The hot Spanish temper which he had never entirely mastered, flamed like a scorching blast across Benito’s mind.  He saw again McTurpin smiling as he won by fraud the stake at cards which he had laid against Benito’s ranch; he seemed to hear again the gambler’s sneering laugh as he, his father and Adrian had been ambushed at the entrance of his home; in his recollection burned the fellow’s insult to his sister; the abduction of Alice, his wife; the murder of his partner.  He was certain that McTurpin had somehow been at the bottom of it.  Swiftly he was lost to all reason.  He took the weapon from his pocket, examined it carefully to make certain that the caps were unimpaired by moisture.  Then he set forth.

At the polling station he made casual inquiries, but the ballot-box stuffer for some time had not been seen.

“Charley Elleard ran him off, I think,” said Frank Ward, laughing.  “He’d have voted Chinamen and Indians if he’d had his way.  But if you’re looking for the rascal try the gambling house at Long Wharf and Montgomery street; that’s where his kind hang out.”

Later in the spring of 1850 Montgomery street was graded.  Now it was a sloping streak of mud, the western side of which was several feet above the other.  Where Long Wharf, which was to be cut through and called Commercial street, intersected, or rather bisected Montgomery, stood a large building with a high, broad roof.  Its eaves projected over a row of benches, and here, sheltered somewhat from the rain, a group of Mexicans and Chilenos lounged in picturesque native costumes, smoking cigarettes.  Through the door came a rollicking melody—­sailor tunes played by skillful performers—­and a hum of converse punctuated by the click of chips and coin.  Benito entered.  The room was blue with cigarette smoke, its score of tables glimpsed as through a fog.  Sawdust covered the floor and men of all nationalities mingled quietly enough at play of every kind.  A stream of men came and went to and from the gaming boards and bar.

Benito ordered a drink, and surveyed the room searchingly.  The man he sought was not in evidence.  “Is McTurpin here?” he asked the bartender.

If that worthy heard, he made no answer; but a slight, agile man with sly eyes looked up from a nearby table, “What d’ye want of him, stranger?”

An arrogant retort sprang to Benito’s lips, but he checked it.  He bent toward the questioner confidentially.  “I’ve news for Alec,” he whispered; “news he ought to know—­and quickly.”

CHAPTER XXIX

THE SQUATTER CONSPIRACY

Instantly the slight man rose.  He had narrow eyes, shrewd and calculating and the sinuous motions of a contortionist.  Linking his arm with Benito’s, he smiled, disclosing small, discolored teeth.  There was something ratlike about him, infinitely repellant.  “Come, I’ll tyke ye to ’im,” he volunteered.