelors' hall' with little more than a skillet and a coffee pot. They call it 'ranching.'" He laughed. "What would our old land barons have thought of a rancho four by six feet, which the first of our trade winds 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 hear someone speak of God in this godless place. It is full of thieves and cut-throats; they've a settlement at the base of the hill overlooking Clark's Point. No man's life is safe, they tell me, over there."
Lick frowned. "They call it Sydney Town because so many Australian convicts have settled in it. Some day we'll form a citizens' committee and run them off."
"Which reminds me," Lick retorted, "that McTurpin came to town this morning. With a veiled woman ... or girl. She looks little more than a child."
Adrian surveyed the other, startled. "Child?" His mind was full of vague suspicions.
"Well, she didn't weigh more than a hundred. Yes, they came--both on one horse, and the fellow's companion none too well pleased, I should say. Frightened, perhaps, though why she should be is a puzzle." Lick shrugged 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 most likely." 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 nervously evasive.
"Well, good-night, then," said the other with reluctance. He turned south on Kearny street toward his home. Stanley, looking after him, stood for a moment as if undetermined. Then he took his way across the Plaza toward the City Hotel.
In the bar, a long and low-ceiling room, talk buzzed and smoke from many pipes made a bluish, acrid fog through which, Adrian, standing in the doorway, saw, imperfectly, a long line of men at the bar. Others sat at tables playing poker and drinking incessantly, men in red-flannel shirts, blue denim trousers tucked into high, wrinkled boots. They wore wide-brimmed hats, and cursed or spat with a fervor and vehemence that indicated enjoyment. Adrian presently made out the stocky form of McTurpin, glass upraised. Before him on the bar were a fat buckskin bag and 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 a respectable gentleman with a mine and a ranch," he emptied his glass and, smacking his lips, continued, "and a beautiful young girl that loves me ... loves me. Understand?" His hand came down upon the other's shoulder 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 you can be a witness to the marriage, Dave." He drew the second man aside across the room, so near to Adrian that the latter stepped back to avoid discovery.
"She's a respectable lass," he heard McTurpin whisper. "Yes, it's marry or nothing with her ... and I'm willing enough, the Lord knows. Can ye find me a preacher, old fellow?"
He could not make out the other's reply. Their voices died down to an imperceptible whisper as they moved farther away. Stanley thought they argued over something. Then the man called Dave passed him and went swiftly up the hill.
Vaguely troubled, Stanley returned to the veranda. It was unoccupied for chilly evening breezes had driven the loungers indoors. Absently he paced the creaking boards and, having reached a corner of the building, continued his promenade along what seemed to be the rear of the building. Here a line of doors opened on the veranda like the upper staterooms of a ship.
Why should he trouble his mind about McTurpin and a paramour? thought Adrian. Yet his thought was curiously disturbed. Something Spear had read from a letter vexed him dimly like a memory imperfectly recalled. What was there about McTurpin and a child? Whose child? And what had it to do with the veiled woman who had ridden with the gambler from the mines. Impishly the facts eluded him. Inez would know. But Inez must not be bothered just now--at this time.
He paused and listened. Was that a woman sobbing? Of course not. Only his nerves, his silly sentiment. He would go home and forget the whole thing.
There it was again. This time he could not be mistaken. Noiselessly he made 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 of silence. Adrian's heart beat rapidly. He tip-toed to the window, tried the door beside it. Locked. After a moment's hesitation he spoke, softly: "Is someone in trouble?"
There was no answer. For a second time Adrian's mind fought a belief that sense had tricked him. Now and then a shout from the bar-room reached him as he waited, listening. The wind whistled eerily through the scant-leaved scrub-oaks on the slopes above.
But from the room at the window of which he listened there came no sound.
Adrian felt like one hoaxed, made ridiculous by his own sentimentality. He strode on. But when he reached the farther corner some involuntary impulse turned him back. And again the sound of muffled sobbing came to him from the open window--fainter now, as though an effort had been made to 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 heart in your breast you will help me to escape--to find my father."
Her tone, despite agitation, was that of extreme youth. She was not of the class that frequent gambling halls. Both her dress and her manner proclaimed that. Adrian was perplexed. "Are you--" he hesitated, fearing to impart offense, "are you the girl who came with McTurpin?"
"Yes, yes," she spoke hurriedly. "He told me my father was ill. He promised to take me to him. Instead, he locked me in this room. He threatened--oh! he is a monster! Will you help me? Do you know my father, sir?"
"What is his name?" asked Stanley.
"Burthen, sir, James Burthen," she replied, and fell once more to sobbing helplessly. "Oh, if I were only out of here."
Stanley pressed his weight against the door. He was thinking rapidly. So this was the daughter of Benito's partner--the murdered miner of the Eldorado tragedy. He recalled the letter from Colton; the hint of McTurpin's infatuation and its menace. Things became clear to him suddenly. The door gave as he pressed his knee against it. Presently the flimsy lock capitulated and he walked into the room. The girl shrank back against the farther wall at his approach.
"Oh, come," he said, a trifle testily, "I'm not going to hurt you. Get on your hat. I'll see you're taken care of. I'll place you in charge of my wife."
"And my father," she begged. "You'll take me to him?"
"Yes, yes, your father," he agreed in haste. "But first you'll come home with me."
She snatched up a hat and shawl from the commode, and, with hurried movements rearranged her hair; then she followed him submissively into the gathering dusk, shrinking close as if to efface herself whenever they passed anyone. The streets were full of men now, mostly bound from hotels, lodging houses and tents to the Eldorado and kindred resorts. Many of them ogled her curiously, for a female figure was a rarity in nocturnal San Francisco.
They passed dimly lighted tents in which dark figures bulked grotesquely against canvas walls. In one a man seemed to be dancing with a large animal which Stanley told her was a grizzly bear.
"They have many queer pets," he said. "One of my neighbors keeps a pet coon, and in another tent there are a bay horse, two dogs, two sheep and a pair of goats. They sleep with their master like a happy family."
"It is all so strange," said the girl, faintly. "In the East my father was a lawyer; we had a good house and a carriage; everything was so different from--this. But after my mother died, he grew restless. He sold everything and came to this rough, wild country. None of his old friends would know him now, with his beard, his boots and the horrible red flannel shirt."
Adrian made no reply. He was thinking of the tragic news which must ere long be told to Burthen's daughter. For a time they strode along in silence--until Stanley paused before an open door. Against the inner light which streamed through it into the darkness of the street a woman's figure was outlined.
"Well, here we are, at last," said Adrian. "And my wife's in the doorway waiting to scold me for being so late."
Inez ran to meet him. "I have been anxious," she declared. She noted her husband's companion, and stepped back, startled. "Adrian, who is this?"
"A daughter of the mur----" Adrian began. He broke the telltale word in two: "Of James Burthen--Benito's partner."
"Ah, then you know my brother," Inez hailed her eagerly. She took the girl's hands in her own and pressed them. "You must tell us all about him--quickly. We have waited long for news."
"You are--Mr. Windham's sister?" cried the girl almost incredulously. Then, with a swift abandonment to emotion she threw her arms about the elder woman's neck and sobbed.
Stanley followed them into the house. He saw Inez supporting her companion, soothing her in those mysterious ways which only women know. His mind was stirred with grave perplexities.
A peremptory knock aroused him from his cogitations. Could it be the gambler so soon? He thought there were voices. Several men, no doubt.
Inez called out in a whisper, "Who is there?"
"Go back," her husband ordered. "It's all right, dear. They're friends of mine."
Inez came out quickly and stood beside him, looking up into his face. "You're sure? There's no--no danger?"
Again the rat-tat-tat upon the panel, more peremptory than before. Stanley forced a laugh. "Danger! Why, of course not. Just a business talk. But go back and look after the girl. I don't want her coming out here while I've visitors." He patted her hand. His arm about her shoulder he ushered her across the threshold of the inner chamber and closed the door. Then he extinguished the lamp. Hand on pistol he felt his way toward the outer portal and, with a sudden movement flung it wide. Three men stood on the threshold. They seemed puzzled by the darkness. Out of it the host's voice spoke: "Who are you? What do you wish?"
William Henry Brown was first to answer him. "We want you, Adrian, at the hotel. Can you come now--quickly?"
"What for?" he asked suspiciously. "Who sent you here?"
"Nobody," came the cheery voice of Dr. Jones. "There's a friend of yours at Brown's who needs you."
"You mean--McTurpin?
"Damn McTurpin!" spoke the third voice. It was Nathan Spear's. "Light your lamp. Nobody's going to shoot you, Stanley.... It's young Benito from the mines and down with fever. He's calling for you ... and for a girl named Alice.... If you can pacify him--that will help a lot. He's pretty low."
"Wait," said Adrian, hurriedly. He relighted the lamp and, going to the inner door, called softly. There was an agitated rustle; then the door swung back and Stanley saw the figure of his wife, beside whom stood the light-haired girl.
"What is it, Adrian?"
"There's someone sick at Brown's Hotel," said Adrian, "a friend of mine. I'm going over there." He made a sign imposing silence on the men.
Inez came close. "You're certain it's no trick," she whispered, "it's not McTurpin's scheme to--"
"No, no," he assured her hastily. "I'm sure of that." He seized his hat and coat. "Put down the window shades and answer no one's knock till I return." He kissed her and without more ado joined the men outside. He heard the door shut and lock click into place.
For a time the quartette strode along in silence; then Brown spoke, as if the thought had been long on his lips, "Wasn't that--the girl McTurpin brought to town?"
"Yes," said Adrian tersely, "it was she."
Brown made no immediate response; he seemed to be digesting Adrian's remark. Finally he burst out, "If it's any of my business, what's she doing--there?"
"She asked for help," retorted Stanley. He related the incident of the veranda. Spear laughed meaningly. "That's the second one you've taken from McTurpin; he'll be loving you a heap, old man."
"He doesn't know it yet," Brown said. "But keep out of his way tomorrow."
Stanley's teeth met with a little click. "When I've seen Benito, Alec McTurpin and I will have a showdown. But tell me of the boy. What brought him here?"
"The missing girl, of course," said Dr. James. "He's daft about her. Alice Burthen ... that's her name, isn't it?"
Stanley was about to make some rejoinder when they passed two men, one of whom looked at them curiously. He was McTurpin's companion of the bar-room episode. "Who's that?" asked Spear as Brown saluted the pair.
"That's Reverend Wheeler, the new Baptist parson."
"Yes, yes, I know. But the other one?"
"Ned Gasket ... he's a friend of Dandy Carter's at the Eldorado."
"And a Sydney Duck, I guess," the doctor added.
"Do your own guessing, friend," said Brown, impatiently.
Spear sighed. "We'll have to do more than guess about that stripe of citizen if we want law and order. It will take a rope I fear," he finished grimly.
Brown led them round the back to a room not far from the one which had held Alice Burthen.
"It's quieter here," he explained. "They get noisy sometimes along about midnight." He opened the door and struck a sulphur match by whose weird flicker they made out a bed with a tossing figure upon it. Adrian crossed over and took the nervous clutching hands within his own firm clasp.
"Benito," he said. "Don't you know me? It's Adrian!"
Brown with a lighted lamp came nearer, so that Stanley saw the sufferer's eyes. They were incognizant of realities. The murmuring voice droned on, fretfully, "I've looked for her everywhere. She's gone! gone!"
Suddenly he cried out: "Alice! Alice!" half rising. But he tumbled back upon the pillow with a swift collapse of weakness and his words waned into mumbled incoherence.
"Benito," Adrian addressed him earnestly, "Alice is with me. With me and Inez. She's safe. I'll bring her to you in the morning. Do you understand?"
"With you--with Inez?" the sick man repeated. "Then tell her to come. I want her. Tell Alice to come--"
"Tomorrow," Dr. Jones said, soothingly, "when you've had a chance to rest."
"No, tonight," the fevered eyes stared up at them imploringly. Jones drew Adrian aside. "Pretend you'll do it or hell wear himself out. Then go. I'll give him something that will make him sleep." He emptied a powder in a tumbler of water and held it out to the sick man. "Drink this," he ordered, "it'll give you strength to see Miss Burthen."
Benito's lips obediently quaffed the drink. His head lay quieter upon the pillow. Slowly, as they watched, the eyelids closed.
"And now," said Adrian when he had assured himself that Benito slept, "I'm going for McTurpin."
"Don't be a confounded fool," Dr. Jones said quickly.
But Stanley paid no heed. He went directly into the saloon and looked about him. At a table, back toward him, sat a stocky figure, playing cards and reaching for the rum container at his side. Adrian stood a moment, musing; then his right hand slid down to his hip; a forward stride and the left hand fell on the player's shoulder.
"We meet once more, McTurpin."
The gambler rose so suddenly that the stool on which he sat rolled over. His face was red with wine and rage. His fingers moved toward an inner pocket.
"Don't," said Adrian meaningly. The hand fell back.
"What do you want?" the gambler growled.
"A quiet talk, my friend. Come with me."
"And, suppose I refuse?" the other sneered.
"Oh, if you're afraid--" began Adrian.
McTurpin threw his cards upon the table. Between him and a man across the board flashed a swift, unspoken message. "I'm at your service, Mr.--ah--Stanley."
He led the way out, and Adrian following, gave a quick glance backward, noting that the man across the table had arisen. What he did not see was that Spear hovered in the offing, following them with watchful eyes.
Toward the north they strolled, past a huddle of tents, for the most part unlighted. From some came snores and through many a windblown flap, the searching moonlight revealed sleeping figures. On a waste of sand-dunes McTurpin paused.
"Now tell me what ye want," he snarled, "and be damned quick about it. I've small time to waste with meddlers."
"On this occasion," Stanley said, "you'll take the time to note the following facts, Mr. McTurpin, Mr. Pillsworth--or whatever your true name may be--I've had a talk with Dandy Carter. He recognized you and Gasket when Burthen was killed, in spite of your beard. So did Rosa, of course, though she skipped the next morning. The Burthen girl is at my house." He paused an instant, thinking that he heard a movement in a bush nearby. "Well, that's all," he finished, "except this: If I find you here tomorrow, Alec McTurpin, murderer, card-sharp and abductor, I'll shoot you down like a dog."
And then, with a splendid piece of bravery, he turned his back on the gambler, walking away with never a backward glance. He did not go directly home, but walked for an indeterminate interval till his spirit was more calm.
The house was dark. Inez had obeyed him by leaving no trace of light. Doubtless by now they had retired. Suddenly he started, peered more closely at the door he was about to enter.
It was slightly ajar. On the threshold, as he threw it open, Adrian found a lace-edged handkerchief. His wife's.
Filled with quick foreboding, he called her name. His voice sounded hollow, strange, as if an empty house. Tremblingly he struck a light and searched the inner room. The bed had not been slept in. There was no one to be seen.