“You won’t be,” he said.  “I’ve attended to that.”

His assurance proved correct.  All night the four men toiled between the Mint and the Bank of California sweating, puffing, fatigued to the brink of exhaustion.  With the first streak of dawn, Ralston dismissed them.

“You’ve brought five ton of gold coin to the vault,” he said, his eyes agleam.  “You’ve saved San Francisco the worst financial panic that ever a short-sighted federal government unwittingly precipitated.”  Suddenly he laughed and threw his arms wide.  “At ten o’clock the frightened sheep will come running for their deposits....  Well, let ’em come.”

“And now you boys go home and get some sleep.  By the Eternal, you deserve it!”

CHAPTER LXII

ADOLPH SUTRO’S TUNNEL

William C. Ralston’s Bank of California had become the great financial institution of the West.  Ralston was the Rothschild of America.  Through him Central Pacific Railway promoters borrowed $3,000,000 with less formality than a country banker uses in mortgaging of a ten-acre farm.  Two millions took their unobtrusive wing to South America, financing mines he had never seen.  In Virginia City William Sharon directed a branch of the Bank of California and kept his eye on mineral investment.  Benito sat in Ralston’s office one morning, smoking and discussing the Montgomery street problem when a clerk tapped at the door.

“A fellow’s out here from Virginia City,” he said nervously.  “Wants to see you quickly ‘and no bones about it.’  That’s what he told me.”

“All right, send him in,” said Ralston laughing.  “Stay, Benito.  He won’t take a minute....”  Ere he finished there stalked in a wild-eyed individual clad in boots, the slouch hat of the mining man, a suit of handsome broadcloth, mud-bespattered and a heavy golden watch chain with the usual nugget charm.  He was a clean-cat type of mining speculator from Nevada.

“Sit down,” invited Ralston.  “Have a smoke.”

The intruder glared at Windham; then he eased himself uncomfortably into a spacious leather-covered seat, bit off the end of a cigar, half-viciously and, having found the cuspidor, began.

“I’ve something for your ear alone, Bill Ralston....”

“Meet Benito Windham,” Ralston introduced.  “Speak out.  I have no secrets from my friends.”

The other hemmed and hawed.  He seemed averse to putting into words some thought which troubled him beyond repression.  “Do you know,” he burst out finally, “that your partner, Sharon, has become the most incurable and dissolute gambler in Nevada?”

“You don’t say.”  Ralston did not seem as shocked as one might have expected.  “Well, my friend, that sounds quite serious....  What’s poor Bill’s particular kind of—­vice?”

“Poker,” said the visitor.  “By the Eternal, that man Sharon would stake his immortal soul on a four-card flush and never bat an eye.  Time and time again I’ve seen it.”