He skirted the edge of a lagoon that stretched from Sixth to Eighth streets and on the ascent beyond observed a tiny box-like habitation, brightly painted, ringed with flowers and crowned with an imposing flagpole from which floated the Star-Spangled Banner.  It was a note of gay melody struck athwart the discordant monotony of soiled tent houses, tumble-down huts and oblong, flat-roofed buildings stretching their disorderly array along the road.  Coming closer he saw the name, “Pipesville,” printed on the door, and knew that this must be the “summer home,” as it was called, of San Francisco’s beloved minstrel, Stephen Massett, otherwise “Jeems Pipes of Pipesville,” singer, player, essayist and creator of those wondrous one-man concerts dear to all the countryside.

“Jeems” himself appeared in the doorway to wave a greeting and Benito went on oddly cheered by the encounter.  In front of the Mansion House, adjoining Mission Dolores, stood Bob Ridley, talking with his partner.

“You look warm, son,” he remarked paternally to Windham, “let me mix you up a milk punch and you’ll feel more like yourself.  Where’s your boss and whither are ye bound?”

“Died,” Benito answered.  “Going to my—­to the ranch.”

“Thought so,” Ridley said.  “I hear there’s no one on it.  Why not steal a march on that tin-horn gambler and scallawag.  Rally up some friends and take possession.  That’s nine points of the law, my boy, and a half-dozen straight-shooting Americans is nine hundred more, now that Geary’s alcalde and that weak-kneed psalm-singing Leavenworth’s resigned under fire.”

“You’re sure—­there’s no one at the place?” Benito questioned.

“Pretty sure.  But what’s it matter?  Everybody knows it’s yours by rights.  Wait,” he cried, excitedly.  “I’ll get horses.  Stuart and I will go along.  We’ll pick up six or seven bully boys along the way.  Is it a go?”

“A go!” exclaimed Benito, his eyes ashine.  “You—­you’re too good, Bob Ridley.”  He pressed the other’s hand.  “My wife,” he mused, “among the roses in the patio!  The old home, Dear God!  Let it come true!”

An hour later ten men galloped through the gate of the Windham rancho.  No one offered them resistance.  It had the look of a place long abandoned.  Dead leaves and litter everywhere.  All of the animals had been driven off—­sold, no doubt.  The hacienda had been ransacked of its valuables.  It was almost bare of furniture.  The rose court, neglected, unkempt, brought back a surge of memories.  A chimney had fallen; broken adobe bricks lay scattered on the grass.

But to Benito it spelled home.  For him and for Alice.  This should be his Christmas gift.  Old Antonio, his former major-domo, lingered still in San Francisco.  He would send him out this very day to set the place in order.  Tomorrow he and Alice would ride—­his brow clouded.  He should have to borrow two horses.  No matter.  Tomorrow they would ride—­