Days of '49/Chapter 4

Bill Burton slept late and awakened hungry; but late as it was, Martin, huddled into a lump under the blanket, still snored. The big miner shook him out of the blanket. Martin awakened with groping gestures, pawing about him to make sure that he had not merely dreamed of winning from Stewart Dawes' table.

He tried to tell Burton about it, but Burton was hungry, interested in the story, but more interested in beefsteak and eggs. Having gold, winning or losing it, was an old story to him.

Burton, taking strides as if he wore seven league boots instead of cowhide, led the way. The little cockney, with repeated rushes, tried to keep by his side, but could do hardly more than follow with a sort of hurried stumbling over the rough ground.

From somewhere thin piercing cries reached them. Burton stopped with a jerk, his heels planted at the edge of a bank down which he was ready to jump. He turned his head all about, curious, uncertain, trying to tell from where the sound came.

"Wot's up?"

"Don't you hear it?"

"Blimey,'ow yer goin' 'elp earin'of it! I 'ear a baby squallin'!"

Burton turned and walked uncertainly in the direction that Martin pointed; and after a few steps stopped.

"That's a baby sure! Wonder what's the matter with it?"

"Bellyhake," said Martin, as if he knew about babies.

"Down here somewhere."

Burton went forward with an air of awkward caution, as if not quite sure whether or not he ought to go; then, pointing with a gesture of discovery at a lean-to affair of pine boards.

"In there!"

The baby wailed as if in the pain that is greater than death.

"What's wrong, you reckon?" Burton asked, peering hard as if sure that Martin was better informed about babies than himself.

"It's sick."

Burton swore in vague protest, then went close to the lean-to, bent his head, listened. He raised a fist that could have smashed in a barrel, hesitated, knocked timidly. He stepped back quickly as if a little afraid of what he had done.

With scrape and tug the ill-fitting door opened and a woman peered out.

Her hair was down her back. She was young, but her face had the weariness of hard work and privation. Her gray eyes stared anxiously. The baby continued with wail on wail. She held a wet cloth in her hand. Her dress was torn, worn, dirty.

From within the shack a man's voice, now weak, but suggesting a powerful voice diminished by sickness, asked:

"Who be it, Betty?"

"What you folks want?" she asked doubtfully, with the harsh nasal inflection of the backwoods.

"Ma'am, we ain't wanting—we just— Ma'am, is there anything us fellows can do?"

"Who be it, Betty? What he be wantin' of us?"

The baby screamed, scream on scream.

"Ezekiel, these folks ask if they can help usens!" she said blankly, incredulous.

"Yes, ma' am, that's sure it!" Burton affirmed loudly.

The voice of Ezekiel proclaimed as if to a congregation:

"The merciful man doeth good to his own soul." Then in weak eagerness—"Ask 'em in, Betty. 'Vite em right in!"

She stepped aside, nervously glancing about the small rude shelter, and Burton, crouching as if to enter a low cave, came in with embarrassed slowness.

A thin gaunt man, of powerful, bony frame, lay on two boards placed on boxes. His eyes were dark and sunken. He was bearded like a young prophet. One thin blanket was his covering. The baby, amid some clothing in a crate, waved tiny fists and, with eyes tightly shut, yelled as if in fury at the in justices of this world.

"Just look at that little dickens!" said Burton, admiringly.

"My good man is powerful sick," the woman answered.

"Neighbor, you do looked pretty peak-ed."

"Friend," answered the sick man, "it is the punishment of the Lord."

"He's a preacher," said the wife wistfully, glancing toward him. Then, abruptly—"We're Methodist."

"You look damn hard up too," the miner blurted.

The Rev. Ezekiel Preble, with passionate fervor answered—

"He that is greedy of gain troubleth his own house!"

He lay on his back, and could not move. He was full of fever, but filled too with the deep inner fire that has inflamed prophets.

"He's a powerful good man," the woman muttered anxiously, looking at Martin.

In the midst of the baby's crying the preacher, pitching his voice as if from a pulpit, explained:

"I come to Californy drawn more by the lust of harlot gold than by a burnin' to do the work of Goda'mighty"; and, in a tone of approval, added, "His wrath has visited me!"

"What's you need's a doctor, neighbor."

The mother had stooped to the baby, lifted it, but the baby continued to scream, beating the air with its fists.

"I endure suff'rin' for the sin o' covet'ness!"

"He's got bowel trouble," said the woman, swaying the baby up and down.

"I ain't seen a baby in five years," Burton told her. "That is, not a real one. Indians have babies up to the mines."

"The wrath has descended on my son," droned the preacher.

"Babies ain't no right to suffer!" said Burton.

"The poor is hated even by his own neighbors, but the rich hath many friends."

"Christians ort o' be pore," Mrs. Preble put in helplessly. "Not hanker after vanities."

"All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again!"

"Ezekiel!" she protested timidly.

"Ain't nobody come near you folks?" Burton asked.

"We come with neighbors from York State, but they lit out fer the mines yesterday," said the woman.

"How much better to get wisdom than gold," moaned the preacher.

Ma'am—" Burton was edging backward toward the door—"here's some money—little pard, shell out! An' that ain't all, neither. There'll be some folks up here to help you pretty soon!"

He ducked backward and out, and hurried off toward the Plaza, where, even at that early hour, the city was not only astir but bustling. Men yet tousled from their beds, hurried about, hastily buying, selling, changing their fortunes before breakfast. Men who had not been in bed at all walked along aimlessly, usually a little drunkenly, with money gone, strength gone, hope gone. Hundreds of miners, overheated by the hot sun and feverish work, chilled by the icy water and frosty nights of the mountains, sickened by rough food and rougher liquor, had crept back down from the diggings. There were many suicides every day, as if the crushed weaklings took themselves out of the way to make room for more boisterous and daring men.

On the dry barren square of the Plaza wagons were scattered, and to the wagons were tied mules and oxen, that fed and stamped about in the dust. The Plaza was swarmed with men, with groups talking excitedly of real estate, diggings, of the shortage of flour, the rise in pork, the fall in lumber, of Hubert Lee's death—some said 'murder,' others, 'duel.' Men discussed freighting, the heavy play at this or that gambling table, the sale of the Magnolia, the Spanish-looking man who for an hour had bought Washington Hall the night before. They discussed the two full columns in that morning's Alta California (published three times a week), giving an account of robberies and assaults, and men wondered what was going to be done about criminals. There were no police and nobody had the willingness to serve as policemen.

Venders, with hardly more than a plank and two boxes, and sometimes not that, displayed and called their wares: jimcrack jewelry, jimcrack medicine of which sick miners gulped incredible amounts, peanuts, popcorn.

Many small boys and some men scrambled in the sweepings before the gambling houses and saloon doorways, blowing dust from their palms and, with moistened fingers or heads of pins, picked out the flakes of dust, gold dust, carelessly swept from halls and barrooms.

Burton was used to mining camps where if a man had any thing to say he went into the center of the camp, lifted up his voice and said it, and men gathered about and listened. If they disapproved, they said so. If they approved, they acted, instantly.

Now he went to the corral around the flag pole, climbed up, balancing himself astride the topmost rail, and shouted—

"Hey-Oh! Here, all you fellows.Igot something to tell you!"

Faces turned toward him doubtfully, then, with a kind of wariness, men moved nearer. Hank, the horsebuyer, searched about for a stick to whittle and took out his knife. Venders edged in. Groups broke up and turned toward him.

"Fellows! There's a parson, his wife an' a baby—a little bit of a feller—up there on the hill, sick. They come with some people that lit out for the mines and left 'em—sick. He's a powerful fine preacher. They need a doctor. They need grub. They need someplace to live. He's a powerful good preacher, an' she's a mighty fine woman. Fellows, she's our kind of a woman, with a real baby—"

That was as far as he got or needed to get.

"Where? Where are they?"

Generosity was instantaneous. Two or three men snatched off their hats, deposited their own contributions, and were surrounded by others, anxious to give. Word flew about this way and that. In their charity, as in their dissipation, there was an eager turbulence. Their impulses were simple, without restraint or moderation.

A half-drunken man struggled up over the end gate of a wagon, stood up, yelled for listeners and made a speech of his own. He was for giving the preacher a job and hiring a church. Some sober men nodded in approval. No one asked to what creed the preacher belonged. There were many preachers in the city, and some worked as laborers, as dish washers; but on behalf of this one, Burton had struck the hearts of men.

A doctor was sent for. A delegation was selected to call on the family. Burton was not in it. He had explained where the shanty was. That was enough. He and Martin went to breakfast.

A tent known as the Nugget Restaurant was popular. Just why, no one might have been able to say, but it was popular with the miners, who ate in noisy haste.

There was the scrape of heavy boots, clattering of tin and iron dishes, buzz and jargon of fragmentary voices, a noisy chewing, and sucking at coffee cups. They were a rough, healthy lot, breakfasting on steak, flapjacks, coffee, thick slices of bread, hard-boiled eggs. Eggs, hard-boiled, were a dollar each. The tables were bare boards. There were rough benches, stools, boxes to sit upon. The floor was earth, pound ed hard as concrete by the endless tramping. In the afternoons, when the wind came up flinging dust and sand, dishes and tables were covered with dust.

Burton squeezed in on a bench, Martin wriggled in beside him.

"Three hen-nuggets, hard, coffee an' a hunk o' bear meat!" said Burton to a middle-aged, slightly flustered waiter.

"Same f'r me!" Martin shouted, only vaguely aware of what he was ordering.

Men all about poured scalding coffee, sweetened with Mexican sugar or blackstrap molasses, down their throats, and crammed big pieces of meat, seared and burned outside, raw within, into their mouths, and talked. All had their hats on. They ate rapidly, ravenously, feasting on bear, beef, venison. Steaks sizzled for a minute in the frying pan, were flopped over, thrown on a plate, served. Flapjacks were tossed high into the air, dexterously caught in the pan. It was like the rude banquet hall of a robust primitive people, and theirs was a rude, unconscious arrogance of health and self-assurance.

Each mouthful of food, through the three meals of the day, averaged for these ravenous men about ten cents a bite.

As each miner went out he paused at the door, told the proprietor what he had eaten, handed over his pouch, and the proprietor seldom touched the gold scales, but with finger and thumb helped himself. There were no arguments, no suspicions, no watchfulness. It was long before the miners realized that these shopkeepers robbed them, brazenly.

Near Burton the talk was of a man who since about four o'clock that morning had been bucking Stewart Dawes' bank, hitting it hard.

A lean, thin, waspish looking sun-burned man across the table was saying—

"I got money, an' here it is, that he breaks that gambler's bank. Any you fellers want it?"

Men were too busily eating to take the time to bet with him.

"Who is he?" asked Burton, lifting a peeled egg.

"Him?" said the waspish man. "He's Dick Hales. He don't know me from Adam's left foot, but I know him, by ! I was in the war—so was he. I seen him"

Some one asked:

"What kind of a fellow is he?"

"Say, he'd fight anything, that feller. Hales? Say, he'd fight a rattlesnake an ' give it first bite!"

"Ain't he the fellow that bought out the Washington Hall last night?"

"If that ain't just like it!" cried the waspish man in disgust. "One o' the best scouts in the Army, next to Dave Crockett and old Kit himself. An' he could go right where Dave 'r Kit 'r nobody else could go. He growed up mostly down somewheres in Californy. Can look like a greaser till he'd fool a Mexican's own mother. I was in the Rangers myself."

The Texan looked about slowly. Men, some of them, paused a moment in their eating and looked up, listening expectantly.

"He done a lot o' things, but onct the greasers was camped on a hill, like over there"—he touched a coffee cup—"valley here"—he drew his finger along the table. "Americans here on this hill. A Mexican off'cer on the purtiest hoss I ever seen an' he shore could ride, too, that feller. He come out under a white flag, with sword, gun an' lance—them greaser lances was shore bad medicine. He dares ary gringo to come out an' fight him a duel. There was hundreds of us yellin' at our off'cers to get picked to go out an' fight 'im. An' some of the off'cers was yellin'to their s'perior off'cers too. But Dick Hales he don't ask anybody. He just saddles up an' goes streakin' out for Mr. Mex!

"Hales can ride with anybody, he can. He come to Californy long 'fore you fellers knowed there was such a place. An' he talks the lingo like a greaser's own mammy.

"First rush, sword to lance, Hales he cuts the lance right in two as they pass. Then they rein up, face about, charge again, sword to sword. it was purty! They fight like hell, with hosses prancing about straight up on their hind legs. That greaser shore was a good fighter. Hales he breaks his sword an' that Mex—I don't like greasers, un'erstand, but that one was a gentleman. He was!"

The Texan glared from left to right, ready to fight anybody that sneered.

"The Mexican he saluted—then snapped his sword over the horn of his saddle. An' Hales, who'd drawed his gun, put it back in the holster, an' saluted too. Two armies was a-watchin', an' you couldn't hear a sound.

"Then they rode about a hundred yards off, drawed their guns, an' come together hell-f'r-leather. Hales killed him. Yeah.

"When Hales he come ridin 'back, an' we yelled an' carried on, cheerin' him—know what he said? He said, 'Shut up, you fools! I feel like I'd killed my brother!' Y' see, him living in Californy so long, he didn't hate greasers much. He'd fight 'em. Didn't hate em."

A man that had paused in his eating to listen now remarked hoarsely

"That greaser was crazy-breakin' his sword when he had the chanct to kill this Hales."

The Texan answered slowly, looking for trouble:

"Them, I allow, is sentyments fittin' for a polecat!"

He paused; there was silence. The man chewed on and on, as though he had not heard. Other men who had held themselves in readiness to duck, straightened up, relaxed, returned to their chewing.

"Hales," said the Texan, "when he broke his sword drawed his gun. But when the greaser saluted instead o' strikin' at him, Hales he put his gun back in the holster. Hales could shore have got that greaser then, 'cause he can shoot quick as Goda'mighty's lightnin'—the which, I allow, is some quick. An' they was gentlemen, fightin' of a duel—not two polecats, the which has sentyments same as yourn. You hear me?"

The man may have colored under his beard, but he gave no sign. He fastened his eyes on his plate and chewed, chewed, chewed, swallowing the insult easier than the tough meat.

Heavy gambling interested almost every one, and after breakfast Burton and Martin joined the deep group of silent men encircling the table where Stewart Dawes, who appeared never to need sleep, had for twenty hours been dealing monte. There was no lookout at the table. But one man was playing. This was quite enough. Hales was betting from one to five thousand on each turn of the card. The table in front of Hales was heaped high with gold.

Hales had been shaved. His clothes were cleaned of dust. His jacket of embroidered deerskin was open and exposed a wide belt of soft leather, studded with silver. The belt had many small pouches in which he carried tobacco, matches, corn husks for cigarets.

He gambled heavily, but he watched Dawes like a man who knew the tricks of monte. He had a disconcerting way of looking steadily at a man before speaking, and was abrupt of speech. One of those rare runs of luck that occasionally attend some men had come to him. He had begun to play about four o'clock in the morning. It was about eight o'clock when, during one of the lulls in which Dawes shuffled a fresh deck of cards, Hales straightened up and ran his glance over the faces of onlookers.

A dozen men spoke to him, many voices together. They were the sort of men who would praise a winner, any time. They were eager to say something, particularly to one who, judging from the Washington Hall episode, would probably throw away his winnings on those who flattered him.

Hales was inattentive. His face was tired, as if with an inner, mental, weariness. He gambled for the sort of relief that some other man might have sought at the mouth of a whisky bottle.

Hales' eyes now paused in their circling of the faces.

Far off, at the outer edge of the crowd, he had glimpsed a young Spaniard; and Hales stood up, stared steadily for a moment, recalling a low, squat, thick-walled adobe house, but tressed with whole timbers at the doorways, covered with red tile on the nearly flat roof. Dogs prowled and scratched them selves in the sun. Lazy Indians, men and women, drifted about under the shade of fig trees and live oaks, idling at their easy work.

Hales beckoned; and Don José Roderigo Velazquez de Sola pressed through and came near Hales as the crowd gave way, regarding the young Spaniard, who held himself so aloof and almost insolently, with curiosity.

Hales, glancing toward Don José's revolver, said:

"You've reached the city as soon as I did. Thought you weren't coming. Why didn't you come with me?—Indians stole my horse—that one you gave me. I had to track them on foot. Lost a week. Lost all count of days."

"The horse, señor, you got eet?"

"Yes."

Don José smiled faintly. He knew that this man had also got the horse-thieves, which was not unpleasing. The De Solas bred horses.

"Señor, eet was after you go that I fin' reason to come." He smiled a little, not pleasantly, as he glanced about the faces of the Americanos standing near.

"Here"—Hales carelessly picked up the first bag of gold dust his hand fell on and lifted it toward Don José—"I'll buy back that gun."

"Pardon, señor, but no."

"I'll pay what you say. This is worth a dozen like it."

"No, Señor, there is but one more that is like eet," and Don José looked toward the revolver at Hales' side.

Hales, leading a horse that limped, had, a few miles south of Monterey, stopped late one afternoon at the rancho of Don Miguel Carrillo, who held a thousand and more square miles of valley and mountainous foothills under the Spanish grant to his forefathers.

He was met by a score of yelping dogs, the savage gaze of three or four small wiry wild-looking vaqueros that loafed under a ramada by the corral, by the steady sullen eyes of many Indians, and then by Señora Carrillo herself, who stood doubtfully in the great doorway. She was a rather stout, young looking woman, almost pretty, with the composure and bearing of a good-natured grand dame.

Hales, hat in hand, walked to the doorway and bowed to her.

"Oh," she said uncertainly, as if not knowing whether or not to feel relieved, "you are an Americano!"

He told who he was.

"Ah," she nodded, understanding, "of the Venegos Rancho. Your uncle is dead. Some Venegos they fought for Mexico. I have heard. It was you that killed Carlos Venegos!"

Hales' uncle had settled in California twenty years before, married into the Venegos family, and being a gentleman was respected, being wealthy had acquired large holdings and furnished the leather firm of his brother in Boston thousands upon thousands of hides each year.

"Yes, señora. During the war I had the misfortune to kill Carlos Venegos in a duel fought between the armies. Because of my uncle's influence many of the Venegos favored the United States. Some went into the Mexican Army. I joined the Army in Texas, partly so that I would not be so likely to meet my friends among the enemy—then had to fight Carlos Venegos between the lines. I did not know who he was until I saw his face over the point of his lance. It was then, señora, too late to draw back. Two armies watched."

Señora Carrillo nodded sympathetically.

"Señora, an urgent message reached me from a vessel that came to San Pedro, and I am in great haste to reach San Francisco. I started with a spare horse with a light pack of food and my purse wrapped in the poncho. Bad luck loves me! Two days ago that horse, when I thought he grazed while I stopped to make coffee, went off. I followed a little way until I became convinced that he had started back for the rancho and would not pause until he got home. I was in haste and could not return. So I came on. Today this one went lame. I need a fresh horse. I have little to offer in exchange."

Señora Carrillo fretted graciously over whether or not she dared to give Hales a horse. Don Miguel had taken a big herd of horses toward Sacramento where Americans were paying fabulous prices. Don Miguel was easily displeased, sometimes. Señor Hales could have food, rest, shelter for as many days as he liked, but he must wait for Don Miguel to return, though it might be ten or twenty days.

Hales had no intention of waiting much longer than over night. He was given food, a bed, and an hour of Señora Carrillo's conversation in the presence of Indian women who worked on baskets on the floor in a corner, while she sat in a heavy hide-bound chair in the dim coolness of the great room and talked gossipingly.

From time to time Hales caught sight of a pretty young girl, of about fifteen, who shyly peered at him through a curtain.

The next morning, while Hales was examining the leg of his horse, a young man of high Spanish caste rode down through the oaks of a round-topped hill.

He came up with a quiet assurance though Señora Carrillo regarded him coolly, with disfavor. His politeness was flawless. He took no notice of the señora's disfavor, and a pretty, eager, girl's face, furtively peering in the doorway, showed why he had come, and indicated that at least one person in the house was joyful at the sight of him. It was also evident that he was well liked by the Indians and vaqueros. When Señora Carrillo was not looking, he passed a note to an Indian woman, who concealed it with the deftness and impassivity of one accustomed to bearing surreptitious letters.

José de Sola regarded Hales with a trace of suspicion. It was easy for young girls to have their heads turned by strangers.

"Señor," said Hales, "I need a horse. I've only a cripple to offer, now; but I am Hales of the Venegos Rancho and will pay later."

José's young handsome face lighted slightly at Hales' name, but his manner remained aloofly courteous. Even at this time he did not greatly like gringos.

Until the gold rush, horses were cheap, the average horse selling for from three to five dollars. But at Sacramento these same horses began to sell for a hundred dollars, the price rose rapidly to a hundred and fifty, reached two and three hundred. Hales offered his crippled horse and the rifle thrown in for anything in the way of a horse that José cared to give; but José asked about one of the revolvers.

Hales would almost as readily have parted with one of his fingers.

Don José tried the revolver, and shot with surprising accuracy and quickness, though the Californians were rarely skillful with firearms. They cared little for hunting, and in personal encounters used knives chiefly, or from horseback the riatas.

"Señor, for this gun I will give you a horse. In one hour I shall return."

Don José rode off.

While he waited, Hales could hear from within the house Señora Carrillo scolding the youthful Lucita. The señora used harsh words against the young man, and Lucita protested tearfully.

"He comes because your father is not here!"

"He comes to find my father! José is without fear of any man!" Lucita wailed.

"He has told you as much. Oh, children were not such fools when I was young!"

"But I love him!"

"May the Virgin protect you! May your father come soon!"

"My father loves brave men. Jose is handsome and brave. I shall die!"

"You shall wed Señor Guerrero within the month! There is the man for a foolish girl."

"He is my father's age and has children more than mine! I shall die! He is ugly. There are warts on his nose!"

"So much the better, " said the señora, who used the be-warted nose of the worthy Señor Guerrero for a bugaboo. "You will never be jealous, knowing that other women do not want him."

"I shall die!"

"Señor Guerrero has had two wives and can teach a foolish girl the duties of a house!"

When Señora Carrillo came from the house and into the shade of a fig tree, she fretfully unfolded her troubles to Hales, and called José as many bad names as a Spanish lady may use. The language conveniently places many at the disposal of respectable women.

Hales sympathized with the pretty Lucita's woe, and ventured to point out that José was a handsome youth, and a remarkably fine shot with a revolver.

"Ah, but, señor, though ugly men are always bad husbands, the handsome are not always good!"

"The de Solas are well known, señora. Of good birth."

"Señor, señor!" she protested, "to hear every caballero in this land tell of his family you would think the King of Spain had sent all Castile to California. José Roderigo Velazquez de Sola—poh! My husband, Don Miguel, has other names for him, and those de Solas. Gold is got in other ways than honest men get it!"

"The de Solas are a wealthy family, señora. Their horses are famous."

"Those horses—oh?" exclaimed the señora excitedly. "Two years ago at Monterey Don Miguel's Zapateodor for the first time lost his race, and to a de Sola! Don Miguel had waged five thousand head of cattle. Oh, señor, it was a heartbreak to see the beautiful Zapateodor run behind another horse! I felt all my blood turn to tears. Those de Solas—poh!"

Hales now knew that a horse race had bred the feud. He replied with earnestness:

"Señora, I am sure Don José is a man of honor. Why, I would trust my life on his word—as on the word of any high-born Californian. He is a gentleman. It is in his face, señora."

"Ah, but, señor, how he gambles!"

"He is a Californian, señora!"

"The devil fly off with him!" said the exasperated señora.

Hales was about to answer when a rustling not far off attracted his attention and he turned in time to catch sight of a slim girlish body disappearing behind the foliage of a grape arbor. Lucita had been listening.

Señora Carrillo had also detected the little culprit and hastened into the house after her.

Don José's hour, with Spanish elasticity, extended beyond three; but he returned leading a horse of the famed de Sola breed.

Hales disliked giving up either of the revolvers. They were beautifully made; in fact had been specially designed by Col. Colt for a wealthy American officer.

When he left the Carrillo Rancho Don José rode with him a short distance, rather companionably.

"My brother," said Don José, "is now at Sacramento with horses. We have heard that Americanos pay as much for one horse as twenty are worth. But I, señor, I shall not go to the mines. Important affairs keep me at home."

Hales understood; and felt that the little Lucita was enticing enough to keep almost any one near home.

Hales, now having seen Don José in the crowd about the gambling table, had thought at once of buying back the revolver.

"Name your price," Hales told him, speaking in English.

"Pardon, señor, eet is not to be sold."

"I don't blame you," said Hales, who was wholly ungifted in the art of barter. "It's one of the best guns ever made. Shoots like a rifle and handles like a glove."

"Si, señor. Eet does."

"We'll put up a target. The man that makes the best score takes both guns." Don José smiled faintly and shook his head:

"Perhaps you do shoot the better than I shoot, señor. But I do not need two guns, both like this one. No. One eet is enough."

"I don't need it either, but I want it. They are mates. Like two lovers. Sell me that gun, Don José—won't you?"

"What has money to do with love, señor?"

"A horse race sometimes has a good deal to do with it."

Don José gave him a surprised look, then his smile broadened:

"Si, señor. Eet was I who rode against Don Miguel's Zapateodor."

"And you will never be forgiven."

"I have the fear, not."

Stewart Dawes, after patiently shuffling and reshuffling as he listened, put out the cards to be cut.

"Don José," said Hales, "I'll deal you monte. My gun against yours."

José, as he rolled a cigaret, glanced about him and noted the watchfulness of every face. In a way it was more than a challenge to him, it was the challenge of an American to a Spaniard. Stewart Dawes bent his thin lips just enough to suggest a sneer. Don José, deftly rolling and holding the unmoistened cigaret, struck a match, touched flame to the tip of the cigaret, shook out the match, and said quietly:

"Si, señor."

A vague murmur of excitement stirred across the lips of spectators.

"We'll cut for deal."

"You deal, señor."

Hales picked up the deck and passed it to Don José, who waved it indifferently aside, refusing the cut.

Hales threw down the layouts. Don José drew his revolver and placed it on a card. Not a sound could be heard about the table as the cards fell. Then the card dropped that made Don José the winner.

Hales glanced down for a moment, then laid aside the pack. Reaching around for his gun with the left hand, which with a gun-fighter was a sign of peaceable intentions, he drew it; and, grasping it by the barrel, extended it, butt first, to Don José.

The Spaniard leisurely inhaled, blew the smoke upwards, shrugged his shoulders slightly, barely shook his head.

"Keep eet, Señor Hales. Weeth my complimentos."

Hales scrutinized him with puzzled gaze.

"I was not playing for fun. It is yours."

"Pardon, señor. Permeet that I should repay for the kind words that you spoke for me under the feeg tree."

"I don't know what you are talking about," said Hales, who at the moment all but forgot that he had ever been under a fig tree while a pretty eavesdropper spied on his conversation with her mother. "But you won both guns. Sell me this one." He offered a buckskin bag.

"No, señor, no! Permeet that I should have, plees, the pleazure of making to you a geeft!"

Don José bowed courteously, stepped back, and withdrew between the men who stared curiously, not understanding what it was all about, not understanding in the least the punctilious graciousness of a greaser.

Hales looked at the gun, looked after Don José, then thoughtfully scratched the tip of his ear.

"Puts on fine airs for a greaser, eh?" said Stewart Dawes' low cold voice, as with noiseless flutter he ran the evenly divided deck of cards together.

Hales frowned. "I'll tap your bank for that!"

Dawes lifted his eyes with the steadiness of a man whose eyes were lidless. He said nothing. His fingers were as nerveless as so much ivory. He laid the cards down for the cut.

Hales watched the slim white fingers. The first draw was made. Without removing his glance so much as to see what cards were down, Hales tapped the table with his left hand betting on a card at which he did not look.

The cards were drawn off slowly. Then a burst of murmurs from the onlookers said:

"There she is!" "He wins!" "By, what luck!"

Men laughed a little nervously. Some talked loudly, praising Hales behind his back but for his ears:

"He don't need to go to the diggin's!"

Dawes calmly pushed every coin and bag in sight across the table. Nothing was counted. Dawes was one of the wealthiest gamblers in the city, but now he was broke. He knew that Hales had more than enough to equal the amount that had been in the bank.

The gambler, without a sign of vexation, picked up his derringer, dropped it into his coat, touched the handle of his knife under his coat, and standing up, ready to go, said:

"Gentlemen, the game is closed."

"Just a minute," Hales answered. "I don't know how much is here. But I'll play it all, on one card."

"A little over twenty thousand," said Dawes, with an air of quiet indifference that somehow suggested a little irritation. "There are no tables open now prepared to accept such an amount. But if you care to wait a few minutes, I may be able to accommodate you," this with a vague trace of a sneer that no man could have put his fingers on, but which men felt.

"I'll wait," said Hales.

Without leaving the table, he sent out for a cup of coffee and a plate of fried eggs.

Stewart Dawes, walking with an erect composure, speaking to no one, and acknowledging the greeting of a man here and there with a reserved nod, ascended the stairs leading to the office at the rear of the Magnolia.

This had not only been the office, but the living quarters of Monsieur Max, who had a taste for luxury as well as an eye, two eyes, for business.

Short steep stairs led to this balcony. There were also stairs from the street, or rather alley.

Dawes knocked lightly.

In the moment the door was opened by a straight, tall, dark woman who had the haughty bearing and dignity of some kind of primitive priestess. She was middle-aged, with high cheek bones, and dark eyes that looked as if instantly ready to flash with anger.

Dawes, who had never seen her before, regarded her with an impersonal gaze.

"What you want?" she asked. Her voice had an odd huskiness, not hoarse, not harsh, even smooth, but nearly guttural.

She spoke English clearly enough, but as if reluctantly.

"I desire," said Dawes, inflexibly formal, "to speak with Mr. Cronin."

Cronin was the new house-manager of the Magnolia. He had been in San Francisco, in the employ of the French Gambling Syndicate, for some time.

"He not here."

She made as if to close the door in his face, but was stopped by a woman's voice from across the room asking:

"What is it, Kredra?"

Kredra, without glancing around, and keeping her eyes on Mr. Dawes' pale face, answered rapidly in some outlandish tongue. She was interrupted sharply by the young woman who did not have any interest in Kredra's unfavorable opinion of Mr. Dawes, as expressed to his face, though in a language not ten, if so many, people in that city of Babel could have understood.

"Mr.Cronin is not in," said Ilona Tesla from the divan where she sat in the midst of French cushions. "Is there any message?"

Mr. Dawes was quite used to having women, such women as were in the city at this time, think well of him. His cool expressionless reserve passed for an aristocratic manner, and in his lifetime it had not been beyond the modesty of many women to tell Mr. Dawes that he was handsome.

He could not see the face of this woman clearly. The apartment was low of ceiling and dark. Monsieur Max had gone to the extravagance of putting in some glass on the balcony to shut out the drifting clouds of tobacco smoke and partly deaden the sound of voices when he tried to sleep. The apartment was always dark, and even now a large kerosene lamp, its flame obscured by a pink glass shade on which naked cherubs played amid clouds of rosebuds, was on the table; but its glow did not reach the girl's face.

"I wish," said Dawes, "to speak with some member of the new company that has bought the Magnolia. I understand that the Magnolia intends to bank its games. Dick Hales has just broke my bank, and is ready to play something over twenty thousand dollars on one card. The amount is large. In view of the fact that the Magnolia is going to bank all the games, I wish to inquire if the house now cares to arrange for a bet of that size."

"Who is this man?" Ilona asked.

She had heard of him, or rather had overheard her father and Cronin talking of him that morning, of the Washington Hall episode. She was interested only by a kind of curiosity that grew from an instinctive and intensive dislike of him because of what she had overheard. In her mind he now seemed, with a kind of offensive swagger, daring somebody to bet him twenty thousand dollars on the turn of a card.

Ilona did not know where her father or Mr. Cronin was. They had been much perturbed by the death of Hubert Lee, and that morning had gone off together.

Ilona was a girl of odd heritage and curious upbringing. Her father, a Hungarian gentleman of good family, was also a gentleman of fortune. Though trustworthy and far-sighted, he had lost social caste because of his speculations in gambling saloons and salons that at one time and another had taken him into all the European capitals. Ilona had been brought up in a sort of twilight world between the respectable and the disreputable; she was excluded from the friendship and society of the one because of her father's associations, and partly through his guidance but largely because of her own instincts she would not in the least tolerate the companionship of the other caste.

Her mother had been the daughter of a family of poor, proud, Pyrenees nobles who knew that their Spanish blood was older, and believed that it was as good if not better than that of the King himself. The de Ruz family was among the few Spanish nobles whom the Basques regarded, or had ever regarded, with anything like profound respect.

Franchita de Ruz, while visiting in Madrid, had met Mr. Tesla and married him. Her family never forgave her, not even after her death.

Ilona had been raised and watched by Kredra, this same Basque woman who had been her mother's companion from girlhood; and Ilona, to be ever near her father, whom she adored, had lived in England, France, Germany and Spain. Their companionship was very close.

Mr. Tesla, in bringing Ilona to California, had not imagined that San Francisco would be so rudely primitive. The hotels were impossible. Nothing anywhere so nearly suitable in furnishings could be found as Monsieur Max's apartment. Rear stairs from the alley led to the balcony, so she had been able to enter the apartment without passing through the saloon.

Mr. Tesla, though disturbed by the developments that followed the death of Lee, had sent Cronin out to look for suitable quarters for Ilona. He really preferred that she live away from the city, since it was nothing but huts, tents, flimsy wooden houses, filled with strange noisy men, who quarreled and killed one another with appalling readiness.

"There is no one," she now asked Mr.Dawes, "to accept the wager of this person?"

"Not unless the house cares to. I thought perhaps"

"Certainly his bet will be accepted," she said.

She turned to a window and for a time looked toward the table where Hales sat, with men waiting all about.

"I", she said, eying the gambler, "will deal against him."

"As you wish, madam!"

"And I," she replied angrily, "am not madam. I am Miss Tesla!"

For once the pale unperturbable face of Mr. Dawes colored slightly. He bowed, much as if his backbone had cracked and the upper part of him was beginning to fall.

Kredra, who had hated him on sight, muttered ominously; and her black eyes peered as if they saw his thoughts behind the pale skin.

Ilona descended the balcony stairs with an air of unconcern, apparently seeing no one, and not aware that men all over the room had stirred and were craning at her, some with liquor glasses half raised, forgetting to drink.

Kredra, like a shadow, was at her heels. Behind them, rigidly erect and expressionless, was Mr. Dawes.

As soon as it became evident that Ilona was going to the table where Dawes dealt, there was a surge from all sides toward that spot, where Hales now smoked a cigaret over the remains of breakfast and did not listen to the men who talked to him and about him.

As if deaf and sightless, Ilona passed among the men who, with a sort of staring humbleness, made way. Kredra looked into their faces, challengingly.

"'Ow 'd do, Miss Tesla!" said Martin O'Day, standing almost in her way to be sure she would recognize him.

She glanced at him, smiled readily, but appeared to see no one else, though men jammed in closely. She asked how he was, what he was doing, planning to do.

"Me an' Bill 'ere—'e's my pardner—is goin' ter the mines. We'll come back 'ere, wiv sacks of gold!"

"I am sure of it, and hope so," said Ilona.

She reached the table, paused, and gave Hales a slow appraising look. In appearance he was not quite as she had expected, not quite as he had seemed as she looked at him from the balcony. But she was intensely, prejudiced against him. She would pardon a man many things and some sins if he were one she liked; but she was imperiously unforgiving toward those who looked favorably upon women of Madame Renault's caste;  and, from what she had overheard, the Washington Hall episode placed Hales pretty low in the scale of men.

"I understand you have broken this bank, and still wish to play?"

Hales stood up, looking at her.

"Is that true?" she asked coldly.

Lady gamblers, he knew, were usually all smiles and allurement. "Yes," he said, not understanding why she seemed angry.

She seated herself. Some one pushed against the chair. It was Kredra, elbowing the little cockney out of the way.

She picked up the cards and looked at them with uneasiness, mystified. These cards were strange, wholly unknown. Though she had been born in Spain, she did not know the Spanish deck.

"How much," asked Hales, glancing over the table where not a dollar was in sight excepting what belonged to him, "is in your bank?"

"If you do not think the Magnolia can pay its losses, very well, sir!"

She placed her hands to the table as if about to rise and leave. She really wished to leave. She knew all the intricacies of faro, but monte was nothing but a name. She did not know how to deal with these thin, tough, oddly designed cards.

Dawes had seated himself in the lookout's chair.

The bank was supposed always to have the money in sight to pay the debts made against it.

Hales picked up a handful of coin. He said, without enthusiasm:

"I'll start off with these."

She glanced from the money to his face:

"I am not offering amusement to you, but an accommodation. I understood that you wished to make a large wager on one card."

"Show me this much in your bank,"—he swept his hand above all his winnings—"then deal for it, all."

"Is my word insufficient?" she asked with an inflectional stress that seemed to demand an apology.

"Yes, madam, it is! I am playing with gold. I want to win gold—not a promise to pay, even from a lady!"

Ilona felt like throwing the cards into his face. What angered her mostly was that he took her for a woman gambler, a housewoman. She furiously resented the stupidity of men who could not instantly tell one kind of woman from another.

"I sy," Martin shouted at Hales. "See 'ere! Don't yer know 'oo yer talkin' to? Er' father owns the bloomin' Magnolier. 'E can pay all 'yer ve got there wivout 'avin to go into more 'n one pocket, 'e can!"

Hales looked at her closely; but he was not easily humbled.

"In that case, miss," he said, "deal. Dawes here has estimated this dust and coin at twenty thousand. Deal for it."

Ilona quietly handed the deck across to Dawes, without a word. That was one way out of her difficulty.

Dawes riffled the deck noiselessly. His manner, his face, showed nothing. He put the cards into his palm, drew off the layouts, and Hales tapped a card, making his bet.

Ilona glanced toward Hales, and he, for once not watching the gambler's fingers, looked steadily at her.

At that moment voices broke into a bubbling of excitement. The spectators, more tense than those who played, announced the result as Stewart Dawes said coolly:

"The bank has lost."

"I'll play it all", said Hales.

At that every eye turned expectantly toward her. There had never been in San Francisco such a wager as this offered. Ilona, not quite daring to accept so tremendous a wager, was too irritated to refuse. She hesitated.

Kredra spoke to her rapidly, and Ilona, startled, glanced up just as Mr. Tesla agitatedly pushed his way through the crowd, followed by two men who had entered the Magnolia with him.

Mr. Tesla reached the table as she stood up. His face was pale. He spoke in French:

"Mon dieu! Ilona! Why are you here! Like this! Have you gone mad! My child, this is appalling! What does it mean?"

Ilona looked hastily from her father to the two strangers that, with a sort of proprietory shoving and elbowing, had followed Mr. Tesla to her chair. One was Col. Nevinson. His right arm was in a sling of black silk, though the injury to his shoulder was slight. The other was Bruce Brace.

"Father," she replied in English, with a strained effort at coolness. "This gentleman has won twenty thousand dollars from the Magnolia. You will attend to the payment?"

"Twenty thousand dollars!" Tesla looked quickly about the group of men. He was shocked to find Ilona at a gambler's table, disturbed by the loss of such a sum.

"How," demanded Col. Nevinson arrogantly, who had not clearly caught everything she said, "has the Magnolia lost twenty thousand dollars?"

"I pledged it!" she answered sharply.

"And who are you?" Nevinson eyed her with searching appraisal.

"My daughter!" said Mr.Tesla.

Col. Nevinson instantly changed; he removed his hat, bowed, exclaimed readily:

"Forgive me, Miss Tesla!"

She gave him a parting glance in which there was not much forgiveness, and started to move away. Col. Nevinson stepped beside her, saying to the men:

"Back, sir, back! Make way!"

"I thank you," Ilona said impersonally, ignoring his arm, ignoring him, and went off, followed by Kredra.

Mr. Tesla for a moment stared after his daughter; then of Hales asked:

"Sir, may I ask as to the meaning of this? What has taken place?"

"I broke the bank and was willing to play. Dawes brought your daughter from somewhere. She said the Magnolia would guarantee payment. I won."

"Ah?" said Mr.Tesla, turning with a keen glance toward Dawes. "Ah." He appeared as though about to say something sharp to Dawes, but again addressed Hales: "So that was the way. The Magnolia, however, at present does not bank its games—"

Eyes narrowed in a score of faces. The sympathy of the onlookers was with Hales.

"And," Col. Nevinson cut in, "the Magnolia will not pay you a damn cent! Who dealt that game?"

"Dawes!" said a half dozen voices.

"Then," said Col. Nevinson with an air of finality, "collect from Dawes!"

He glanced defiantly at the circle of rough men. Vague grumbles arose. Dawes smiled slightly. He and Nevinson were friends, or at least friendly. Hales looked steadily at Nevinson.

Mr. Tesla, with a hand half raised, asking to be heard, said:

"Beginning tomorrow the Magnolia will bank its games, some of them, but today it does not. There has been a misunderstanding. But since the amount was guaranteed in the way that it was, I, personally, will make the payment."

Grumbling voices changed into a sharp buzzing of commendation.

"Tesla," Col. Nevinson broke in hotly, "you're a fool to pay it. Your daughter was undoubtedly imposed on. She had no right to guarantee the bank—and these men knew it!"

"That," said Hales, "is a lie!"

Men scattered back from the table as straws under a puff of wind. They ducked and dodged from side to side, the more anxious even starting for the door. Dawes himself, in a sort of unbending haste, moved aside.

Mr. Tesla stood where he was, looking mystified, hardly understanding what was up. Col. Nevinson glared at Hales, much as he would have looked at a lunatic. Bruce Brace, with hand behind him, looked jerkily about, but as if keeping Hales in the corner of his eye.

"What's that!" cried Nevinson, astounded, his left hand bending toward his hip. As he reached toward his gun, Mr. Tesla caught at his arm, restraining him.

In the expectant stillness of the hall, where some crouching men hung as motionless as statuary, a soft voice spoke up, with sinister smoothness:

"Señor Hales has called you one liar. I too have the same opeenion!"

Don José Velazquez de Sola, with a cigaret in one hand, the other resting on his hip about three inches from the butt of the big Colt's, stared toward Col. Nevinson, and waited.

"Keep out of this, José!"

"Si, Señor Hales. As you wish. But he has weeth him a frien' whose gun smoked las' night when the man Lee died!"

"Fire and damnation!" cried Col. Nevinson furiously. "Out of the way, Tesla. Damn you, out of the way!"

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" cried Mr. Tesla, keeping in line of fire, a hand on Nevinson, and turning from one to the other. "This is madness!"

"Tesla, sir! Out of the way. Stand aside!"

Mr. Tesla would not stand aside. No one wanted to harm him. No shots were fired.

"Damn you, Tesla!" said Nevinson, who had moved aside, only instantly to be confronted by Mr. Tesla.

"Gentlemen, no! This must not be, gentlemen!"

"Beware another time!" shouted Col. Nevinson, looking from Hales to Don José and back to Hales. "Both of you—you greasers!"

Then Nevinson turned on his heel and stamped off in a fury, followed by Bruce Brace, who walked like an apprehensive cadaver, with head turned backward, watchfully.

Mr. Tesla breathed deeply, relieved, still anxiously glancing toward the colonel. He drew a handkerchief and wiped his forehead and palms as he looked about with an air of troubled mystification. He did not understand the readiness of these men for deadly quarreling.

"What is your name, sir?"

"Hales. Dick Hales." José had pronounced it "Haylees."

"Oh?" said Mr.Tesla. "Ah, well, Mr.Hales, if you will be here at one o'clock I will have the money for you."

"That'll be all right, " said Hales.

Mr. Tesla had already started off, hurrying to Ilona to ask what madness had touched her.

Hales went to Don José, asking why he had been so ready to come into the quarrel; and standing apart from other men, Don José told him of the terrible outrage a party of Americanos had, but a few day's before, committed on the body of his brother.

Presently a young mulatto came up to Hales, spoke respectfully, and offered him a folded piece of letter paper.

Hales took it, opened it, read quickly, looked at the negro, and again with increased puzzlement read the note:

The E was made with an encircling flourish. The writing was a woman's.

"Who is this from?"

"Ah was tol' not to say one word, sah."

"Then go to the devil!"

"No, sah! Ah ain't gwine back an' tell her you-all won't come. Ah knows bettah'n dat. It's from Missus Elvira, sah. But doan't yuh tell Ah tol yuh, sah!

The "good Doña," as her man Ferdinand called her, lay with hand to chin, propped on an elbow, and from her couch by a window looked broodingly out toward the sand hills, dotted with tents, where the wind danced amid the dust.

That morning, soon after she was awake, she had sent the mulatto Sam, who, being in love with Tota and quite used to being a slave since he was a runaway negro, served Elvira almost as much as if she owned him, out through the town to make inquiries as to the whereabouts of Dick Hales.

Sam knew that usually it was better for him to make up stories than to come back with an empty mouth, so he returned with an exaggerated report of the winnings that Hales up to that hour had made, and also the report regarding Washington Hall.

Elvira dressed with care, choosing black silk from thoat [sic] to ankles—an artifice of dress that her clever mother had devised; and Tota got more slaps than usual for alleged awkwardness. The mistress, always particular, was this morning in an exacting mood.

When dressed, Elvira, after much rewriting, finished a note that seemed suitable and sent it off by themulatto.

Now, awaiting his return with Hales, she lay in a sort of restless brooding and reflected upon many things, absently watching the swirling dust.

At times from this window she had seen the wind overturn the frail shacks and tents of the men who had perched themselves on the steep slopes of barren hills; and at such times her dark eyes widened with a look of pleasure.

Any hour that lacked excitement was tedious. In her idle broodings she often entertained herself with thought of what it would be pleasant to do to people whom she did not like. She was as unforgiving as pride in being unforgiving could make her. Her impulses were theatrical; she was often audacious, she was not timid;  she was more treacherous than brave.

Such was her nature, her training, her caste, that she could hardly ever spin a thought, however idly, that did not show the design of vanity. She could no more help this than a silk worm can help spinning its web about its own body.

"He is come, Doña Elvira," said Tota in an eager whisper.

Elvira arose quickly, brushed the folds of her dress, smoothing the sheath of silk about her lithe body. She took up the mirror, and holding the glass at various angles examined her black hair, her face, her slender throat, its slenderness accentuated by the high collar.

Handing the mirror to Tota she said:

"Put this away, out of sight. Show him in. You are slow, stupid!"

Elvira then stood with her back to the door, looking from the window. She was excited, and uncertain of just what to say or do.

She heard Tota speak, inviting him in, heard his step, then the door closed. They were alone. Elvira hesitated, consciously wishing for the mirror that she might take another glimpse of herself before facing about. She touched her hair quickly. Her slim sensitive fingers were almost like eyes.

She turned with sinuous slowness, smiled with reserve, regarding him watchfully, but she saw nothing of surprise or pleasure in his glance. She might have been any one, and shabbily dressed.

"Madam," Hales said abruptly, "your message was strangely worded. What have you to tell me?"

She lifted her brows, expressing mild surprise, suggesting reproof, then smiled enigmatically, and with studied slowness indicated a chair:

"Won't you be seated, señor?"

He looked at the chair but stood where he was.

"What have you to tell me, madam?"

"Many things, sir, or nothing—as you please," she answered with coolness, lifting her head, and looking at him expectantly;  but his manner did not soften. He was suspicious. With a shade of kindly interest after the pause, she said: "You came to the city looking for some one. Did you not, señor?" "I told you as much yesterday."

"Ah, but you are looking for a woman!"

She saw, or thought she did, a flicker of expression cross his face, very much as if pricked unexpectedly. He frowned, and when she thought he was not going to reply, he said:

"There are others besides yourself who know that."

"Ah," Elvira asked with malicious kindliness, "you did not find her in Washington Hall?"

"Thank God, no!"

"What, may I ask, for I feel that I may help you, señor, is her name?"

His stare was expressive of suspicion; but she smiled slightly, amiably. She could be tolerant, since, secretly, she had all the advantage.

"No."

"No what, señor?"

"I am not here to satisfy your curiosity. If you have nothing more to say to me, good day, madam!"

He turned, ready to leave the room. Quickly she said, "But I do know her name. It is yours—the same as yours!" He stopped and came forward two or three steps as if to march right across her.

"I recall now," he said after a pause, "that I perhaps gave you reason to think so, yesterday."

"Ah—oh! You think that I am imposing on you, señor? Oh, is that what you think?"

"Yes."

"Why—" in a breath of astonishment—"Why would I do that?"

"I don't know."

"What interest, sir, could I possibly have in you or your affairs—" then, more kindly—"unless I do know something to your advantage, and am generous enough to help even one who is very rude?"

"Then please tell me."

She had no intention of playing out her hand on one throw; and groping vaguely for his gratitude, asked:

"Are you aware that your life is in danger? Are you? In great danger?"

"No."

"Ah—no? Yesterday, señor, you abused young Jerry Fletcher. He is one of the Hounds. You know of them by now, don't you?"

"Yes." With sudden energy and a tone of honest puzzlement, he added: "He struck at me because he thought I was a Spaniard. Are these men that are coming in here all fools? Just now, before I came here, I heard of another Spaniard who had been whipped—pegged out on the ground and whipped!"

"Señor," she said proudly, "I too am a Spaniard!"

"Then you had better tell your Hound friends to keep their whips off other Spaniards."

"They are not my friends, sir!" She said it loftily, but without success. He did not believe her. "They are sworn to assist one another, and some of them are dangerous men. You know that, señor?"

"No."

"I am giving you warning. I know you are a brave man, señor. You have lived in California long, have you not?"

"Yes."

These impatient monosyllabic replies exasperated her, but she hoped to break if not soften his rigid attitude.

"At the first opportunity, Señor Hales, they will try to"

"Madam, your alarm for my safety is not easily understood. You abused one of the precious Hounds as much as I."

"But I," she said calmly, "am Doña Elvira Eton!"

He bowed stiffly, with a hint of mockery.

"Just what, may I ask, do you mean?" she asked.

"I have, since reaching San Francisco, heard the name many times."

"What have you heard?" This, suspiciously.

"Nothing that would perhaps offend you, but nothing that it would give me pleasure to repeat."

"Sir!" Her eyes widened, anger flickered in them. "What have you heard?"

He looked at her and said nothing.

"You will not answer me?"

"No."

Elvira was furious. At that moment she hated him. She felt her cheeks flush. Her impulses struggled together, whether to turn on him in a blaze of wrath, or to try soft subtilties. She did not want to drive him off, out of her presence, not while he was so ready to go. In that there would be no conquest.

It must be, she felt, for she had to explain to herself somehow his lack of courtesy toward her own desirable self, that he still loved that other woman, the wretched creature whom he had come to find. Elvira intended to prove to him that whatever he may have heard he had much else to learn of her.

Hales now was saying—

"—nothing more to tell, I will go."

"Ah, yes, señor, Ihave more to tell. This woman you are looking for is your—your sister, isn't she?"

That was a hit anyhow. She smiled, solicitously, pleased to see that the muscles of his face winced slightly. Then his jaws set hard, as if he would not answer.

"Your sister, isn't it?" she insisted, pecking with questions where she knew it most hurt him.

"There is no need, madam, to tell you. If you know her, know where she is, tell me and be done with it. I'll not discuss her with you. But I'll pay—anything, for information."

"Ah, please, make no mention of money! Perhaps I can help you a little. I am a woman. My sympathies are a woman's—for other women, unlucky, so unlucky—like myself."

He stared at her, then looked about the room, perhaps the most luxurious in the city. His glance went to her long fingers, covered with rings, passed quickly over her sheathing of silk, rested on the pendant pearls in her ears, paused on her face. He had spoken in silence more fully than if he had used words.

"Poh"—she pulled at her rings, stripped some from her fingers, held them out in her palm—"you think these trinkets can make a woman happy!"

"It is the women who think so!"

"Ah," she said, with a little shiver trembling visibly over her body—then threw the rings across the room. "Little you know of women, sir! Supposing you found your—your sister as I am? What then? What would you say? Do?"

No answer, excepting the glittering stare as he seemed to appraise the trappings of her harlotry. Then a thought came full-grown into her mind, and she put it into a question:

"You would kill her?"

"Madam, you are wasting time. If you know anything of what you pretend to know, name your price and out with it! I'll pay."

"Answer me this then," she said sharply, "is Anna your sister?"

He stiffened. His head went up. In his glance mingled surprise and the anger that comes from pain.

"Answer me, señor, then I will tell you. Is Anna Hales your sister?"

He hesitated. He seemed debating; almost he shook his head—she could tell that he did. Then:

"Madam, yes!"

She knew that he lied. She nearly laughed, she was that pleased. She had tricked him into a lie. But there was no laughter, for he took a step forward, his hand came up as if to seize her. She almost wished that though in anger he would seize her. Seize her, yes; but not strike! If he seized her she might love him; if he struck, she would hate. Hers might not be the blood of Castile, but hers was the pride of Aragon.

"Madam, where is she—my sister?"

A defiant jeering trembled on Elvira's red lips. But she was afraid to jeer, and she almost liked being afraid. She answered humbly, but there was a wilfully secretive look in her eyes that mocked him as she said:

"I can not tell you where she is—now. But she was for a time in the city—and bitter, very bitter toward all men. We were not really friends, but I know her. Yesterday I did not at first think you meant a woman when you asked if Ihad heard the name. She was so cruelly abused by the man who brought her here"

"Who?" It was more like an oath than a question.

"I don't really know," she said hastily. "Honestly, señor! I have heard of him, but not his name. I never knew her well, not very."

"Where is she? Where can I look for her?"

"I think she has gone to the mines—I am not sure. I would like to help—" she hesitated, doubtful whether to say, "you"; then said—"to help her. I will make inquiries and"

"Of whom? Tell me! I'll make inquiries."

"Ah, no, that would hardly do. I could find out in a roundabout way and"

"No need of such a way. Tell me where to go, whom to ask!"

"I really can't, for I don't really know."

"That, madam, is false! I'll have the truth from you. Out with it!"

"False? You mean I lie!" she cried, more as if hurt than angered.

He seemed to mean just that for he offered no correction.

Impulsively, in a subdued voice, but watching from under drooping lashes as if from ambush, she said:

"Señor, I have not told you the truth. I did not wish to hurt you so. I fear, fear your—your sister is dead. It is so easy to die in this city, and one is so soon forgotten. Poor Anna! I wonder where she is—now? So beautiful, at one time. Wasn't she? I will try to find her for you, señor."

"That will not do. She must be found at once before she hears that I am anywhere near. If she learns I am in the city she will hide."

"Hide? Why would she hide from her—her brother? Oh, no, no—not from a brother! From a husband—" the smile and glance were furtive.

"Madam, what game do you play? Where is she? Tell me, you! Tell me, you! Tell me or I'll choke it out of you!"

The good Doña swore in Spanish, then:

"What, sir! Dare touch me—you! Choke me? You? Ah!"

Her slim fingers snatched at her breast and an icicle of steel flashed out. She held it as if to strike, glaring; but behind the look was the wonder of what he would do, say, now?

Hales' hand went up, his fingers caught her wrist. Her cry of pain was real. He gave her arm a twist. The dagger dropped. She bent her knees yieldingly, staggered a little, clutched his hand to pull it off.

"Now, woman, tell the truth!"

"You hurt! Please! Oh! Oh, you hurt! I'll kill you for this Oh—don't- please! You do hurt me!" "Truth, out with it!"

She struggled with angry pull and jerk. Pain, any kind of physical pain, infuriated her. His fingers were fast, and the pain increased.

"Truth, woman!"

"Then have the truth!" she cried, physically hurt, enraged. "Go look for her in the Chilean tents! You'll find her there—somewhere! I meant to get her, put her into clothes, have her sober—be good to her, then have you come!"

Hales dropped her arm as if throwing something away. She knew that he was shocked. His gaze searched her face wrathfully.

"This is how you treat me! Go, go look till you find her! Look among rags on rubbish piles! She's there, somewhere!"

She glared at him scornfully. Her face was flushed. Her woman's pride was satisfied. She had humbled him. Her eyes met his in a level, sustained gaze. Now he was convinced.

Hales turned and with heavy steps walked hurriedly from the room. The door closed sharply.

Elvira looked at the door steadily for a moment, as if seeing beyond, through the wood, as if still watching him.

She turned and glanced down at the dagger, then laughed a little. Unconsciously she rubbed her wrist. She looked at the wrist. It was ringed with a dark bracelet of a bruise. He had hurt her. The wrist felt as if sprained, but she laughed quietly. She had hurt him more than he had hurt her.

Then another daring thought popped, instantly full grown, into her mind.

She ran to the inner door, calling:

"Tota! Sam! Sam!"

Tota came first, running.

"Where's Sam!"

"In back, Doña. He is coming."

"Sam!"

"Ah's heah, missus. Ah's heah!"

He came in, breathless.

"You know where the Red Lamb is, down near Clark's Point?" "No, missus, Ah doan't—" but he saw the frown come on her face and anxiously added—"Ah sho' knows jes' where to fin' it. Yes'am, missus, Ah knows jes' where it is!"

"There's a woman-Anna Hales. Go get her. Bring her here. Don't let any one know. She may be under another name, but you can find out which is this Hales creature. And bring her! Understand? You hear me!"

"Yes'am, missus!".

"Get out then, both of you! Out!"

They went, excited, in a hubbub.

Doña Elvira threw herself on the couch, hands behind her head, now careless of how she rumpled her hair or dress. She held up her wrist, looking at it, turning it about as if she wore a new and interesting bracelet—and laughed.

Hales returned to the Magnolia to wait for one o'clock and Mr. Tesla's payment. He took a seat near a corner, spread a newspaper across his knee, glanced along the headings, but nothing there was nearly so arresting as what was in his own thoughts.

Most of the gambling tables were now deserted; and the gamblers, having with methodical temptation arranged their stacks of gold coin in the center of the tables, preparatory to the heavy play that would begin during the afternoon, left this wealth entirely unguarded and strolled about with aloof composure, or drank at the bar, one with another, in a kind of distant friendliness. Their gold was as unwatched as if it were inviolable. And, apparently, it was.

Stewart Dawes, who could not have had more than an hour's sleep, returned near one o 'clock. He stood apart, :thin, pale, neat, aloof, near an end of the bar where he leisurely sipped ginger beer and from time to time glanced toward Hales.

In the meantime Mr. Tesla was having difficulty in getting twenty thousand dollars by one o'clock. His character and training was such that he regarded promptness to the minute almost as essential as the payment itself.

Cronin, the house manager, had gone some miles out of the city to inquire at a Spanish rancho he knew of regarding accommodation for Miss Tesla.

Mr. Tesla, not expecting any more difficulty than if he presented a certified check, had gone to the bank of Wilcox and Westgate.

This bank was twenty-five feet wide and fifty deep. A counter, but a step or two from the door, extended across the room.

The space between door and counter was crowded with men, smoking, chewing, talking loudly. Nearly all of them held sacks of gold dust in their hands. They were a rough lot, just down from the mines. There was a thumping of bags on the counter. Clerks opened the bags and examined the dust. They could tell from the fineness of the dust, the shape of the gold grains, just about from what diggings it came.

Mr. Tesla inquired for the manager and introduced himself.

Wilcox was a young man in shirt-sleeves, tousled hair, a squint in his right eye, a pen behind an ear and a chew of tobacco in his mouth.

"How air ye, Tesler? Come right in."

He raised the shelf-like gate at the end of the counter.

"Glad to meet ye, Tesler. Hear ye took Nevinson in f'r pardner. Good man, the colonel, only too damn spry with a gun."

Mr. Tesla showed his letters of credit, and Wilcox examined them with curiosity, then handed them back.

"They air good, I reckon, but I don't know nothin' about 'em. Me an' West jest started bankin' about two months ago, an' we ain't takin' chances. I'll tell ye, Tesler: Git the colonel to go on your note. He's good. He'll do it. He'll do anything f'r his friends.

Much against his wish; Mr. Tesla saw that he would have to go to Col. Nevinson if the payment was to be made promptly. He did not like Nevinson, whose every gesture and glance seemed at least partially inviting a quarrel.

After some inquiry, he discovered Col. Nevinson in Baer's saloon.

This was a well-known political hangout. Baer himself was a member of the city council that voted itself big salaries and speculated thievishly in real estate. Baer's closest friend was soon to be appointed judge, a man of coarse habits, and afterwards famous for his practice of adjourning court to go out and have a drink. He had been a peanut peddler.

Nevinson was drinking with a number of men, most of whom were city officials or hangers-on, such as the Hounds.

As Nevinson caught sight of Tesla he waved him up to the bar.

Mr. Tesla had already learned that in this aggressive democracy one was as likely to be introduced to a bartender as to a prominent merchant, and that a handshake must follow an introduction, or a quarrel would. He shook hands freely, then asked to speak with Nevinson alone.

"All right, Tesla. All right. Come over here. Excuse me, gentlemen, while I have a word with my friend."

Nevinson's arm was in a sling, but the injury was an inconvenience, nothing serious. He could remove his arm and use it, as he presently did, to hold a pen.

He now looked at Tesla with a nearly truculent sharpness and demanded:

"What can I do for you, Tesla?"

"Will you go on my note for twenty thousand dollars?"

"For a hundred, sir!" said Col.Nevinson hotly, as if some one had expressed doubt.

"Thank you, Colonel. But the smaller sum will be sufficient."

"But wait, Tesla. You want it to pay that! I hear his name is Hales!"

"Yes, so he told me."

"Ah," said the colonel, angrily thoughtful. "I understand, now. Curious, a friend of mine was just speaking of that name last night. You're going to pay him, Tesla?"

"I said I would have the money at one o 'clock."

"Don't pay it! Don't pay it I, tell you, Tesla."

"But I owe it, sir."

"No, you don't. Let him collect from Stewart Dawes. He dealt the game. Dawes'll take that fellow down a notch or two. Good man, Dawes."

"It is I who owe it, Colonel."

"No, you don't. Besides, if you are going to pay it, charge it off to the Magnolia!"

"The Magnolia did not bank the game."

"Damnation, sir! I know that! But tomorrow some of the games will be banked, so what's the difference? Learn how to do business, Tesla."

"But that is tomorrow."

"Tesla, you are too damn honest. I, sir, am the heaviest individual stockholder in the Magnolia Syndicate. Isn't that so? Well, then, I say charge it off on the company's books as bad luck—if you are fool enough to want to pay it. I wouldn't. me if I would!"

"No," said Mr. Tesla with firmness, "under the circumstances I am compelled to consider the loss as personal."

"Twenty thousand dollars is the devil of a lot of money. Tesla. But see here, Tesla, don't be in a hurry to pay it. If this is the Hales I think he is, by, sir, you won't have to pay him—not unless you want to pay his heirs!"

"Colonel Nevinson!" protested Mr.Tesla.

"Yes, sir, his soul! I have reason to believe that he has something against me. You saw this morning how he tried to force the quarrel. You saw, Tesla? And that greaser—they were waiting for me. I hate to stain a perfectly good piece of lead with his yellow blood"

"Colonel!" Mr. Tesla could feel his flesh creep.

"And don't ever interfere again as you did this morning, Tesla. When a gentleman has a quarrel forced on him, keep back, keep well back!"

"Colonel Nevinson, I deplore the violence between gentlemen in this city. I would"

"Call a greaser a gentleman! And this Hales, too, sir, is a greaser! That hat! His face—at least half greaser. I know how to teach those fellows. I've taught one right. They overrun this country. We Americans must keep a high hand against them. As you know, only a week or two ago I got back from my last trip to the mines. They are thick as bristles on a sow's belly up there"

"You are willing to accommodate me then?" asked Mr. Tesla, drawing the conversation from its unpleasantness.

"Against my wish, sir, yes! I do it for you, sir, as one friend to another."

"Thank you, Colonel!"

"Don't thank me. Damn it, don't thank me. I don't want to do it, but when a man is my friend, sir, I stand by him. When he is my enemy, I pile all hell full of coals and send him to the devil. And every man that knows me, knows that, sir!"

"I can believe it", said Mr. Tesla.

"By the way, Tesla, convey to your daughter my humblest apology for damn bad manners this morning, sir. I did not know, sir, that you had a daughter."

"It was quite a natural thing for you to wonder who she was. I was appalled to find her there. At present I am very anxious to find suitable quarters for her. Out of the city. With some respectable Spanish family and"

"Why with greasers, a lady of her quality, sir?"

"She speaks Spanish and"

"By, Tesla, I know the place. The very place. A Spanish rancho. A beautiful place, sir, not one of those mud huts. About fifteen miles from the city and off the main road, sir."

"Do you think I could secure accommodations for"

"Think! I know it, sir. I own the ranch. It is at your disposal!"

"I must say, Colonel, this is most surprising and acceptable. My daughter is using the balcony"

"No place for a lady, sir. If I may have the honor, I myself—this very afternoon, sir—will accompany you and your daughter to Cowden's ranch and see that everything is arranged for her comfort. That, sir, is settled. And as to the other matter—no, Tesla. I won't go on your note. But I'll give you a check for the amount. Just come with me. But if that's the Hales—well, sir, I'll probably have trouble with him shortly."

Col. Nevinson aggressively went to the bar, drew a pad of checks, called for pen, ink and sand, withdrew his arm from the sling and wrote: Pay to the order of Franz Tesla $20, 000. W. B. Nevinson. He sprinkled the writing with sand, shook it off, and with formal graciousness gave the check to Mr. Tesla, saying:

"Any further assistance that I can be, count on me, sir! count on me. And I'll have horses ready in an hour if you are ready to start for the ranch. But by, Tesla, if this is the Hales a friend mentioned to me last night—don't pay him for a few days. For your own profit, sir, wait a few days!"

Mr. Tesla entered the Magnolia and looked about. It was one o'clock. The gambler Dawes watched him come in, watched him go to Hales, watched them talk together.

"Here, sir," said Mr. Tesla, "is the amount. It is a check, endorsed over to you. I was afraid I would be a few minutes late if Iwent to bank for the money, but if you like"

"Quite all right, sir," said Hales, standing up. He scrutinized the signature for a moment, then, absently poking it into one of the pouches of his wide belt, said: "You can have the chance at it, on one card, if you like"

"No, thank you. I never gamble—odd as it may seem, never."

Mr. Tesla was pleasant, as if there was something else to be talked of, friendly.

"You don't? Why?"

"I made it a rule many years ago."

"Everything else in life being a gamble," said Hales with a steady look, "I don't see why not risk monte."

"Few men have such luck as yours, Mr. Hales."

"They are welcome to it—if they will take it all."

"By the way, Mr.Hales, " said Tesla in a conciliating tone "you haven 't any deep-rooted feeling against Col. Nevinson, have you?"

Hales' face seemed to contract in all its muscles, his eyes grew narrow, and after a thoughtful moment he said slowly:

"Nothing you might call deep-rooted, I suppose. I never saw the man before today, but I don't like what I hear or see of him. If he has appointed you to arrange a meeting, all right. Has he?"

Mr. Tesla gestured as if hurriedly putting aside such an idea:

"You misunderstand, absolutely! I greatly deplore the readiness of men in this city to kill one another."

Hales looked at him closely. The check was signed by Nevinson. He and Tesla were partners, but there was a convincing air of the gentleman about Tesla.

"In that case," said Hales, "I may tell you that I would not go out of my way to meet him—or to avoid him."

Mr. Tesla shook his head a little, not liking the tone. These men of San Francisco seemed to care as little for their lives as for their gold.

"From what I hear," Hales continued, "he is closely associated with the men who head this gang of hoodlums called the Hounds. I doubt if Hubert Lee had a fair chance for his life. Lee was not a friend of mine, though I knew him slightly. He knew some of my relatives. I came here to find him, and didn't—until I saw him dead. No, I have no quarrel with Nevinson, as long as he keeps out of my way."

Mr. Tesla's feelings toward Col. Nevinson had been greatly modified during the last hour. It was part of the gambling syndicate's scheme of business always to dispose of an interest in its holdings to some citizen who was influential and politically prominent, so that the syndicate would have a friend in the local affairs. Hubert Lee had been such a man; but from that point of view, Nevinson was as good, even better.

"Mr. Hales, can you tell me, does that young Spaniard carry a feud with Colonel Nevinson?"

"Not what you might call a feud, sir. But I can tell you this, Mr. Tesla. José de Sola is right on edge looking for trouble with any gringo that wants it. And I don't blame him. He would just about as soon shoot Nevinson as anybody, or a little sooner, on account of a remark Nevinson dropped something about whipping greasers—about knowing of one that had been whipped. That's hitting José on an open wound. Up at the mines not long ago some Americans pegged out José's brother on the ground and whipped him. Had tried to buy a horse he wouldn't sell—wasn't his horse, anyhow. They met him on the road and offered to buy the horse. The price they offered was fair enough, but it wasn't his horse. He didn't want to sell. They took the horse anyhow, and tossed him a bag of dust. He threw the bag back into the face of one of them. They gave him a rawhiding to teach him manners. Took his horse. He begged them to kill him. They laughed at that, not understanding how a Spaniard feels about having a whip laid on his shoulders. Then left him on foot."

"Atrocious!" said Mr. Tesla, with feeling.

"Yes, damn dangerous, too. The de Solas are prouder than kings. There were three Americans. All of them strangers. José, as soon as he heard about it, came up here to San Francisco to look around and see if he could find the horse—and who owns it. They haven't much else to go by, unless his brother, Don Esteban, happens to meet the men face to face. I know just about what will happen. Don Esteban de Sola has already called up the vaqueros from his ranch, and he will gather about him all the banditti that have been on the trails. As long as he lives he will hunt for those men, and when he is dead José and the other Spaniards will hunt for them. I don't understand what fools my countrymen are—strike a Spaniard. My God, I'd rather poke my face up against a coiled rattlesnake!"

"Mr.Hales, neither do Iunderstand these men, this country! "

"Neither do other people, calling Spaniards greasers, whip ping them, stealing from them. Californians are prouder than sons of kings! And count on it, the de Solas are going to have revenge- not only revenge, but one that pleases them."

"Shameful. Shameful," said Mr. Tesla. "I too know something of Spaniards. At one time I lived in Spain."

"I hadn't been in this city ten minutes before a fellow struck me with a whip, thinking I was a Spaniard. Why, if I had been a greaser, as he called me, I'd have killed him—then and there. I don't understand what Americans are thinking about."

Mr. Tesla went toward the balcony. When he had mounted the steps and disappeared, Stewart Dawes replaced his glass on the bar, flicked a speck or two from his dark sleeve, and, with a leisurely air, started across the room toward Hales.

Hales had picked up the newspaper and was standing, giving the headlines a parting glance to see if there was anything of interest.

As the gambler came near, Hales looked up, and seeing who it was, went on reading.

Dawes stopped, and after waiting a moment said coolly:

"May I have aword with you, Mr. Hales?"

Hales lowered the paper, looked questioningly, waited, then asked:

"What is it?"

"My funds are rather low, Mr. Hales," said Dawes quietly, but with something enigmatic in his low even tone.

"You want a chance at what I've won? All right."

"That isn't quite what I had in mind," Dawes replied with imperturbable reserve. "I am, sir, almost entirely without funds."

"I see. You want a loan? Maybe that can be arranged too."

"Yes"—the word was pronounced slowly, drawn out—"Yes, in a way. In a way, sir."

"What do you mean? Just what? Out with it."

"You have hit my bank pretty hard, Mr. Hales."

One side of Hales' mouth twisted slightly into something like a smile:

"You want me to try again? I've offered to do that. Make your game."

"Your last bet, and the largest, Mr. Hales, was not against my bank," said Dawes significantly, though just what the tone signified was not easily seen.

Hales looked at him, mystified and not pleasantly. There was the shadow of something subtle in the gambler's manner.

"What the hell are you driving at, Dawes? It wasn't your money that I won, but you dealt, didn't you?"

"That," said Dawes with a thin illuminating smile, "is just it. I dealt and" He stopped.

"And what?"

"And," Mr. Dawes lifted his eyebrows, "you won."

"I've usually won against your deal, haven't I?"

"Yes"—again the word was drawn out quietly, sibilantly—"yes, but this was just a little different."

Hales glared, and a frown gathered and deepened on his face as the meaning of what this gambler was trying to convey became clear. Then the newspaper dropped with a rustling flutter as his fist came up over his shoulder and struck Dawes in the face, knocking him clear off his feet, backward to the floor.

On the floor the gambler writhed, pulling at his gun. Hales jumped forward and stepped on the gambler's arm as if on a snake, pinning it to the floor.

Dawes cursed him, furiously. His thin face was whiter than chalk. He did not struggle. Hales, with the gun at his hip, held the muzzle toward the gambler's head, and Dawes looked straight into it, expectantly.

Hales, with his foot, crushed the gambler's fingers until they loosened the butt of the derringer, then he kicked it across the floor. He stepped back, looking warily at the crowd, which now, seeing that bullets were not about to fly, gathered near excitedly.

"Dawes! You get up and get out! And don't ever come near me again, you damn blackleg!"

"What's the muss?"

What's the row?"

"What's he done, Hales?"

"What's the trouble, fellers?"

Hales glanced at the men, but did not answer. He stepped back, with smooth quickness returning the gun to its holster.

The excited onlookers babbled among themselves, asking, guessing, about the row. They were not used to having men keep quiet in their quarrels, and the unfriendliness of Hales toward the crowd, the silence of the gambler, increased their wonder.

Dawes, except for a red swelling on one cheek, paler than he would be when dead, got up without haste and without looking at any one. His lips were pressed as tightly as the line of a scar. He slowly rubbed his right arm from elbow to wrist. The skin was broken on his hand and blood trickled. He was breathing hard but slowly; yet, a gambler to his fingertips, he took his humiliation with an icy poise that was very like dignity.

A friendly hand picked up his hat, brushed it slightly, held it out to him. Dawes took the hat in silence. He touched his collar, adjusted his cravat, brushed absently at the spotches [sic] of dirt on his black clothes, then, straightening up, walked off without a glance toward any one. He walked unhurriedly.

"He'll kill you, Hales, sure! First chance!" said some one eagerly.

"What was the trouble, Mr. Hales?"

"Why didn't you shoot him?"

"Have a drink, Mr. Hales?"

"No!" said Hales shortly, then walked off, his fingers fumbling in a pouch at his belt.

He started for the door, but glanced back and up toward the balcony. He stopped, turned on his heel and went toward the rear of the Magnolia.

As he reached the top of the short stairs the door opened.

Mr. Tesla had seen a part of the incident and had seen Hales coming. Tesla asked a little anxiously:

"What is it, Mr. Hales? What now is wrong?"

Ilona, across the room, sat erect on the divan, listening. Kredra, from the shadows, peered like a sybil watching auguries.

"Here"—Hales held out the check—"Dawes just asked me to split with him. Said he dealt so I could win. I can't keep this now."

Mr. Tesla looked from Hales to the offered check, but did not reach for it. He drew back slightly, saying:

"I don't quite understand? You are returning this?"

"Yes. Dawes didn't say out and out that he cheated on the deal"—Hales with a sort of absent movement of fingers tore the check in two and across—"but he took a lot of trouble to make me think that's what he meant. And he wanted to split. Here's the check."

He held out the torn pieces. Mr. Tesla took them as if a little reluctantly into his palm, then:

"I hardly know what to say, Mr. Hales. I—this is astonishing. But, sir, unless you are thoroughly satisfied that the deal was dishonest"

"I'm enough satisfied that I don't want it. Besides, under all the circumstances, perhaps I ought to have refused it anyhow. Blackleg gambler—I don 't doubt at all but that he did cheat."

"In a way, Mr. Hales, I dislike to accept the return of this. The wager was made, you won. It is really very unusual. A large sum, too. Few men would feel about it as you do."

Hales, rolling a cigaret, glanced up sharply, then with slight shake of head:

"You're wrong, I know lots of men that would."

Holding the cigaret between his fingers, he touched his sombrero with the suggestion of a military salute, turned and went down the stairs.

Mr. Tesla looked after him, then, with a nearly mystified expression, looked down at the torn paper in his hand. He pushed the door closed and went to Ilona.

"Here! Here, Tempête"—he held out the scraps of paper—"what do you say? Think? These Americans! I understand them not at all. When I am sure they are gold mad, all of them—then this! Anything, anything can happen in such a country. Amazing! What do you say, Tempête?"

Ilona, whom her father at times affectionately called Tempête, raised a slim hand and stirred the pieces of paper on his extended palm.

"I would not have expected it of him, Father."

"Of him? What do you know of him? I would never have expected it of any man—not in this city. It is amazing"

"Whom," he asked with a kind of amused interest, "is Kredra anathematizing?"

He stared toward the shadows where the Basque woman squatted and mumbled to herself in a low-voiced chant.

"The gambler. From the first glance she took a dislike to him."

Mr. Tesla laughed, but said:

"Nothing good comes from any one that Kredra dislikes—and you see what Dawes did. Sometimes I feel that she really thinks she is a prophetess."

"Oh, she is quite sure of it, " said Ilona.

Mr. Tesla went out.

As soon as he was gone, Kredra raised her voice, continuing the chant, calling down misfortune upon some one.

"Kredra! Kredra!"

"Yes, little one."

"Quiet, please. You mumble nonsense."

She arose quickly. "I call a curse. White-faced shadow of the Evil One! E-ah!"

She glared alarmingly, her body suddenly crouched, and the deeply set black eyes blazed.

"Why, Kredra, what's wrong with you?" Ilona asked tolerantly. "Why such unreasonable hate for that gambler?"

"I do not know," she said wearily, with puzzled shake of head, and coming up close to the girl. "But I smell evil in him. I hate him! Something, something—I feel it. Almost I can tell, but it escapes me. Yet I hate him!"

"You old witch-woman, I hate you!" said Ilona, dropping her hand affectionately on Kredra's shoulder. "You mumble charms, dear old witch."

"I call a curse!"

"On me, no doubt."

"No! On the snake-eyed one that walks upright! His heart is a red stone! His face is evil and I feel a hurt, here, here!" She pressed her hands to her breast. "May Death use him for a feast!"