CHAPTER XVII

THE QUEST OF FORTUNE

By the end of June more than half of San Francisco's population had departed for the mines. They went by varied routes, mostly on horseback. Rowboats, which a month ago had sold for $50, were now bringing ten times that sum, for many took the river route to the gold fields. Others toiled their way through the hills and the Livermore Valley. The ferry across Carquinez Straits at Benicia, was thronged to the danger of sinking.

Those who stayed at home awaited eagerly the irregular mails which straggled in from unsettled, unorganized, often inaccessible regions where men cut and slashed the bowels of the earth for precious metal, or waded knee-deep in icy torrents, washing their sands in shallow containers for golden residue. No letter had come from Benito to Inez or Adrian. But Robert Windham wrote from Monterey as follows:

"My Children: Monterey is mad with the gold-lust, and our citizens are departing with a haste that threatens depopulation. Until recently we had small belief in the tales of sudden fortune started by the finds at Marshall's mill. Alcalde Colton dispatched a messenger to the American River on the 6th of June, and, though he has not returned, others have brought the news he was sent to gain. On the 12th a man came into town with a nugget weighing an ounce and all Monterey Buzzed with excitement. Everyone wanted to test it with acids and microscopes. An old woman brought her ring and when placed side by side, the metal seemed identical; it was also compared with the gold knob of a cane. Some declare it a humbug, but it is generally believed to be genuine gold.

"Governor Mason, who has been messing with Alcalde Colton and a naval officer named Lieutenant Lanman, is now compelled to bake his own bread. The trio roast their coffee and cook what meals they eat. Even the negro who blacked their boots went gold hunting and returned after a few weeks with $2000.

"Yesterday I met a rough-looking fellow who appeared to be starving. He had a sack on his shoulder in which was gold-dust and nuggets worth $15,000. You should have seen him a few hours later--all perfumed and barbered, with shiny boots; costly, ill-fitting clothes and a marvelous display of jewelry.

"Alcalde Colton is going to the mines next month. He laughed when he told me of Henry Bee, the alguacil or jailor of San Jose. This man had charge of ten prisoners, some of whom were Indians, charged with murder. He tried to turn them over to the alcalde, but the latter was at the mines. So Bee took his prisoners with him. It is said their digging has already made him rich and that he'll let them loose. There is no one to chide him. And no one to care."

Later in the day Sam Brannan and Editor Kemble looked in on the Stanleys. "It's sheer insanity!" exploded Kemble. "The soldiers have gone--left their wives and their children to starve. Even the church is locked. Governor Mason has threatened martial law in the mining regions, which are filled with cutthroats and robbers. It's said he contemplates giving furloughs of two or three months to the gold-fevered troops which remain. Was there ever such idiocy?"

"You're wrong, Ed," Brannan told him. "This gold boom is the biggest thing that's ever happened. It'll bring the world to our door. Why, Mason has reported that gold enough's been taken from the mines already to pay for the Mexican war."

"Bah!" cried Kemble, and stalked out muttering. Brannan laughed. "He's riding his hobby consistently. But he'll come down. So you've had no news from Benito?"

"No," said Inez gloomily. "Perhaps it is too soon. Perhaps he has had no luck to tell us of as yet. But I wish he would write just a line."

"Well, well, cheer up, my dear," said Brannan, reassuringly. "Benito can take care of himself. Next week I return to my store in the gold lands, and I'll have an eye out for the lad. How does your work go, Adrian?"

"Poorly," answered Stanley. "Labor's too high to make money. Why, the common laborers who were satisfied with a dollar a day, now ask ten, and mechanics twenty. Even the Indians and the immigrants learn at once the crazy price of service."

"San Francisco. Port o' Gold!" apostrophized the Mormon gaily. He went on his way with a friendly wave of the hand. His steps were bent toward Alcalde Hyde's headquarters. Hyde had made many enemies by his set, opinionated ways. There was talk of putting Rev. Thaddeus Leavenworth in his place. But Brannan was by no means certain this would solve the problem. He missed Leidesdorff sadly. The latter's sudden death had left a serious hiatus. He was used to talking problems over with the genial, hospitable Dane, whose counsel was always placid, well considered.

Congress had failed to provide a government for California. San Francisco grumbled; more than all other towns she needed law. Stevenson's regiment had been disbanded; its many irresponsibles, held previously in check by military discipline, now indulged their bent for lawlessness, unstinted. Everything was confusion. Gold-dust was the legal tender, but its value was unfixed. The government accepted it at $10 per ounce, with the privilege of redemption in coin.

The problem of land grants was becoming serious. There were more than hints of the alcalde's speculation; of illegal favors shown to friends, undue restrictions placed on others. Brannan shook his head as he climbed Washington street hill toward the alcalde's office. In the plaza stood a few mangy horses, too decrepit for sale to gold seekers. Gambling houses and saloons ringed the square and from these proceeded drunken shouts, an incessant click of poker chips; now and then a burst of song.

The sound of a shot swung him swiftly about. It came from the door of a noisy and crowded mart of chance recently erected, but already the scene of many quarrels. The blare of music which had issued from it swiftly ceased. There was a momentary silence; then a sound of shuffling feet, of whispering voices.

A man ran out into the street as if the devil were after him; another followed, staggering, a pistol in his hand. He fired one shot and then collapsed with horrid suddenness at Brannan's feet. The other man ran into Portsmouth Square, vaulted to the saddle of a horse and spurred furiously away.

Brannan stooped over the fallen figure. It was that of a brawny, bearded man, red-shirted, booted, evidently a miner. That he was mortally wounded his gazing eyes gave evidence. Yet such was his immense vitality that he muttered, clutching at his throat--staving off dissolution with the mighty passionate vehemence of some dominating purpose. Brannan bent to listen.

"Write," he gasped, and Brannan, with an understanding nod, obeyed. "I bequeath my claim ... south fork ... American River ... fifty feet from end of Lone Pine's shadow ... sunset ... to my pard ... Benito Wind--" His voice broke, but his eyes watched Brannan's movements as the latter wrote. Dying hands grasped paper, pencil ... signed a scrawling signature, "Joe Burthen." Then the head dropped back, rolled for a moment and lay still.

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