Frantically Adrian ran out into the darkness, crying his wife's name. His thought went, with swift apprehension, over the events of recent hours. The villainous face of Ned Gasket passed before his memory mockingly; the meaning look McTurpin gave his henchman at the gaming table. Finally, with double force, that movement in the bushes as he told the gambler of his former captive's whereabouts. By what absurd imprudence had he laid himself thus open to the scoundrel's swift attack? What farther whimsy of an unkind Fate had prompted his long walk?
Sudden fury flamed in Stanley's heart; it steadied him. The twitching fingers on the pistol in his pocket relaxed into a calm and settled tension. With long strides he made his way toward Brown's hotel.
There was death in his eyes; men who caught their gleam beneath a lamplight, hastily avoided him. That Inez--at this time--should have been taken from her home, abducted, frightened or harassed, was the sin unpardonable. For it he meant to exact a capital punishment. The law, just then, meant to him nothing; only the primitive instinct of an outraged man controlled his mind.
At the bar he paused. "Where's McTurpin, where's Gasket?" he demanded, harshly.
The bartender observed him with suspicion and uneasiness. "Don't know. Haven't seen 'em since they started out with you," he answered.
Stanley left the room without another word.
He struck across the Plaza, entering the Eldorado gambling house. There he ordered a drink, gulped it, made, more quietly, a survey of the room. He scanned the players carefully. Spear sat at one of the tables, toying with a pile of chips and stroking his chin reflectively as he surveyed three cards.
"Give me two. Hello, there, Adrian. Good Lord! what's up?"
"Have you seen McTurpin or his friend, Ned Gasket?" He tried to speak quietly.
A miner at another table leaned forward. "Try the stalls, pard," he whispered, while his left eyelid descended meaningly.
"Wait," cried Spear and laid his cards down hastily. But Adrian was already on his way. At the rear were half a dozen small compartments where visitors might drink in semi-privacy with women who frequented the place.
Adrian made the round of them, flinging aside each curtain as he went. Some greeted him with curses for intruding; some with invitations. But he did not find the men he sought, until the last curtain was thrown back. There sat Gasket and McTurpin opposite Ensenada Rose. She looked up impudently as Adrian entered. Into the gambler's visage sprang a quick surprise and fear. Instantly he blew out the lamp.
A pistol spoke savagely almost in Adrian's face. He staggered, clasping one hand to his head. Something warm ran down his cheek and the side of his neck. He felt giddy, stunned. But a dominant impulse jerked his own revolver into position and he shot twice--as rapidly as he could operate the weapon. The narrow space was chokingly filled with acrid vapor. Somewhere a woman screamed; then came a rush of feet.
It seemed to Adrian he had stood for hours in a kind of stupor when a light was brought. Gasket lay, his head bowed over on the table and an arm flung forward. He was dead. On the floor was a lace mantilla.
Spear reached Adrian's side ahead of the others. "I heard him shoot first," he said, so that all might hear him. "Are you hit?"
Adrian's hand went once more to his cheek. "Just a furrow," he said and smiled a trifle dazedly. "He fired straight into my face."
"By Harry! He must have. Your cheek's powder-marked," cried Brannan, running up and holding the lamp for a better view. "See that, gentlemen? They tried to murder Mr. Stanley. This is self-defense. Who fired at you?"
"This fellow!" Adrian indicated the sprawled figure. "Must have been. I shot at the flash from his gun; then I aimed at McTurpin. I missed him, probably."
"Not so sure of that," said Brown, who had come running from his hostelry across the square. "Look, here's blood on the floor. A trail--let's follow it. Either McTurpin or the woman was hit."
"I tried to avoid her," Adrian said. "I--hope I didn't--"
"Never mind. You were attacked. They're all of a parcel," cried a man who wore the badge of a constable. "We've had our eyes on the three of them a long time. This fellow," he indicated Gasket, "was one of the crowd suspected of the Warren murders. He's the one who killed old Burthen. Dandy Carter let it out tonight; he's half delirious. We'd have strung him up most probably, if you hadn't--"
"Come," urged Brannan, "let us follow this trail to the wounded. Perhaps he or she needs assistance." He held the lamp low, tracing the dark spots across an intervening space to the rear entrance; thence to a hitching rack where several horses still were tethered. "They mounted here," the constable decided. "One horse probably. No telling which it was that got the bullet."
Adrian was conscious, suddenly, that his hand still held the pistol. He flung it from him with a gesture of repulsion.
"My wife!" he said faintly, "Inez!"
"What d'ye mean?" asked Spear.
"Talk up, man. What's wrong?"
"She's gone--abducted," Stanley answered. "Who'll lend me a horse. I must find McTurpin. He knows--"
Unexpectedly Spear complicated matters. "You're mistaken, Stanley. I followed when you and he took your walk together. I suspected treachery--when Gasket sneaked along behind. I had McTurpin covered when you turned your back on him. He came here after that. Both of them have been here all the evening."
Stanley put his hand to his head with a bewildered gesture.
"Good God! Then where--? What has become of them?"
"Maybe they got wind of Benito's presence. Maybe they're with him. Let's see."
They hurried back to the City Hotel.
"The room's dark," Spear lighted a taper and they softly opened the door. Benito slept; beside him drowsed a red-shirted miner slumped upon a chair. Adrian shook him, whispering, "Where's Doctor Jones?"
"Don't know," muttered the watcher, sleepily. "This yere is his busy night I reckon. Asked me to look after this galoot. Feed him four fingers of that pizen if he woke."
His head drooped forward and a buzzing sound came from his open mouth. Once more Adrian shook him.
"Didn't he say anything about his destination?"
"His which, pard?"
"Where he was bound," the young man said half angrily.
This time the other sat up straighter. For the first time he really awoke and took intelligent cognizance of the situation.
"Now I come to think on it, he's bound for the hill over yonder. Woman named Briones come for him at a double quick. Good lookin' Spanish wench. She took him by the arm commandin' like. 'You come along,' she says and picks up his medicine chest. 'Don't stop for yer hat.' And he didn't." He winked heavily, chuckling at the reminiscence.
"Then it isn't Juana Briones that's ill. Perhaps it's her husband."
"Has she got a husband?" asked the miner, disappointedly. "No, I reckon 'twant him. 'Twas a woman name o' Stanley. I remember now--Goin' to have a bebby."
"Take my horse," said Brannan, hurriedly. "I'll stay here with Benito." He bundled the excited Stanley and Nathan Spear out of the room, where Benito still slept under the spell of the doctor's opiate. "You, too," he told the miner, "you've had too much red liquor to play the nurse." He closed the door after them.
The young contractor spoke first. "By the eternal, I never thought of that! I'm glad she had a woman with her."
He spurred his horse toward Telegraph, Hill, as it had begun to be known, since signals were flashed from its crest, announcing the arrival of vessels. Down its farther slope was the little rancho of Dona Briones, where Inez in her extremity had sought the good friend of her childhood.
Adrian's thought leaped forward into coming years. Inez and he together, always together as the years passed. And between them a son--intuitively he felt that it would be a son--a successor, taking up their burdens as they laid them down; bearing their name, their ideals, purposes along, down the pageant of time.
He paid little heed as they passed through a huddle of huts, tents and lean-tos on the southern ascent. Though the hour was late, many windows were light and sounds of revelry came dimly, as though muffled, from curtain-hid interiors. There was something furtive and ill-omened about this neighborhood which one sensed rather than perceived. Spear rode close and touched Adrian's arm.
"Sydney town," he whispered, meaningly. "The hang-out of our convict citizens from Australia, those eastern toughs and plug-uglies of the Seventh regiment who came here to feather their nests. Do you know what they've done? Formed a society called The Hounds. Appropriate, isn't it? Your friend McTurpin's one of them. Thanks to you, they've lost a valued member."
"Hounds?" said Adrian. His thought still forged ahead. "Oh, yes, I've heard about them. They are going to drive out the foreigners."
"Loot them, more likely," Spear returned, disgustedly; "then us, if we don't look out. Mark my word, they'll give us trouble. Alcalde Leavenworth's too careless by half."
Stanley, paying scant attention, suddenly leaned forward in his saddle. At one of the windows a curtain was drawn back; a woman's face appeared for a moment silhouetted against inner light; then as swiftly withdrew.
"Who was that?" asked Adrian, involuntarily reining in his mount. "Not--"
"Rosa Terranza," said Spear excitedly.
They listened. From within the tent-house came a sound of hasty movements, whispering. The light winked out. A bolt was shot; then silence.
"I'll bet, by Jupiter, McTurpin's there," cried Adrian.
"And that he's hurt," Spear added. "What shall we do?"
"Let them be," decided Stanley, clucking to his horse. "My duty's ahead." He took the steep pitch of the hillside almost at a gallop and soon they were descending again into that little settlement of waterside and slope called North Beach. Juana Briones' place had been its pioneer habitation. Her hospitable gate stood always invitingly open. Through the branches of a cypress lights could be seen. The front door stood ajar and about it were whispering women. Adrian's heart leaped. Was something amiss? He dismounted impetuously, throwing the reins to an Indian who had come out evidently to do them service. Spear followed as he rushed through the door. There stood Dona Briones, finger on lip, demanding silence. Her face was grave.
"How--how is she? How is Inez?" Adrian stammered.
"The doctor's with her. Everything will be all right, I think. But make no noise. Go in that room and sit down."
Adrian threw up his hands. "My God, woman! How can I sit still when--when--?"
"Walk up and down, then," said Juana, "but take off your shoes."
Which Adrian finally did. It seemed to him that he had paced the tiny chamber a thousand times. He heard movements, voices in the next room; now and then his wife's moan and the elder woman's soothing accents. Then a silence which seemed century long, a silence fraught with unimaginable terror. It was broken by a new sound, high pitched, feeble, but distinct; the cry of a child. Helplessly Adrian subsided into a chair beside Nathan Spear. "Do you hear that?" he asked, mopping his forehead.
"Yes, I heard it," said the other non-committally.
"I can't stand this any longer," Adrian exclaimed. "I'm going in there. I--I've got to know--"
He rose, determinedly, shaking off Spear's detaining arm. In the doorway stood Dr. Jones. Again came the tiny cry. "It's a boy," said the medico, and held out his hand.
But Adrian caught him by the shoulders. "My wife?" he asked. "How is she? Is there any--"
"Danger? No, it's over," said the doctor. "Sit down and calm yourself."
Adrian relaxed a trifle. Finally his set face softened; he laughed.
It was the evening of July 14, 1849. Stanley stood over the cradle of his son, looking worshipfully down at the tiny sleeping face. Inez Stanley, busied with the varied tasks of motherhood, came and stood for a moment beside him. She voiced that platitude of wives and mothers in their pride: "He looks just like you, Adrian."
Stanley put his hands upon her shoulders. "Got your mouth, your big eyes," he said, and kissed her.
They were wont to quarrel tenderly over this. But tonight Inez looked seriously up at her husband. Suddenly she hid her face upon his shoulder.
"If only--if only--" she whispered, "he wouldn't grow up. And we wouldn't grow old."
Stanley's fingers on her hair stroked gently. "Life is life, my dear," he said at last. "Let us not question the inexorable too deeply. Yesterday is gone, you know. Tomorrow never comes.... And here we are together in the best town in the world. With love, good prospects ... our little Francisco--"
"He will live to see a great city," said Inez, comforted. "He will help to make it." Her eyes were prophetic. The child stirred and hastily they withdrew, lowering the light so that his slumber might be undisturbed. A light tap sounded at the door and Adrian answered.
Spear and Brannan with Benito stood upon the threshold. The latter entered, kissed his sister and was shown the sleeping child. "How is Alice?" Inez asked.
"Well. And the best little wife in the world," Benito answered. His eyes glowed happily. "The tiny Francisco is growing like a weed. Only ten months old--"
"Nine months, two weeks and three days," said his mother, glibly. "Won't you all come in and see the baby?" she invited.
"No," Spear answered. "We must steal your husband for a' little while. There's business at the City Hall...."
"Adrian's become a prominent citizen, you know," he added at her look of pouting protest.
She brought her husband's hat. "Don't be long," she urged, and smiled a good-bye from the threshold. When he heard the door shut, Adrian turned on Brannan. "What's up?"
"Plenty," said the other meaningly. "The Hounds have broken out. They looted Little Chili about dark tonight and one of them was shot. They threaten to burn the foreign quarter. They're arming. There's trouble afoot."
"And what do you want of me?" Stanley questioned.
"Damn it! Wake up, man!" cried Spear. "A citizens' committee. We're going to enforce the law--if it takes a rope."
Inez and Alice were returning from church on Sunday, July 15 when they encountered a strange, unsabbatical procession; a company of grim and tight-lipped citizens marching, rifles over shoulder toward the Bay. At their head was William Spofford. Midway of the parade were a dozen rough-appearing fellows, manacled and guarded. Among these Inez recognized Sam Roberts, gaunt and bearded leader of the hoodlum band known as The Hounds or Regulars. From Little Chili, further to the north and west, rose clouds of smoke; now and then a leaping tongue of flame.
Presently Benito, musket at shoulder, came marching by and Inez plucked at his arm.
"Can't stop now," he told her hurriedly. "We're taking these rogues to the sloop Warren. They're to be tried for arson and assault in the foreign quarter."
"By the Eternal!" shouted a bystander enthusiastically. "We've got Law in San Francisco at last.... Hurrah for Bill Spofford and the Citizens' Committee."
"There's Adrian," cried Inez as the rearguard of the pageant passed. "Isn't it fine? Alice, aren't you proud?"
But Alice was a practical little body. "They'll be hungry when they come home," she averred. "Let us hurry back and get their dinner ready."
Passersby who laughed at the inscription witnessed simultaneously the rescue of an almost-submerged donkey by means of an improvised derrick.
The affair of The Hounds was already past history when the gold-seekers, hunted from the heights by early snows, returned to San Francisco in great numbers. Sara Roberts and his evil band had been deported. Better government obtained but there were many other civic problems still unsolved. San Francisco, now a hectic, riotous metropolis of 25,000 inhabitants, was like a muddy Venice, for heavy rains had made its unpaved streets canals of oozy mud. At Clay and Kearny streets, in the heart of the business district, some wag had placed a placard reading:
THIS STREET IS IMPASSABLENOT EVEN JACKASSABLE
In which there was both truth and poetry. Passersby who laughed at the inscription witnessed simultaneously the rescue of an almost-submerged donkey by means of an improvised derrick.
Benito was showing his friend David Broderick, a recent arrival from New York, some of San Francisco's sights. "Everything is being used to bridge the crossings," said the former laughingly ... "stuff that came from those deserted ships out in the bay. Their masts are like a forest--hundreds of them."
"You mean their crew deserted during the gold rush?" Broderick inquired.
"Yes, even the skippers and officers in many cases.... See, here is a cargo of sieves with which some poor misguided trader overwhelmed the market. They make a fair crossing, planted in the mud. And there are stepping stones of tobacco boxes--never been opened, mind you--barrels of tainted pork and beef. On Montgomery street is a row of cook stoves which make a fine sidewalk, though, sometimes the mud covers them."
"And what are those two brigs doing stranded in the mud?" asked Broderick.
"Oh, those are the Euphemia and Apollo. They use the first one for a jail. That's Geary's scheme. He's full of business. And the second's a tavern.... Let's go up to the new post-office. Alice is always eager for a letter from her folks in Massachusetts."
They made their way to the new wooden structure at Clay and Pike streets where several clerks were busily sorting the semi-weekly mail which had just arrived. Hundreds of people stood in long queues before each of the windows. "Get in line stranger," said a red-shirted man laughingly. "Only seventy-five ahead of us. I counted 'em.... Some have been in line since last night I'm told. They're up near the front and holding places for others ... getting $20 cash for their time."
Broderick and Benito decided not to wait. They made another journey round the town, watching Chinese builders erecting long rows of habitations that had come in sections from Cathay. Everywhere was hasty, feverish construction--flimsy houses going up like mushrooms over night to meet the needs of San Francisco's swiftly augmenting populace.
"It's like a house of cards," said Broderick, who had been a fireman in New York. "Lord help us if it ever starts to burn. Even our drinking water comes from Sausalito across the Bay."
Benito Windham stole from his dwelling, closing the door softly after him so Alice, his wife, might not wake. A faint rose dawn colored the Contra Costa ridge. From a few of the huts and larger buildings which sprinkled San Francisco's hills and hollows so haphazardly, curls of blue white wood smoke rose into the windless air. Here and there some belated roisterer staggered toward his habitation. But otherwise all was still, quicscent. San Francisco slept.
It was the morning of December 24, 1849--the first Christmas eve following the gold rush. Windham, who had lain awake since midnight, pondered upon this and other things. Events had succeeded each other with such riotous activity of late that life seemed more like a dream than a reality. His turbulent months at the mines, his high preliminary hopes of fortune, their gradual waning to a slow despair; the advent of James Burthen and his daughter; then love, his partner's murder and the girl's abduction; his pursuit and illness. Alice's rescue and their marriage; his return to find the claim covered with snow; finally a clerical post in San Francisco.
A sudden distaste for the feverish, riotous town assailed him--a longing for the peace and beauty of those broad paternal acres he had lost upon the gaming table wrenched his heart.
He pictured Alice in the old rose patio, where his American father had wooed his Spanish mother.
Involuntarily his steps turned eastward. At Sacramento and Leidesdorff streets he left solid ground to tread a four-foot board above the water, to the theoretical line of Sansome street; thence south upon a similar foothold to the solid ground of Bush street, where an immense sand-*hill with a hollow in its middle, like a crater, struck across the path. Some called this depression Thieves Hollow, for in it deserting sailors, ticket-of-leave men from Botany Bay prison colony and all manner of human riff-raff consorted for nefarious intrigue.
Benito, mounting the slope, looked down at a welter of tents, shacks, deck houses and galleys of wrecked ships. He had expected their occupants to be asleep, for they were nighthawks who reversed man's usual order in the prosecution of nocturnal and ill-favored trades. He was astonished to note a general activity. At the portholes of dwellings retrieved from the wreck of the sea, unkempt bearded faces stared; smoke leaped from a dozen rickety, unstable chimneys, and in the open several groups of men and women plied frying pans and coffee pots over driftwood fires.
Benito observed them with a covert interest. A black-browed man with a shaggy beard and something leonine about him, seemed the master of the chief of this godless band. He moved among them, giving orders, and with two companions finally ascended to the top. Benito, concealing himself behind a scrub oak, watched them, animatedly conversing, as they descended and picked their way inland toward the Square. So swift their movements and so low their tones he could not make out the tenor of their discourse. He caught the words, "like tow," but that was all. Musingly, he went on.
Up the broad and muddy path to Market street, thence west again to Third, he made his way. Now south to Mission and once more west, a favored route for caballeros. Benito had never traveled it before afoot. But his horse had succumbed to the rigors of that frantic ride in pursuit of Alice and McTurpin several months ago. Mounts were a luxury now.
He skirted the edge of a lagoon that stretched from Sixth to Eighth streets and on the ascent beyond observed a tiny box-like habitation, brightly painted, ringed with flowers and crowned with an imposing flagpole from which floated the Star-Spangled Banner. It was a note of gay melody struck athwart the discordant monotony of soiled tent houses, tumble-down huts and oblong, flat-roofed buildings stretching their disorderly array along the road. Coming closer he saw the name, "Pipesville," printed on the door, and knew that this must be the "summer home," as it was called, of San Francisco's beloved minstrel, Stephen Massett, otherwise "Jeems Pipes of Pipesville," singer, player, essayist and creator of those wondrous one-man concerts dear to all the countryside.
"Jeems" himself appeared in the doorway to wave a greeting and Benito went on oddly cheered by the encounter. In front of the Mansion House, adjoining Mission Dolores, stood Bob Ridley, talking with his partner.
"You look warm, son," he remarked paternally to Windham, "let me mix you up a milk punch and you'll feel more like yourself. Where's your boss and whither are ye bound?"
"Died," Benito answered. "Going to my--to the ranch."
"Thought so," Ridley said. "I hear there's no one on it. Why not steal a march on that tin-horn gambler and scallawag. Rally up some friends and take possession. That's nine points of the law, my boy, and a half-dozen straight-shooting Americans is nine hundred more, now that Geary's alcalde and that weak-kneed psalm-singing Leavenworth's resigned under fire."
"You're sure--there's no one at the place?" Benito questioned.
"Pretty sure. But what's it matter? Everybody knows it's yours by rights. Wait," he cried, excitedly. "I'll get horses. Stuart and I will go along. We'll pick up six or seven bully boys along the way. Is it a go?"
"A go!" exclaimed Benito, his eyes ashine. "You--you're too good, Bob Ridley." He pressed the other's hand. "My wife," he mused, "among the roses in the patio! The old home, Dear God! Let it come true!"
An hour later ten men galloped through the gate of the Windham rancho. No one offered them resistance. It had the look of a place long abandoned. Dead leaves and litter everywhere. All of the animals had been driven off--sold, no doubt. The hacienda had been ransacked of its valuables. It was almost bare of furniture. The rose court, neglected, unkempt, brought back a surge of memories. A chimney had fallen; broken adobe bricks lay scattered on the grass.
But to Benito it spelled home. For him and for Alice. This should be his Christmas gift. Old Antonio, his former major-domo, lingered still in San Francisco. He would send him out this very day to set the place in order. Tomorrow he and Alice would ride--his brow clouded. He should have to borrow two horses. No matter. Tomorrow they would ride--
A startled exclamation from Bob Ridley roused him from his rhapsody.
"Benito, come here! Look! What the devil is that?"
From their eminence the town of San Francisco was plainly visible; tall, thin shafts of smoke rising straight and black from many chimneys; the blue bay shimmering in the morning sunshine; the curious fretwork shadows of that great flotilla of deserted ships. But there was something more; something startlingly unnatural; a great pillar of black vapor--beneath it a livid red thing that leaped and grew.
"Good God! The town's afire!" cried Benito.
Benito's first thought was of Alice. He had left her sleeping. Perhaps she had not yet awakened, for the morning was young. Adrian had gone to San Jose the previous afternoon. His wife, his sister and her child would be alone.
Benito sprang upon his horse; the others followed. In less than half an hour they crossed Market street and were galloping down Kearny toward the Square. At California street they were halted by a crowd, pushing, shouting, elbowing this way and that without apparent or concerted purpose. Above the human babel sounded a vicious crackle of burning wood like volleys of shots from small rifles. Red and yellow flames shot high and straight into the air. Now and then a gust of wind sent the licking fire demon earthward, and before its hot breath people fled in panic.
Benito flung his reins to a bystander. He was scarcely conscious of his movements; only that he was fighting for breath in a surging, suffocating press of equally excited human beings. From this he finally emerged, hatless, disheveled, into a small cleared space filled with flying sparks and stifling heat. Across it men rushed feverishly carrying pails of water. Dennison's Exchange on Kearny street, midway of the block facing Portsmouth Square, was a roaring furnace. Flame sprang like red, darting tongues from its windows and thrust impertinent fingers here and there through the sloping roof.
Somewhere--no one seemed to know precisely--a woman screamed, "My baby! Save my baby!" The sound died to a moan, was stilled. Benito, passing a bucket along the line, stared, white faced, at his neighbor. "What was that?" he asked.
"Quien sabe?" said the other, "hurry along with that pail. The roof's falling."
It was true. The shingle-covered space above the burning building stirred gently, undulating like some wind-ruffled pond. The mansard windows seemed to bow to the watchers, then slowly sink forward. With a roar, the whole roof sprang into fire, buckled, collapsed; the veranda toppled. Smoke poured from the eight mansard windows of the Parker House, next door. South of the Parker House were single-storied buildings, one of wood, another of adobe; the first was a restaurant; over its roof several foreign-looking men spread rugs and upon them poured a red liquid.
"It's wine," Bob Ridley said. "But they'll never save it. Booker's store is going, too. Looks like a clean sweep of the block."
Broderick's commanding figure could be seen rushing hither and thither. "No use," Benito heard him say to one of his lieutenants. "Water won't stop it. Not enough.... Is there any powder hereabouts?"
"Powder!" cried the other with a blanching face. "By the Eternal, yes! A store of it is just around the corner. Mustn't let the fire reach--"
Broderick cut him short. "Go and get it. You and two others. Blow up or pull down that building," he indicated a sprawling ramshackle structure on the corner.
"But it's mine," one of the fire-fighters wailed. "Cost me ten thousand dollars--"
Fiercely Broderick turned upon him. "It'll cost the town ten millions if you don't hurry," he bellowed. "You can't save it, anyhow. Do you want the whole place to burn?"
Broderick's commanding figure was seen rushing hither and thither.... "You and two others. Blow up or pull down that building," he indicated a sprawling, ramshackle structure.
"All right, all right, Cap. Don't shoot," the other countered with a sudden laugh. "Come on, boys, follow me." Benito watched him and the others presently returning with three kegs. They dived into the building indicated. Presently, with the noise of a hundred cannon, the corner building burst apart. Sticks and bits of plaster flew everywhere. The crowd receded, panic-stricken.
"Good work!" cried the fire marshal.
It seemed, indeed, as though the flames were daunted. The two small structures were blazing now. The Parker House, reeling drunkenly, collapsed.
Unexpectedly a gust of wind sent fire from the ruins of Dennison's Exchange northward. It reached across the open space and flung a rain of sparks down Washington street toward Montgomery. Instantly there came an answering crackle, and exasperated fire-fighters rushed to meet the latest sortie of their enemy. Once more three men, keg laden, made their way through smoke and showering brands. Again the deafening report reverberated and the crowd fell back, alarmed.
Someone grasped Benito's arm and shook it violently. He turned and looked into the feverishly questioning eyes of Adrian Stanley.
"I've just returned," the other panted. "Tell me, is all well--with Inez? The women?"
"Don't know," said Benito, half bewildered. The woman's wail for a lost child leaped terrifyingly into his recollection. His hand went up as if to ward off something. "Don't know," he repeated. "Wasn't home when--fire started."
It came to him weirdly that he was talking like a drunken man; that Adrian eyed him with a sharp disfavor. "Where the devil were you, then?"
"At the ranch," he answered. Suddenly he laughed. It all seemed very funny. He had meant to give his wife a Christmas present; later he had ridden madly to her rescue, yet here he was passing buckets in a fire brigade. And Adrian, regarding him with suspicion, accusing him silently with his eyes.
"You take the pail," he cried. "You fight the fire." And while Stanley looked puzzledly after him, Benito charged through a circle of spectators up the hill. He did not know that his face was almost black; that his eyebrows and the little foreign moustache of which they had made fun at the mines was charred and grizzled. He knew only that Alice might be in danger. That the fire might have spread west as well as east and north.
As he sped up Washington street another loud explosion drummed against his ears. A shout followed it. Benito neither knew nor cared for its significance. Five minutes later he stumbled across his own doorsill, calling his wife's name. There was no answer. Frenziedly he shouted "Alice! Alice!" till at last a neighbor answered him.
"She and Mrs. Stanley and the baby went to Preacher Taylor's house. Is the fire out?"
"No," returned Benito. Once more he plunged down hill, seized a bucket and began the interminable passing of water. He looked about for Adrian but did not see him. He became a machine, dully, persistently, desperately performing certain ever-repeated tasks.
Hours seemed to pass. Then, of a sudden, something interrupted the accustomed trend. He held out his hands and no bucket met it. With a look of stupid surprise he stared at the man behind him. He continued to hold out his hand.
"Wake up," cried the other, and gave him a whack across the shoulders. "Wake up, Benito, man. The fire's out."
Robert Parker, whose hotel was a litter of smoking timbers, and Tom Maguire, owner of what once had been the Eldorado gambling house, were discussing their losses.
"Busted?" Parker asked.
"Cleaned!" Maguire answered.
"Goin' to rebuild?"
"Yep. And you?"
"Sartin. Sure. Soon as I can get the lumber and a loan."
"Put her there, pard."
Their hands met with a smack.
"That's the spirit of San Francisco," Ridley remarked. "Well we've learned a lesson. Next time we'll be ready for this sort of thing. Broderick's planning already for an engine company."
"I reckon," Adrian commented as he joined the group, "a vigilance committee is what we need even more."
To this Benito made no answer. Into his mind flashed a memory of the trio that had left Thieves' Hollow at daybreak.
Benito Windham rose reluctantly and stretched himself. It was very comfortable in the living-room of the ranch house, where a fire crackled in the huge stone grate built by his grandfather's Indian artisans. Many of the valuable tapestries imported from Spain had been removed by McTurpin during his tenure, but even bare adobe walls were cheerful in the light of blazing logs, and rugs of native weave accorded well with the simple mission furniture. In a great chair that almost swallowed her sat Alice, gazing dreamily into the embers. Family portraits hung upon the wall, and one of these, stiff and haughty in the regimentals of a soldado de cuero, seemed to look down upon the domestic picture with a certain austere benignity. This was the painting of Francisco Garvez of hidalgo lineage, who had stood beside Ortega, the Pathfinder, when that honored scout of Portola had found the bay of San Francisco and the Golden Gate.
"Carissima, how he would have loved you, that old man!" Benito's tone was dreamy.
Alice Windham turned. "You are like him, Benito," she said fondly. "There is the same flash in your eye. Come, sit for awhile by the fire. It's so cosy when it storms."
Benito kissed her. "I would that I might, but today there is an election in the city," he reminded. "I must go to vote. Perhaps I can persuade the good Broderick to dine with us this evening; or Brannan--though he is so busy nowadays. Often I look about unconsciously for Nathan Spear. It seems impossible that he is dead."
"He was 47, but he seemed so young," commented Alice. She rose hastily. "You must be very careful, dear," she cautioned, with a swift anxiety, "of the cold and wet--and of the hoodlums. They tell me there are many. Every week one reads in theAltathat So-and-So was killed at the Eldorado or the Verandah. Never more than that. In my home in the East they would call it murder. There would be a great commotion; the assassin would be hanged."
"Ah, yes; but this is a new country," he said, a little lamely.
"Will there never be law in San Francisco?" Alice asked him, passionately. "I have not forgotten--how my father died."
Benito's face went suddenly white. "Nor I," he said, with an odd intensity; "there are several things ... that you may trust me ... to remember."
"You mean," she queried in alarm, "McTurpin?"
Benito's mood changed. "There, my dear." He put an arm about her shoulders soothingly. "Don't worry. I'll be careful; neither storm nor bullets shall harm me. I will promise you that."
Early as it was in the day's calendar--for San Francisco had no knack of rising with the sun--Benito found the town awake, intensely active when he picked his way along the edge of those dangerous bogs that passed for business streets. Several polling places had been established. Toward each of them, lines of citizens converged in patient single-file detachments that stretched usually around the corner and the length of another block. Official placards announced that all citizens of the United States were entitled to the ballot and beneath one of these, a wag had written with white chalk in a large and sprawling hand:
"No Chinese Coolies in Disguise Need Apply."
No one seemed to mind the rain, though a gale blew from the sea, causing a multitude of tents to sway and flap in dangerous fashion. Now and then a canvas habitation broke its moorings and went racing down the hill, pursued by a disheveled and irate occupant, indulging in the most violent profanity.
At Kearny and Sacramento streets Benito, approaching the voting station, was told to get in line by Charley Elleard, the town constable. Elleard rode his famous black pony. This pony was the pet of the town and had developed a sagacity nearly human. It was considered wondrous sport to give the little animal a "two-bit" piece, which it would gravely hold between its teeth and present to the nearest bootblack, placing its forefeet daintily upon the footrests for a "shine."
As he neared the polls in the slow succession of advancing voters, Benito was beset by a rabble of low-voiced, rough-dressed men, who thrust their favorite tickets into his hands and bade him vote as indicated, often in a threatening manner. Raucously they tried to cry each other down. "Here's for Geary and the good old council," one would shout. "Geary and his crowd forever."
"We've had the old one too long," a red-shirted six-footer bellowed. "Fresh blood for me. We want sidewalks and clean streets."
This provoked a chorus of "Aye! Aye! That's the ticket, pard," until a satirical voice exclaimed, "Clean streets and sidewalks! Gor a'mighty. He's dreamin' o' Heaven!"
A roar of laughter echoed round the town at this sally. It was repeated everywhere. The campaign slogan was hastily dropped.
At the polling desk Benito found himself behind a burly Kanaka sailor, dark as an African.
"I contest his vote," cried one of the judges. "If he's an American, I'm a Hottentot."
"Where were you born?" asked the challenging judge of election.
"New York," whispered a voice in the Kanaka's ear, and he repeated the word stammeringly. "Where was your father born?" came the second question, and again the word was repeated. "What part of New York?"
"New York, New York." The answer was parrot-like. Someone laughed.
"Ask him what part of the Empire State he hails from?" suggested another. The question was put in simpler form, but it proved too much for the Islander. He stammered, stuttered, waved his hand uncertainly toward the ocean. Perceiving that he was the butt of public jest, he broke out of the line and made off as fast as his long legs could transport him.
The man whose whispered promptings had proved unavailing, fell sullenly into the background, after venomous glance at the successful objector. Benito caught his eyes under the dripping crown of a wide-brimmed slouch hat. They seemed to him vaguely familiar. Almost instinctively his hand sought the pocket in which his derringer reposed. Then, with a laugh, he dismissed the matter. He had no quarrel with the fellow; that murderous look was aimed at Henry Mellus, not at him. So he cast his ballot and went out.
Opposite the Square he paused to note the progress of rehabilitation in the burned area. It was less than a fortnight since he had stood there feverishly passing buckets of water in a fight against the flames, but already most of the evidences of conflagration were hidden behind the framework of new buildings. The Eldorado announced a grand opening in the "near future"; Maguire's Jenny Lind Theater notified one in conspicuous letters, "We Will Soon Be Ready for Our Patrons, Bigger and Grander Than Ever."
Benito nodded to Robert Parker, whose hotel was rising, phoenix-like from its ashes.
"Things are coming along," he said with a gesture toward the buildings. "Have you seen anything of Dave Broderick?"
Parker shook the rain-drops from his hat. "Saw him going toward the Bella Union," he replied. "They say he's as good as elected. A fine State senator he'll make, too." Taking Benito's arm, he walked with him out of earshot of those nearby.
"Benito," his tone was grave. "They tell me you've resumed possession of your ranch."
"Yes," confirmed the younger. "Half a dozen of my old servants are there with Mrs. Windham and myself. I've bought a little stock on credit and all's going well."
For a moment Parker said nothing; then, almost in Benito's ear, he spoke a warning: "Do you know that McTurpin is back?"