them. He had no stomach for such argument, though he was to
hear much more of it in years to come. Suddenly he recalled the man who
had tried to coach the Kanaka; who had glared so murderously at Mellus.
Those eyes had been familiar; something about them had made him grip his
pistol, an impulse at which afterward he had laughed. But now he knew
the reason for that half-involuntary action. Despite the beard and
mustache covering the lower portion of his face completely; despite the
low-pulled hat, the disguising ulster, he knew the man.

McTurpin.

The hot Spanish temper which he had never entirely mastered, flamed like
a scorching blast across Benito's mind. He saw again McTurpin smiling as
he won by fraud the stake at cards which he had laid against Benito's
ranch; he seemed to hear again the gambler's sneering laugh as he, his
father and Adrian had been ambushed at the entrance of his home; in his
recollection burned the fellow's insult to his sister; the abduction of
Alice, his wife; the murder of his partner. He was certain that
McTurpin had somehow been at the bottom of it. Swiftly he was lost to
all reason. He took the weapon from his pocket, examined it carefully to
make certain that the caps were unimpaired by moisture. Then he
set forth.

At the polling station he made casual inquiries, but the ballot-box
stuffer for some time had not been seen.

"Charley Elleard ran him off, I think," said Frank Ward, laughing. "He'd
have voted Chinamen and Indians if he'd had his way. But if you're
looking for the rascal try the gambling house at Long Wharf and
Montgomery street; that's where his kind hang out."

Later in the spring of 1850 Montgomery street was graded. Now it was a
sloping streak of mud, the western side of which was several feet above
the other. Where Long Wharf, which was to be cut through and called
Commercial street, intersected, or rather bisected Montgomery, stood a
large building with a high, broad roof. Its eaves projected over a row
of benches, and here, sheltered somewhat from the rain, a group of
Mexicans and Chilenos lounged in picturesque native costumes, smoking
cigarettes. Through the door came a rollicking melody--sailor tunes
played by skillful performers--and a hum of converse punctuated by the
click of chips and coin. Benito entered. The room was blue with
cigarette smoke, its score of tables glimpsed as through a fog. Sawdust
covered the floor and men of all nationalities mingled qui