After that for a time he lost the thread of the talk.  An argument arose, and, in its course, McTurpin’s voice was raised incautiously.

“Who’s to stop us?” he contended, passionately.  “The old alcalde grants aren’t worth the paper they’re written on.  Haven’t squatters dispossessed the Spaniards all over California?  Didn’t they take the San Antonio ranch in Oakland, defend it with cannon, and put old Peralta in jail for bothering them with his claims of ownership?” He laughed.  “It’s a rare joke, this land business.  If we squat on the Rincon, who’ll dispossess us?  Answer me that.”

“But it’s government ground.  It’s leased to Ted Shillaber,” one objected.

“To the devil with Shillaber,” McTurpin answered.  “He won’t know we’re going to squat till we’ve put up our houses.  And when he comes we’ll quote him squatter law.  He can buy us off if he likes.  It’ll cost him uncommon high.  He can fight us in the courts and we’ll show him squatter justice.  We’ve our friends in the courts, let me tell you.”

“Aye, mayhap,” returned a lanky, red-haired sailor, “but there’s them o’ us, like you and me and Andy, yonder, what isn’t hankerin’ for courts.”

McTurpin leaned forward, and his voice diminished so that Benito could scarcely hear his words.  “Don’t be afraid,” he said.  “I’ve got my men selected for the Rincon business, a full dozen of ’em ... all with clean records, mind ye.  Nothing against them.”  He pounded the table with his fist by way of emphasis.  “And when we’ve done old Shillaber, we’ll come in closer.  We’ll claim lots that are worth fifty thou—­” He paused.  His tone sank even lower, so that some of his sentence was lost.

It was at this juncture that Benito sneezed.  He had felt the approach of that betraying reflex for some minutes, but had stifled it.  Those who have tried this under similar circumstances know the futility of such attempts; know the accumulated fury of sound with which at length bursts forth the startling, terrible and irrepressible

“Ker-Chew!”

McTurpin and his two companions wheeled like lightning.  “Who’s this?” the gambler snarled.  He took a step toward the Bruiser.  “Who the devil let him in to spy on us?”

“Aw, stow it, Alec!” said the former fighter. “’E’s no spy.  ‘E’s one o’ our lads from the bay.  Hi can tell by ’is haccent.”

Benito rose.  His hand crept toward the derringer, but McTurpin was before him.  “Don’t try that, blast you!” he commanded.  “Now, my friend, let’s have a look at you....  By the Eternal!  It’s young Windham!”

“The cove you don hout o’ his rawnch?” asked the Bruiser, curiously.

“Shut up, you fool!” roared the gambler.  His face was white with fury.  “What are you doing here?” he asked Benito.

“Getting some points on—­er—­land holding,” said Windham.  He was perfectly calm.  Several times this man had overawed, outwitted, beaten him.  Now, though he was in the enemy’s country, surrounded by cutthroats and thieves, he felt suddenly the master of the situation.  Perhaps it was McTurpin’s dismay, perhaps the spur of his own danger.  He knew that there was only one escape, and that through playing on McTurpin’s anger.  “A most ingenious scheme, but it’ll fail you!”