Port O' Gold

  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 reallyawoke and took intelligent cognizance of the situation.

  "Now I come to think on it, he's bound for the hill over yonder. Womannamed Briones come for him at a double quick. Good lookin' Spanishwench. She took him by the arm commandin' like. 'You come along,' shesays and picks up his medicine chest. 'Don't stop for yer hat.' And hedidn'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' tohave a bebby."

  CHAPTER XXIII

  THE NEW ARRIVAL

  "Take my horse," said Brannan, hurriedly. "I'll stay here with Benito."He bundled the excited Stanley and Nathan Spear out of the room, whereBenito 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 ofthat! I'm glad she had a woman with her."

  He spurred his horse toward Telegraph, Hill, as it had begun to beknown, since signals were flashed from its crest, announcing the arrivalof vessels. Down its farther slope was the little rancho of DonaBriones, where Inez in her extremity had sought the good friend of herchildhood.

  Adrian's thought leaped forward into coming years. Inez and he together,always together as the years passed. And between them a son--intuitivelyhe felt that it would be a son--a successor, taking up their burdens asthey 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 andlean-tos on the southern ascent. Though the hour was late, many windowswere light and sounds of revelry came dimly, as though muffled, fromcurtain-hid interiors. There was something furtive and ill-omened aboutthis neighborhood which one sensed rather than perceived. Spear rodeclose and touched Adrian's arm.

  "Sydney town," he whispered, meaningly. "The hang-out of our convictcitizens from Australia, those eastern toughs and plug-uglies of theSeventh regiment who came here to feather their nests. Do you know whatthey'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 avalued member."

  "Hounds?" said Adrian. His thought still forged ahead. "Oh, yes, I'veheard about them. They are going to drive out the foreigners."

  "Loot them, more likely," Spear returned, disgustedly; "then us, if wedon't look out. Mark my word, they'll give us trouble. AlcaldeLeavenworth'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 appearedfor 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 hastymovements, 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'sahead." He took the steep pitch of the hillside almost at a gallop andsoon they were descending again into that little settlement of watersideand slope called North Beach. Juana Briones' place had been its pioneerhabitation. Her hospitable gate stood always invitingly open. Throughthe branches of a cypress lights could be seen. The front door stoodajar and about it were whispering women. Adrian's heart leaped. Wassomething amiss? He dismounted impetuously, throwing the reins to anIndian who had come out evidently to do them service. Spear followed ashe 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 makeno noise. Go in that room and sit down."

  Adrian threw up his hands. "My God, woman! How can I sit stillwhen--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 tinychamber 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 withunimaginable terror. It was broken by a new sound, high pitched, feeble,but distinct; the cry of a child. Helplessly Adrian subsided into achair beside Nathan Spear. "Do you hear that?" he asked, moppinghis 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 doorwaystood 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 isshe? 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 ofhis son, looking worshipfully down at the tiny sleeping face. InezStanley, busied with the varied tasks of motherhood, came and stood fora moment beside him. She voiced that platitude of wives and mothers intheir pride: "He looks just like you, Adrian."

  Stanley put his hands upon her shoulders. "Got your mouth, your bigeyes," he said, and kissed her.

  They were wont to quarrel tenderly over this. But tonight Inez lookedseriously up at her husband. Suddenly she hid her face uponhis shoulder.

  "If only--if only--" she whispered, "he wouldn't grow up. And wewouldn'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 aretogether 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 helpto make it." Her eyes were prophetic. The child stirred and hastily theywithdrew, lowering the light so that his slumber might be undisturbed. Alight tap sounded at the door and Adrian answered.

  Spear and Brannan with Benito stood upon the threshold. The latterentered, kissed his sister and was shown the sleeping child. "How isAlice?" Inez asked.

  "Well. And the best little wife in the world," Benito answered. His eyesglowed happily. "The tiny Francisco is growing like a weed. Only tenmonths old--"

  "Nine months, two weeks and three days," said his mother, glibly. "Won'tyou 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 ofpouting protest.

  She brought her husband's hat. "Don't be long," she urged, and smiled agood-bye from the threshold. When he heard the door shut, Adrian turnedon Brannan. "What's up?"

  "Plenty," said the other meaningly. "The Hounds have broken out. Theylooted Little Chili about dark tonight and one of them was shot. Theythreaten to burn the foreign quarter. They're arming. There'strouble afoot."

  "And what do you want of me?" Stanley questioned.

  "Damn it! Wake up, man!" cried Spear. "A citizens' committee. We'regoing to enfo
rce the law--if it takes a rope."

  CHAPTER XXIV

  THE CHAOS OF '49

  Inez and Alice were returning from church on Sunday, July 15 when theyencountered a strange, unsabbatical procession; a company of grim andtight-lipped citizens marching, rifles over shoulder toward the Bay. Attheir head was William Spofford. Midway of the parade were a dozenrough-appearing fellows, manacled and guarded. Among these Inezrecognized Sam Roberts, gaunt and bearded leader of the hoodlum bandknown as The Hounds or Regulars. From Little Chili, further to the northand west, rose clouds of smoke; now and then a leaping tongue of flame.

  Presently Benito, musket at shoulder, came marching by and Inez pluckedat his arm.

  "Can't stop now," he told her hurriedly. "We're taking these rogues tothe sloop Warren. They're to be tried for arson and assault in theforeign quarter."

  "By the Eternal!" shouted a bystander enthusiastically. "We've got Lawin 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 comehome," she averred. "Let us hurry back and get their dinner ready."

  Passersby who laughed at the inscription witnessedsimultaneously the rescue of an almost-submerged donkey by means of animprovised 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 ingreat numbers. Sara Roberts and his evil band had been deported.Better government obtained but there were many other civic problemsstill unsolved. San Francisco, now a hectic, riotous metropolis of25,000 inhabitants, was like a muddy Venice, for heavy rains had madeits unpaved streets canals of oozy mud. At Clay and Kearny streets, inthe heart of the business district, some wag had placed aplacard reading:

  THIS STREET IS IMPASSABLE NOT EVEN JACKASSABLE

  In which there was both truth and poetry. Passersby who laughed at theinscription witnessed simultaneously the rescue of an almost-submergeddonkey by means of an improvised derrick.

  * * * * *

  Benito was showing his friend David Broderick, a recent arrival from NewYork, some of San Francisco's sights. "Everything is being used tobridge the crossings," said the former laughingly ... "stuff that camefrom those deserted ships out in the bay. Their masts are like aforest--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 acargo of sieves with which some poor misguided trader overwhelmed themarket. They make a fair crossing, planted in the mud. And there arestepping stones of tobacco boxes--never been opened, mind you--barrelsof tainted pork and beef. On Montgomery street is a row of cook stoveswhich make a fine sidewalk, though, sometimes the mud covers them."

  "And what are those two brigs doing stranded in the mud?" askedBroderick.

  "Oh, those are the Euphemia and Apollo. They use the first one for ajail. That's Geary's scheme. He's full of business. And the second's atavern.... Let's go up to the new post-office. Alice is always eagerfor a letter from her folks in Massachusetts."

  They made their way to the new wooden structure at Clay and Pike streetswhere several clerks were busily sorting the semi-weekly mail which hadjust arrived. Hundreds of people stood in long queues before each of thewindows. "Get in line stranger," said a red-shirted man laughingly."Only seventy-five ahead of us. I counted 'em.... Some have been in linesince last night I'm told. They're up near the front and holding placesfor others ... getting $20 cash for their time."

  Broderick and Benito decided not to wait. They made another journeyround the town, watching Chinese builders erecting long rows ofhabitations that had come in sections from Cathay. Everywhere was hasty,feverish construction--flimsy houses going up like mushrooms over nightto meet the needs of San Francisco's swiftly augmenting populace.

  "It's like a house of cards," said Broderick, who had been a fireman inNew York. "Lord help us if it ever starts to burn. Even our drinkingwater comes from Sausalito across the Bay."

  CHAPTER XXV

  RETRIEVING A BIRTHRIGHT

  Benito Windham stole from his dwelling, closing the door softly afterhim so Alice, his wife, might not wake. A faint rose dawn colored theContra Costa ridge. From a few of the huts and larger buildings whichsprinkled San Francisco's hills and hollows so haphazardly, curls ofblue white wood smoke rose into the windless air. Here and there somebelated roisterer staggered toward his habitation. But otherwise all wasstill, quicscent. San Francisco slept.

  It was the morning of December 24, 1849--the first Christmas evefollowing the gold rush. Windham, who had lain awake since midnight,pondered upon this and other things. Events had succeeded each otherwith such riotous activity of late that life seemed more like a dreamthan a reality. His turbulent months at the mines, his high preliminaryhopes of fortune, their gradual waning to a slow despair; the advent ofJames Burthen and his daughter; then love, his partner's murder and thegirl's abduction; his pursuit and illness. Alice's rescue and theirmarriage; his return to find the claim covered with snow; finally aclerical post in San Francisco.

  A sudden distaste for the feverish, riotous town assailed him--a longingfor the peace and beauty of those broad paternal acres he had lost uponthe gaming table wrenched his heart.

  He pictured Alice in the old rose patio, where his American father hadwooed his Spanish mother.

  Involuntarily his steps turned eastward. At Sacramento and Leidesdorffstreets he left solid ground to tread a four-foot board above the water,to the theoretical line of Sansome street; thence south upon a similarfoothold to the solid ground of Bush street, where an immense sand-*hillwith a hollow in its middle, like a crater, struck across the path. Somecalled this depression Thieves Hollow, for in it deserting sailors,ticket-of-leave men from Botany Bay prison colony and all manner ofhuman 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 theiroccupants to be asleep, for they were nighthawks who reversed man'susual order in the prosecution of nocturnal and ill-favored trades. Hewas astonished to note a general activity. At the portholes of dwellingsretrieved from the wreck of the sea, unkempt bearded faces stared; smokeleaped from a dozen rickety, unstable chimneys, and in the open severalgroups of men and women plied frying pans and coffee pots overdriftwood fires.

  Benito observed them with a covert interest. A black-browed man with ashaggy beard and something leonine about him, seemed the master of thechief of this godless band. He moved among them, giving orders, and withtwo companions finally ascended to the top. Benito, concealing himselfbehind a scrub oak, watched them, animatedly conversing, as theydescended and picked their way inland toward the Square. So swift theirmovements and so low their tones he could not make out the tenor oftheir 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 toThird, he made his way. Now south to Mission and once more west, afavored route for caballeros. Benito had never traveled it before afoot.But his horse had succumbed to the rigors of that frantic ride inpursuit of Alice and McTurpin several months ago. Mounts were aluxury now.

  He skirted the edge of a lagoon that stretched from Sixth to Eighthstreets and on the ascent beyond observed a tiny box-like habitation,brightly painted, ringed with flowers and crowned with an imposingflagpole from which floated the Star-Spangled Banner. It was a note ofgay melody struck athwart the discordant monotony of soiled tent houses,tumble-down huts and oblong, flat-roofed buildings stretching theirdisorderly 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 Mass
ett, otherwise "Jeems Pipes of Pipesville," singer, player,essayist and creator of those wondrous one-man concerts dear to all thecountryside.

  "Jeems" himself appeared in the doorway to wave a greeting and Benitowent 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 youup a milk punch and you'll feel more like yourself. Where's your bossand 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 amarch on that tin-horn gambler and scallawag. Rally up some friends andtake possession. That's nine points of the law, my boy, and a half-dozenstraight-shooting Americans is nine hundred more, now that Geary'salcalde and that weak-kneed psalm-singing Leavenworth's resignedunder 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 byrights. Wait," he cried, excitedly. "I'll get horses. Stuart and I willgo along. We'll pick up six or seven bully boys along the way. Is ita go?"

  "A go!" exclaimed Benito, his eyes ashine. "You--you're too good, BobRidley." He pressed the other's hand. "My wife," he mused, "among theroses 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 longabandoned. Dead leaves and litter everywhere. All of the animals hadbeen driven off--sold, no doubt. The hacienda had been ransacked of itsvaluables. It was almost bare of furniture. The rose court, neglected,unkempt, brought back a surge of memories. A chimney had fallen; brokenadobe bricks lay scattered on the grass.