Port O' Gold A History-Romance of the San Francisco Argonauts

Excerpt

CHAPTER I

YERBA BUENA

It was 1845. Three quarters of a century had passed since young Francisco Garvez, as he rode beside Portola's chief of Scouts, glimpsed the mystic vision of a city rising from the sandy shores of San Francisco Bay.

Garvez, so tradition held, had taken for his spouse an Indian maiden educated by the mission padres of far San Diego. For his service as soldado of old Spain he had been granted many acres near the Mission of Dolores and his son, through marriage, had combined this with another large estate. There a second generation of the Garvez family had looked down from a palatial hacienda upon spreading grain-fields, wide-reaching pastures and corrals of blooded stock. They had seen the Mission era wax and wane and Mexico cast off the governmental shackles of Madrid. They had looked askance upon the coming of the "Gringo" and Francisco Garvez II, in the feebleness of age, had railed against the destiny that gave his youngest daughter to a Yankee engineer. He had bade her choose between allegiance to an honored race and exile with one whom he termed an unknown, alien interloper. But in the end he had forgiven, when she chose, as is the wont of women, Love's eternal path. Thus the Garvez rancho, at his death became the Windham ranch and there dwelt Dona Anita with her children Inez and Benito, for her husband, "Don Roberto" Windham lingered with an engineering expedition in the wilds of Oregon.

Just nineteen was young Benito, straight and slim, combining in his fledgling soul the austere heritage of Anglo-Saxons with the leaping fires of Castile. Fondly, yet with something anxious in her glance, his mother watched the boy as he sprang nimbly to the saddle of his favorite horse. He was like her husband, strong and self-reliant. Yet,--she sighed involuntarily with the thought,--he had much of the manner of her handsome and ill-fated brother, Don Diego, victim of a duel that had followed cards and wine.

"Why so troubled, madre mia?" The little hand of Inez stole into her mother's reassuringly. "Is it that you fear for our Benito when he rides among the Gringos of the puebla?"

Her dark crowned and exquisite head rose proudly and her eyes flashed as she watched her brother riding with the grace of splendid horsemanship toward the distant town of Yerba Buena. "He can take care of himself," she ended with, a toss of her head.

"To be sure, my little one," the Dona Windham answered smiling. No doubt it was a foolish apprehension she decided. If only the Dona Briones who lived on a ranchita near the bay-shore did not gossip so of the Americano games of chance. And if only she might know what took Benito there so frequently.

Benito spurred his horse toward the puebla. A well-filled purse jingled in his pocket and now and then he tossed a silver coin to some importuning Indian along the road. As he passed the little ranch-house of Dona Briones he waved his hat gaily in answer to her invitation to stop. Benito called her Tia Juana. Large and motherly she was, a woman of untiring energy who, all alone cultivated the ranchito which supplied milk, butter, eggs and vegetables to ships which anchored in the cove of Yerba Buena. She was the friend of all sick and unfortunate beings, the secret ally of deserting sailors whom she often hid from searching parties. Benito was her special favorite and now she sighed and shook her head as he rode on. She had heard of his losses at the gringo game called "pokkere." She mistrusted it together with all other alien machinations.

Benito reached the little hamlet dreaming in the sun, a welter of scrambled habitations. There was the little ship's cabin, called Kent Hall, where dwelt that genial spirit, Nathan Spear, his father's friend. Nearby was the dwelling, carpenter and blacksmith shop of Calvert Davis; the homes of Victor Pruden, French savant and secretary to Governor Alvarado; Thompson the hide trader who married Concepcion Avila, reigning beauty of her day; Stephen Smith, pioneer saw-miller, who brought the first pianos to California.

Where a spring gushed forth and furnished water to the ships, Juan Fuller had his washhouse. Within a stone's throw was the grist mill of Daniel Sill where a mule turned, with the frequent interruptions of his balky temperament, a crude and ponderous treadmill. Grain laden ox-carts stood along the road before it.

Farther down was Finch's, better known as John the Tinker's bowling alley; Cooper's groggery, nicknamed "Jack the Sailor's," Vioget's house, later to be Yerba Buena's first hotel. The new warehouse of William Leidesdorff stood close to the waterline and, at the head of the plaza, the customs house built by Indians at the governor's order looked down on the shipping.

Benito reined his horse as he reached the Plaza where a dozen other mounts were tethered and left his steed to crop the short grass without the formality of hitching. He remembered how, nine years ago, Don Jacob Primer Leese had given a grand ball to celebrate the completion of his wooden casa, the first of its kind in Yerba Buena. There had been music and feasting with barbecued meats and the firing of guns to commemorate the fourth of July which was the birth of Americano independence. Long ago Leese had moved his quarters farther from the beach and sold his famous casa to the Hudson's Bay company. Half perfunctorily, young Windham made his way there, entered and sat down in the big trading room where sailormen were usually assembled to discourse profanely of the perils of the sea. Benito liked to hear them and to listen to the drunken boasts of Factor William Rae, who threatened that his company would drive all Yankee traders out of California. Sometimes Spear would be there, sardonically witty, drinking heavily but never befuddled by his liquor. But today the place was silent, practically deserted so Benito, after a glass of fiery Scotch liquor with the factor, made his way into the road again. There a hand fell on his shoulder and Spear's hearty voice saluted him:

"How fares it at the ranch, Camerado?"

"Moderately," the young man answered, "for my mother waits impatiently the coming of my father. She is very lonely since my uncle died. Though Inez tries to comfort her, she, too, is apprehensive. The time set by my father for home-coming is long past."

"It is the way of women," Spear said gently. "Give them my respects. If you ride toward home I will accompany you a portion of the way."

Benito turned an almost furtive glance on his companion. "Not yet," ... he answered hastily, "a thousand pardons, senor. I have other errands here."

He nodded half impatiently and made his way along the embarcadero. Spear saw him turn into the drinking place of Cooper.

A stranger caught Spear's glance and smiled significantly. "I saw the lad last night at poker with a crowd that's not above a crooked deal.... Someone should stop him." In the voice was tentative suggestion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who's that he's playing with?" asked Potts. "I mean the dark one with a scar."

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

"That's Aleck McTurpin from Australia. Thought you knew him."

"One of the Sydney coves?"

"Not quite so loud," the other cautioned hastily. "They call him that--behind his back. But who's to tell? I'd like to get the lad out of his clutches well enough."

"Think I'll watch the game," Potts said, and sauntered to the table. He laid a friendly hand on Windham's shoulder....