ore 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.

CHAPTER XVIII

NEWS OF BENITO

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 y