Benito nodded to Robert Parker, whose hotel was rising, phoenix-like from its ashes.

“Things are coming along,” he said with a gesture toward the buildings.  “Have you seen anything of Dave Broderick?”

Parker shook the rain-drops from his hat.  “Saw him going toward the Bella Union,” he replied.  “They say he’s as good as elected.  A fine State senator he’ll make, too.”  Taking Benito’s arm, he walked with him out of earshot of those nearby.

“Benito,” his tone was grave.  “They tell me you’ve resumed possession of your ranch.”

“Yes,” confirmed the younger.  “Half a dozen of my old servants are there with Mrs. Windham and myself.  I’ve bought a little stock on credit and all’s going well.”

For a moment Parker said nothing; then, almost in Benito’s ear, he spoke a warning:  “Do you know that McTurpin is back?”

CHAPTER XXVIII

ON THE TRAIL OF McTURPIN

Benito, in a mood of high excitement, strode uphill toward the Bella Union, pondering the significance of Parker’s startling information.

So McTurpin had come back.

He had been about to ask for further details when one of the hurrying workmen called his informant away.  After all it did not matter much just how or when the gambler had returned.  They were sure to meet sooner or later.  Once more Windham’s hand unconsciously sought the pistol in his pocket.  At the entrance of the Bella Union he halted, shook the rain from his hat, scraped the mud from his feet upon a pile of gunnysacks which served as doormats, and went into the brilliant room.  Since the temporary closing of the Eldorado, this place had become the most elegant and crowded of the city’s gaming palaces.  A mahogany bar extended the length of the building; huge hanging lamps surrounded by ornate clusters of prisms lent an air of jeweled splendor which the large mirrors and pyramids of polished glasses back of the counter enhanced.  On a platform at the rear were several Mexican musicians in rich native costumes twanging gaily upon guitars and mandolins.  Now and then one of them sang, or a Spanish dancer pirouetted, clicking her castanets and casting languishing glances at the ring of auditors about her.  These performers were invariably showered with coins.  Tables of all sizes filled the center of the room from the long roulette board to the little round ones where drinks were served.  Faro, monte, roulette, rouge et noir, vingt-un, chuck-a-luck and poker:  each found its disciples; now and then a man went quietly out and another took his place; there was nothing to indicate that he had lost perhaps thousands of dollars, the “clean-up” of a summer of hardships at the mines.  A bushy bearded miner boasted that he had won $40,000 and lost it again in an hour and a half.  Henry Mellus offered him work as a teamster and the other accepted.

“Easy come, easy go,” he commented philosophically and, lighting his pipe from one of the sticks of burning punk placed at intervals along the bar, he went out.