"Easy come, easy go," he commented philosophically and, lighting hispipe from one of the sticks of burning punk placed at intervals alongthe bar, he went out.
In an out-of-the-way corner, where the evening's noise and activityebbed and flowed a little more remotely, Benito discovered Broderickchewing an unlighted cigar and discussing the probabilities of electionwith John Geary. They hailed him cordially, but in a little while Gearydrifted off to learn further news of the polls.
"And how is the charming Mrs. Windham?" asked Broderick.
"Well and happy, thank you," said Benito. "She loves the old place.Cannot you dine with us there tonight?"
"With real pleasure," Broderick returned. "In this raw, boisterous placea chance to enjoy a bit of home life, to talk with a high-bred woman ismore precious than gold."
Benito bowed. "It is not often that we have a Senator for a guest," hereturned, smiling.
Broderick placed a hand upon his shoulder almost paternally. "I hopethat is prophetic, Benito," he said. "I'm strangely serious about it.This town has taken hold of me--your San Francisco."
They turned to greet Sam Brannan, now a candidate for the ayuntamientoor town council. "How goes it, Sam?" asked Broderick.
"Well enough," responded Brannan. He looked tired, irritated. "There'sbeen a conspiracy against us by the rowdy element, but I think we'vebeaten them now."
Broderick's brow clouded. "We need a better government; a moreeffective system of police, Sam," he said, striking his first againstthe table.
"What we need," said Brannan, "is a citizens' society of public safety;a committee of vigilance. And, mark my word, we're going to have 'em.There's more than one who suspects the town was set afire lastDecember."
"But," said Broderick, "mob rule is dangerous. The constitutedauthorities must command. They are the ones to uphold the law."
"But what if they don't?" Brannan's aggressive chin was thrust forward."What then?"
"They must be made to; but authority should not be overthrown. That'srevolution."
"And where, may I ask, would human liberty be today if there'd neverbeen a revolution?" Brannan countered.
Benito left them. He had no stomach for such argument, though he was tohear much more of it in years to come. Suddenly he recalled the man whohad tried to coach the Kanaka; who had glared so murderously at Mellus.Those eyes had been familiar; something about them had made him grip hispistol, an impulse at which afterward he had laughed. But now he knewthe reason for that half-involuntary action. Despite the beard andmustache covering the lower portion of his face completely; despite thelow-pulled hat, the disguising ulster, he knew the man.
McTurpin.
The hot Spanish temper which he had never entirely mastered, flamed likea scorching blast across Benito's mind. He saw again McTurpin smiling ashe won by fraud the stake at cards which he had laid against Benito'sranch; he seemed to hear again the gambler's sneering laugh as he, hisfather and Adrian had been ambushed at the entrance of his home; in hisrecollection burned the fellow's insult to his sister; the abduction ofAlice, his wife; the murder of his partner. He was certain thatMcTurpin had somehow been at the bottom of it. Swiftly he was lost toall reason. He took the weapon from his pocket, examined it carefully tomake certain that the caps were unimpaired by moisture. Then heset forth.
At the polling station he made casual inquiries, but the ballot-boxstuffer for some time had not been seen.
"Charley Elleard ran him off, I think," said Frank Ward, laughing. "He'dhave voted Chinamen and Indians if he'd had his way. But if you'relooking for the rascal try the gambling house at Long Wharf andMontgomery street; that's where his kind hang out."
Later in the spring of 1850 Montgomery street was graded. Now it was asloping streak of mud, the western side of which was several feet abovethe other. Where Long Wharf, which was to be cut through and calledCommercial street, intersected, or rather bisected Montgomery, stood alarge building with a high, broad roof. Its eaves projected over a rowof benches, and here, sheltered somewhat from the rain, a group ofMexicans and Chilenos lounged in picturesque native costumes, smokingcigarettes. Through the door came a rollicking melody--sailor tunesplayed by skillful performers--and a hum of converse punctuated by theclick of chips and coin. Benito entered. The room was blue withcigarette smoke, its score of tables glimpsed as through a fog. Sawdustcovered the floor and men of all nationalities mingled quietly enough atplay of every kind. A stream of men came and went to and from the gamingboards and bar.
Benito ordered a drink, and surveyed the room searchingly. The man hesought was not in evidence. "Is McTurpin here?" he asked the bartender.
If that worthy heard, he made no answer; but a slight, agile man withsly eyes looked up from a nearby table, "What d'ye want of him,stranger?"
An arrogant retort sprang to Benito's lips, but he checked it. He benttoward the questioner confidentially. "I've news for Alec," hewhispered; "news he ought to know--and quickly."
CHAPTER XXIX
THE SQUATTER CONSPIRACY
Instantly the slight man rose. He had narrow eyes, shrewd andcalculating and the sinuous motions of a contortionist. Linking his armwith Benito's, he smiled, disclosing small, discolored teeth. There wassomething ratlike about him, infinitely repellant. "Come, I'll tyke yeto 'im," he volunteered.
But this did not suit Benito's purpose. "I must go alone," he saidemphatically.
The other eyed him with suspicion. "Then find him alone," he countered,sullenly. But a moment later he was plucking at Benito's elbow. "What'sit all abaout, this 'ere news? Cawn't ye tell a fellow? Give me aninklin'; trust me and I'll trust you; that's business."
Benito hesitated. "It's about the ranch," he returned at a venture.
"Ow, the rawnch. Well, you needn't 'ave been so bloody sly about it.Alec isn't worried much abaout the rawnch. 'E's bigger fish to fry. Butyou can see 'im if you wants. 'E's at the Broken Bottle Tavern up inSydney Town."
They had a drink together; then Benito parted from his informant,ruminating over what the little man, so palpably a "Sydney Duck,"had told him.
Benito surveyed his reflection in a glass. In his rain-bedraggled attirehe might pass for one of the Sydney Ducks himself. His boots weresplashed with mud, his scrape wrinkled and formless. He pulled thedripping hat into a disheveled slouch, low down on his forehead.McTurpin had not seen him with a beard, had failed to recognize him atthe polling station. Benito decided to risk it.
* * * * *
One of the largest and most pretentious of Sydney Town's "pubs," ortaverns, was The Broken Bottle, kept by a former English pugilist fromBotany Bay. He was known as Bruiser Jake, could neither read nor writeand was shaped very much like a log, his neck being as large as hishead. It was said that the Australian authorities had tried to hang himseveral times, but failed because the noose slipped over his chin andears, refusing its usual function. So he finally had been given a"ticket of leave" and had come to California. Curiously enough theBruiser never drank. He prided himself on his sobriety and the greatstrength of his massive hands in which he could squeeze the water out ofa potato. Ordinarily he was not quarrelsome, though he fought like atiger when aroused.
Benito found this worthy behind his bar and asked for a drink of Englishale, a passable quality of which was served in the original importedbottles at most public houses.
The Bruiser watched him furtively with little piglike eyes. "And whomight ye be, stranger?" he asked when Benito set down his glass.
"'Awkins--that's as good a nyme as another," said Benito, essaying thecockney speech. "And what ye daon't know won't 'urt you, my friend." Hethrew down a silver piece, took the bottle and glass with him and satdown at a table near the corner. Hard by he had glimpsed the familiarbroad back of McTurpin.
At first the half-whispered converse of the trio at the adjoining tablewas incomprehensible to his ears, but after a time he caught words,phrases, sentences.
First the word "squatters" reache
d him, several times repeated; then,"at Rincon." Finally, "the best lots in the city can be held."
After that for a time he lost the thread of the talk. An argumentarose, and, in its course, McTurpin's voice was raised incautiously.
"Who's to stop us?" he contended, passionately. "The old alcalde grantsaren't worth the paper they're written on. Haven't squattersdispossessed the Spaniards all over California? Didn't they take the SanAntonio ranch in Oakland, defend it with cannon, and put old Peralta injail for bothering them with his claims of ownership?" He laughed. "It'sa rare joke, this land business. If we squat on the Rincon, who'lldispossess us? Answer me that."
"But it's government ground. It's leased to Ted Shillaber," oneobjected.
"To the devil with Shillaber," McTurpin answered. "He won't know we'regoing to squat till we've put up our houses. And when he comes we'llquote him squatter law. He can buy us off if he likes. It'll cost himuncommon high. He can fight us in the courts and we'll show him squatterjustice. We've our friends in the courts, let me tell you."
"Aye, mayhap," returned a lanky, red-haired sailor, "but there's them o'us, like you and me and Andy, yonder, what isn't hankerin' for courts."
McTurpin leaned forward, and his voice diminished so that Benito couldscarcely hear his words. "Don't be afraid," he said. "I've got my menselected for the Rincon business, a full dozen of 'em ... all with cleanrecords, mind ye. Nothing against them." He pounded the table with hisfist by way of emphasis. "And when we've done old Shillaber, we'll comein closer. We'll claim lots that are worth fifty thou--" He paused. Histone sank even lower, so that some of his sentence was lost.
It was at this juncture that Benito sneezed. He had felt the approach ofthat betraying reflex for some minutes, but had stifled it. Those whohave tried this under similar circumstances know the futility of suchattempts; know the accumulated fury of sound with which at lengthbursts forth the startling, terrible and irrepressible
"Ker-CHEW!"
McTurpin and his two companions wheeled like lightning. "Who's this?"the gambler snarled. He took a step toward the Bruiser. "Who the devillet him in to spy on us?"
"Aw, stow it, Alec!" said the former fighter. "'E's no spy. 'E's one o'our lads from the bay. Hi can tell by 'is haccent."
Benito rose. His hand crept toward the derringer, but McTurpin wasbefore him. "Don't try that, blast you!" he commanded. "Now, my friend,let's have a look at you.... By the Eternal! It's young Windham!"
"The cove you don hout o' his rawnch?" asked the Bruiser, curiously.
"Shut up, you fool!" roared the gambler. His face was white with fury."What are you doing here?" he asked Benito.
"Getting some points on--er--land holding," said Windham. He wasperfectly calm. Several times this man had overawed, outwitted, beatenhim. Now, though he was in the enemy's country, surrounded by cutthroatsand thieves, he felt suddenly the master of the situation. Perhaps itwas McTurpin's dismay, perhaps the spur of his own danger. He knew thatthere was only one escape, and that through playing on McTurpin's anger."A most ingenious scheme, but it'll fail you!"
"And why'll it fail, my young jackanapes?" the gambler blazed at him."Do you reckon I'll let you go to give the alarm?"
It was then Benito threw his bombshell. It was but a shrewd guess. Yetit worked amazingly. "Your plan will fail," he said with slowdistinctness, "because Sam Brennan and Alcalde Geary know you set thetown afire. Because they're going to hang you."
Rage and terror mingled in McTurpin's face. Speechless, paralyzingwrath that held him open-mouthed a moment. In that moment Windham actedquickly. He hurled the bottle, still half full of ale, at hisantagonist, missed him by the fraction of an inch and sent the missilecaroming against the Bruiser's ear, thence down among a pyramid ofglasses. There was a shivering tinkle; then the roar as of a maddenedbull. The Bruiser charged. Windham shot twice into the air and fled. Heheard a rending crash behind him, a voice that cried aloud in mortalpain, a shot. Then, silence.
CHAPTER XXX
"GROWING PAINS"
On the morning of February 28, 1850, Theodore Shillaber, with a numberof friends, made a visit to the former's leased land on the Rincon,later known as Rincon Hill. Here, on the old government reserve, whoseguns had once flanked Yerba Buena Cove, Shillaber had secured a lease ona commanding site which he planned to convert into a fashionableresidence section. What was his surprise, then, to find the scenicpromontory covered with innumerable rickety and squalid huts. A tall andmuscular young fellow with open-throated shirt and stalwart, hirsutechest, swaggered toward him, fingering rather carelessly, it seemed toShillaber, the musket he held.
"Lookin' for somebody, stranger?" he inquired, meaningly.
Shillaber, somewhat taken aback, inquired by what right the members ofthis colony held possession.
"Squatter's rights," returned the large youth, calmly, and spatuncomfortably near to Shillaber's polished boots.
"And what are squatter's rights, may I ask?" said Shillaber, striving tocontrol his rising temper.
The youth tapped his rifle barrel. "Anyone that tries to dispossessus'll soon find out," he returned gruffly, and, turning his back on thevisitors, he strode back toward his cabin.
"Wait," called Shillaber, red with wrath, "I notify you now, in thepresence of witnesses that if you and all your scurvy crew are not gonebag and baggage within twentyfour hours, I'll have the authoritiesdispossess you and throw you into jail for trespassing."
The large young man halted and presented a grinning face to histhreatener. He did not deign to reply, but, as though he had given asignal, shrill cackles of laughter broke out in a dozen places.
Shillaber, who was a choleric man, shook his fist at them. He was tooangry for speech.
Shillaber had more than his peck of trouble with the Sydney Ducks thatroosted on his land. He sent the town authorities to dispossess them,but without result. There were too many squatters and too few police.Next he sent an agent to collect rents, but the man returned with a sorehead and bruised body, minus coin. Shillaber was on the verge ofinsanity. He appealed to everyone from the prefect to the governor. InSydney Town his antics were the sport of a gay and homogeneouspopulation and at the public houses one might hear the flouted landlordrave through the impersonations of half a dozen clever mimics. At TheBroken Bottle a new boniface held forth. Bruiser Jake had mysteriouslydisappeared on the evening of election. And with him had vanished AlecMcTurpin, though a sly-eyed little man now and then brought messagesfrom the absent leader.
In the end Shillaber triumphed, for he persuaded Captain Keyes,commander at the Presidio, that the squatters were defying Federal law.Thus, one evening, a squad of cavalry descended upon the Rinconsquatters, scattering them like chaff and demolishing their flimsyhabitations in the twinkling of an eye. But this did not endsquatterism. Some of the evicted took up claims on lots closer in. Awoman's house was burned and she, herself, was driven off. Another womanwas shot while defending her husband's home during his absence.
Meanwhile, San Francisco's streets had been graded and planked. The oldCity Hall, proving inadequate, was succeeded by a converted hotel. TheGraham House, a four-story wooden affair of many balconies, at Kearnyand Pacific streets, was now the seat of local government.
For it the council paid the extraordinary sum of $150,000, therebyprovoking a storm of newspaper discussion. Three destructive fires hadravaged through the cloth and paper districts, and on their ashes moresubstantial structures stood.
There was neither law nor order worthy of the name. Only feverishactivity. A newsboy who peddled Altas on the streets made $40,000 fromhis operations; another vendor of the Sacramento Union, boasted $30,000for his pains. A washerwoman left her hut on the lagoon and built a"mansion." Laundering, enhanced by real estate investments, had givenher a fortune of $100,000.
Social strata were not yet established. Caste was practically unknown.Former convicts married, settled down, became respected citizens.Carpenters, bartenders, laborers, mechanics from the East and
MiddleWest, became bankers, Senators, judges, merchant princes and promoters.
White linen replaced red flannel, bowie knives and revolvers weresedately hidden beneath frock coats, the vicuna hat was a substitute forslouch and sombrero.
But, under it all, the fierce, restless heart of San Francisco beat onunchanged. In it stirred the daring, the lawless adventure, the feverishambition and the hair-trigger pride of argonauts from many lands. And init burned the deviltry, brutality, licentiousness and greed of criminalelements freed from the curb of legal discipline.
David Broderick discussed it frequently with Alice Windham. He hadfallen into a habit of coming to the ranch when wearied by affairs ofstate. He was a silent, brooding man, robbed somehow of his nationalheritage, a sense of humor, for he had Irish blood. He was a man offire, implacable as an enemy, inalienable as a friend. And to Alice, asshe sat embroidering or knitting before the fire, he told many of hisdreams, his plans. She would nod her head sagely, giving him her eyesnow and then--eyes that were clear and calm with understanding.
Thus Alice came to know what boded for the town of San Francisco."Benito," she said one night, when Broderick had gone, "Benito, mydearest, will you let me stir you--even if it wounds?" She came upbehind him quickly; put her arms about his neck and leaned her goldenhead against his own. "We are sitting here too quietly ... while lifegoes by," her tone was wistful. "You, especially, Benito. Outside teemsthe world; the gorgeous, vibrant world of which our David speaks."
"What do you want me to do?" he asked, stirring restlessly, "go intobusiness? Make money--like Adrian?"