“Yes, by Jove!  And they mean to sting!” said another.

CHAPTER VIII

McTURPIN’S COUP

Yerba Buena was in an uproar.  Sanchez’ capture of Alcalde Bartlett and his party had brought home with a vengeance the war which hitherto was but an echo from far Mexico.  Now the peaceful pueblo was an armed camp.  Volunteers rode in from San Jose, San Juan and other nearby pueblos, asking for a chance to “fight the greasers.”  All the ranches of the countryside buzzed with a martial ardor.  Vaqueros, spurred with jangling silver-mounted harness, toward Francisco Sanchez’ stronghold in the Santa Clara hills to battle with the “gringo tyrants.”

Commander Hull of the “Warren” had sent a hundred sailors and marines from his sloop, post haste, to quell the rebellion.  Couriers rode to and fro between his headquarters in the custom house and the punitive expedition under Captain Ward Marston which was scouting the Santa Clara plains in search of the enemy.

Even now the battle waged, no doubt, for Marston that morning reported a brush with the enemy, had asked for reinforcements.  Hull had sent post haste a pack of ill assorted and undrilled adventurers from among the new arrivals.  That was 9 o’clock and now the sun had passed its noon meridian—­with no courier.

William Leidesdorff came strolling up, his expression placid, smiling as always.  He was warm from toiling up the hill and paused, panting, hat in hand, to mop his brow with a large red ’kerchief.

“Ha!  Commander!” he saluted.  “And how goes it this morning?”

Hull glanced at him half irritated, half amused.  One could never quite be angry at this fellow nor in tune with him.  Leidesdorff, with his cherubic grin, his plump, comfortable body, the close-cropped hair, side whiskers and moustache, framing and embellishing his round face with an ornate symmetry, was like a bearded cupid.  Hull handed him the latest dispatch.  “Nothing since then, confound it!” he said gloomily.

“Ah, well,” spoke Leidesdorff, with unction, “one should not be alarmed.  What is that cloud of dust on the horizon?  A courier perhaps.”

It proved to be Samuel Brannan, dusty and weary, with dispatches from Captain Ward which Hull almost snatched from his hand.  A group of men and women who had watched his arrival, gathered about asking questions.  Nathan Spear spoke first.  He had been too ill to join the Americans, but had furnished them horses and arms.  “How goes it with our ‘army,’ Sam?” he asked.

“None too well,” said Brannan.  “Those greasers can fight and they’ve a good leader.  Everyone of them would die for Sanchez.  And everyone’s a sharpshooter.  For a time they amused themselves this morning knocking off our hats—­it rather demoralized the recruits.”

Hull, with an imprecation, crushed the dispatch and turned to Brannan.  “We must have more men and quickly,” he announced.  “Ward asks for instant reinforcements....  Can you recruit—­say fifty—­from your colony?”