“I’ve no authority,” Spear answered shortly.  He turned his back upon the other and strode toward the plaza.

CHAPTER II

THE GAMBLED PATRIMONY

The stranger took his way toward the waterfront and into “Jack the Sailor’s.”  Cooper, who had earned this nickname, stood behind a counter of rough boards polishing its top with a much soiled towel.  He hailed the newcomer eagerly.  “Hello, Alvin Potts!  What brought you here?  And how is all at Monterey?”

“All’s well enough,” said Potts, concisely.  He glanced about.  Several crude structures, scarcely deserving the name of tables, were centers of interest for rings of rough and ill-assorted men.  There were loud-voiced, bearded fellows from the whaler’s crew.  In tarpaulins and caps pulled low upon their brows; swarthy Russians with oily, brutish faces and slow movements—­relics of the abandoned colony at Fort Ross; suave, soft-spoken Spaniards in broad-brimmed hats, braided short coats and laced trousers tucked into shining boots; vaqueros with colored handkerchiefs about their heads and sashes around their middles.  A few Americans were sprinkled here and there.  Usually one player at each table was of the sleek and graceful type, which marks the gambler.  And usually he was the winner.  Now and then a man threw down his cards, pushed a little pile of money to the center of the table and shuffled out.  Cooper passed between them, serving tall, black bottles from which men poured their potions according to impulse; they did not drink in unison.  Each player snatched a liquid stimulus when the need arose.  And one whose shaky nerves required many of these spurs was young Benito.

Potts observed the pale face and the hectic, burning eyes with a frowning disapproval.  Presently he drew John Cooper to one side.

“He’s no business here, that lad ... you know it, Jack,” Potts said, accusingly.  The saloon keeper threw wide his arms in a significant gesture.

“He won’t stay away ...  I’ve told him half a dozen times.  No one can reason with that headstrong fool.”

“Who’s that he’s playing with?” asked Potts.  “I mean the dark one with a scar.”

An impressive and outstanding figure was the man Potts designated.  Stocky, sinister of eye and with a mouth whose half-sardonic smile drew the lips a little out of line, he combed his thick black hair now and then with delicate, long-fingered hands.  They had a deftness and a lightning energy, those fingers with their perfectly groomed nails, which boded little good to his opponents.  He sat back calmly in strange contrast to the feverish uncontrol of other players.  Now and then he flashed a swift glance round the circle of his fellow players.  Before him was a heap of gold and silver.  They watched him deal with the uncanny skill of a conjurer before Jack Cooper answered.

“That’s Aleck McTurpin from Australia.  Thought you knew him.”