“We have three hostages here, senorita ... relatives of yours and ah—­a friend.”  His voice, cold, threatening, spoke on.  “They are unharmed—­as yet.”

“I don’t believe you,” Inez stormed at him.

“Tell them, Senor Windham,” said McTurpin, “that I speak the truth.”

“Inez, it is true,” her father spoke out of some shadowed darkness.  “We were ambushed.  Taken by surprise.”

“What do you propose?” asked Antonio, unable longer to restrain himself.

“To turn them loose ... upon their word not to trouble us further,” said McTurpin.  “I have merely assumed control of my property.  I hold the conveyance of Benito Windham.  It is all quite regular,” he laughed shortly.

Antonio moved uneasily.  His hand upon the lariat itched for a cast.  McTurpin saw it.  “You’ll do well to sit still in the saddle,” he reminded, “all of you.  We have you covered.”

“What are your orders, master?” said the chief vaquero tensely.  “Say the word and we will—­”

“No,” commanded Windham.  “There shall be no fighting now.  We will go.  Tomorrow we shall visit the Alcalde.  I can promise no more than this.”

“It’s enough,” McTurpin answered.  “I’ve possession.  I’ve a deed with your son’s signature.  And a dozen good friends to uphold me.”  He turned.  “Take their pistols, friends, and let them go.”

* * * * *

George Hyde looked up from a sheaf of drawing which lay on the table before him and which represented the new survey of San Francisco.  A boy with a bundle of papers under his arm entered unannounced, tossed a copy of “The California Star” toward him and departed.  Hyde picked it up and read: 

     “Great sale of valuable real estate in the town of San
     Francisco, upper California.

“By the following decree of His Excellency, General S.W.  Kearny, Governor of California, all the right, title and interest of the United States and of the territory of California to the beach and water lots on the east front of the town of San Francisco have been granted, conveyed and released to the people or corporate authorities of said town—­”

Hyde read on.  There was a post-script by Edwin Bryant, his predecessor as alcalde, calling a public sale for June 29.  That was rather soon.  But he would see.  Hyde had an antipathy to any rule or circumstance fixed by another.  His enemies called him “pig-headed”; his friends “forceful,” though with a sigh.  There was something highhanded in the look and manner of him, though few men had better intent.  Now his glance fell on another, smaller item in the newspaper.

     “Sydney ducks arrive.”