“I have little time, Senor,” she said, uneasily.  “You are late.  I may be missed.”  Her smile was all the more alluring for its hint of panic.  “Can we not come to the point at once?  I have here certain jewels which will pay a portion of the debt.”  She unclasped from her throat a necklace of pearls he had noted at the ball.  She held them out toward him.  “And here is a ring.  Have you brought the paper?”

McTurpin held up a protesting hand.  “You wrong me, Senorita,” he declared.  “I am a gambler.  Yes ...  I take my chance with men and win or lose according to the Fates.  But I have yet to rob a woman of her trinkets.”

“It is no robbery,” she demurred, hastily.  “Take them, I beseech you, and return the note.  If it is not enough, we will pay more ... later ... from the proceeds of the ranch.”

“Senorita,” said McTurpin eagerly, “let us compromise this matter more adroitly.  Should I make no further claim upon your ranch than that which I possess, why may we not be neighbors—­friends?”

She tried to protest, but he rushed on, giving her no opportunity.  “Senorita, I am not a man devoid of culture.  I am not a sailor or a trapper like those ruffians below.  Nor a keeper of shops.  Senorita, I will give up gambling and become a ranchero.  If—­” he stammered, “If I—­”

Inez Windham took a backward step.  Her breath came sharply.  In this man’s absurd confusion there was written plainer than his uncompleted words could phrase it, what he meant.

“No, no,” her little hands went out as if to ward off some repulsive thing.  “Senor—­that is quite impossible.”

McTurpin saw the look of horror, of aversion.  He felt as though someone had struck him in the face.  There was a little silence.  Then he laughed, shortly.

“Impossible?” the tone was cutting.  “We shall see....  This is now a white man’s country.  I have offered to divide the rancho.  What if I should take it all?  Where would you go?  You, the proud Senora and the shiftless young Benito?”

The Senorita Inez’ lips curled.  “When my father comes he will know how to answer you,” she told him, hotly.

“If he were alive he would have come long since,” McTurpin answered.  “Many perish on the northern trails.”  He took a step toward her.  “Do you know that this morning 200 more Americans arrived on the ship Brooklyn?  They are armed and there is talk of ‘running out the greasers.’  Do you know what that means?  It were well to have a friend at court, my little lady.”

“Go!” the girl blazed at him.  “Go, and quickly—­liar that you are.  My brother and his vaqueros will know how to protect my mother and me.”  She sprang upon her horse and galloped toward the rancho.  McTurpin, red and angry, watched her disappearing in a whirl of dust.

* * * * *

“Look, my brother!  He has spoken truly.”  Inez and Benito had ridden to the pueblo for a confirmation of McTurpin’s words.  They hitched their horses at the rack in Portsmouth Square and walked down toward the landing place.  A large ship lay in the offing.  Between her and the shore many small boats laden with passengers and varied cargoes plied to and fro.