“Poorly,” answered Stanley.  “Labor’s too high to make money.  Why, the common laborers who were satisfied with a dollar a day, now ask ten, and mechanics twenty.  Even the Indians and the immigrants learn at once the crazy price of service.”

“San Francisco.  Port o’ Gold!” apostrophized the Mormon gaily.  He went on his way with a friendly wave of the hand.  His steps were bent toward Alcalde Hyde’s headquarters.  Hyde had made many enemies by his set, opinionated ways.  There was talk of putting Rev. Thaddeus Leavenworth in his place.  But Brannan was by no means certain this would solve the problem.  He missed Leidesdorff sadly.  The latter’s sudden death had left a serious hiatus.  He was used to talking problems over with the genial, hospitable Dane, whose counsel was always placid, well considered.

Congress had failed to provide a government for California.  San Francisco grumbled; more than all other towns she needed law.  Stevenson’s regiment had been disbanded; its many irresponsibles, held previously in check by military discipline, now indulged their bent for lawlessness, unstinted.  Everything was confusion.  Gold-dust was the legal tender, but its value was unfixed.  The government accepted it at $10 per ounce, with the privilege of redemption in coin.

The problem of land grants was becoming serious.  There were more than hints of the alcalde’s speculation; of illegal favors shown to friends, undue restrictions placed on others.  Brannan shook his head as he climbed Washington street hill toward the alcalde’s office.  In the plaza stood a few mangy horses, too decrepit for sale to gold seekers.  Gambling houses and saloons ringed the square and from these proceeded drunken shouts, an incessant click of poker chips; now and then a burst of song.

The sound of a shot swung him swiftly about.  It came from the door of a noisy and crowded mart of chance recently erected, but already the scene of many quarrels.  The blare of music which had issued from it swiftly ceased.  There was a momentary silence; then a sound of shuffling feet, of whispering voices.

A man ran out into the street as if the devil were after him; another followed, staggering, a pistol in his hand.  He fired one shot and then collapsed with horrid suddenness at Brannan’s feet.  The other man ran into Portsmouth Square, vaulted to the saddle of a horse and spurred furiously away.

Brannan stooped over the fallen figure.  It was that of a brawny, bearded man, red-shirted, booted, evidently a miner.  That he was mortally wounded his gazing eyes gave evidence.  Yet such was his immense vitality that he muttered, clutching at his throat—­staving off dissolution with the mighty passionate vehemence of some dominating purpose.  Brannan bent to listen.

“Write,” he gasped, and Brannan, with an understanding nod, obeyed.  “I bequeath my claim ... south fork ...  American River ... fifty feet from end of Lone Pine’s shadow ... sunset ... to my pard ...  Benito Wind—­” His voice broke, but his eyes watched Brannan’s movements as the latter wrote.  Dying hands grasped paper, pencil ... signed a scrawling signature, “Joe Burthen.”  Then the head dropped back, rolled for a moment and lay still.