CHAPTER XIX

THE VEILED WOMAN

Several months went by with no news from Benito. James Burthen had been buried in the little graveyard on a hill overlooking the bay. And that ended the matter in so far as San Francisco was concerned.

In the Alta California, a consolidation of two rival papers, appeared a brief notice chronicling the death of an unidentified miner, whose assassin, also nameless, had escaped. Ensenada Rose, described as an exotic female of dubious antecedents and still more suspicious motives, had left the Eldorado on the morning after the shooting "for parts unknown." She was believed to hold some "key to the tragic mystery which it was not her purpose to reveal."

But killings were becoming too familiar in the growing town to excite much comment. San Francisco's population had quadrupled in the past half year and men were streaming in by the hundreds from all quarters of the globe. Flimsy bunk-houses were hastily erected, springing up as if by magic overnight. Men stood in long lines for a chance at these sorry accommodations and the often sorrier meals which a score of enterprising culinary novices served at prices from one dollar up. Lodging was $30 per month and at this price men slept on naked boards like sailors in a forecastle, one above the other. Often half a dozen pairs of blankets served a hundred sleepers. For as soon as a guest of these palatial hostelries began to snore the enterprising landlord stripped his body of its covering and served it to a later arrival.

"If the town grows much faster it will be a tragedy," remarked Adrian to James Lick that afternoon. Lick had bought a city lot at Montgomery and Jackson streets and had already sold a portion of it for $30,000. He was a believer in San Francisco's future, and at San Jose his flour mill, once contemptuously called "Lick's folly," was grinding grain which at present prices brought almost its weight in gold.

"Things always right themselves, my boy," he said. "Don't worry. Keep pegging away at your sand lots. Some day you'll be a millionaire."

"But half of these people are homeless. And every day they come faster. In our neighborhood are a dozen ramshackle tents where these poor devils keep 'bachelors' hall' with little more than a skillet and a coffee pot. They call it 'ranching.'" He laughed. "What would our old land barons have thought of a rancho four by six feet, which the first of our trade winds will blow into the bay?"

"The Lord," said Lick, devoutly, "tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. And also to the homeless squatter on our sandy shores."

"I hope you're right," responded Stanley. "It does me good to hear someone speak of God in this godless place. It is full of thieves and cut-throats; they've a settlement at the base of the hill overlooking Clark's Point. No man's life is safe, they tell me, over there."

Lick frowned. "They call it Sydney Town because so many Australian convicts have settled in it. Some day we'll form a citizens' committee and run them off."

"Which reminds me," Lick retorted, "that McTurpin came to town this morning. With a veiled woman ... or girl. She looks little more than a child."

Adrian surveyed the other, startled. "Child?" His mind was full of vague suspicions.

"Well, she didn't weigh more than a hundred. Yes, they came--both on one horse, and the fellow's companion none too well pleased, I should say. Frightened, perhaps, though why she should be is a puzzle." Lick shrugged his shoulders.

"Has he taken the girl to his--the ranch?" asked Adrian.

"Don't know. I reckon not," Lick answered. "They ate at the City Hotel. He'd a bag full of dust, so he'll gamble and guzzle till morning most likely." He regarded his friend keenly, a trifle uneasily. "Come, Adrian ... I'll walk past your door with you."

"I'm not going home just yet, thanks," Stanley's tone was nervously evasive.

"Well, good-night, then," said the other with reluctance. He turned south on Kearny street toward his home. Stanley, looking after him, stood for a moment as if undetermined. Then he took his way across the Plaza toward the City Hotel.

In the bar, a long and low-ceiling room, talk buzzed and smoke from many pipes made a bluish, acrid fog through which, Adrian, standing in the doorway, saw, imperfectly, a long line of men at the bar. Others sat at tables playing poker and drinking incessantly, men in red-flannel shirts, blue denim trousers tucked into high, wrinkled boots. They wore wide-brimmed hats, and cursed or spat with a fervor and vehemence that indicated enjoyment. Adrian presently made out the stocky form of McTurpin, glass upraised. Before him on the bar were a fat buckskin bag and a bottle. He was boasting of his luck at the mines.

A companion "hefted" the treasure admiringly. "Did you make it gamblin', Alec?" he inquired.

"No, by Harry!" said the other, tartly. "I'm no gambler any more. I'm a respectable gentleman with a mine and a ranch," he emptied his glass and, smacking his lips, continued, "and a beautiful young girl that loves me ... loves me. Understand?" His hand came down upon the other's shoulder with a sounding whack.

"Where is she?" asked the other, coaxingly. "You're a cunning hombre, Alec. Leave us have a look at her, I say."

"Bye and bye," McTurpin spoke more cautiously. "Bye and bye ... then you can be a witness to the marriage, Dave." He drew the second man aside across the room, so near to Adrian that the latter stepped back to avoid discovery.

"She's a respectable lass," he heard McTurpin whisper. "Yes, it's marry or nothing with her ... and I'm willing enough, the Lord knows. Can ye find me a preacher, old fellow?"

He could not make out the other's reply. Their voices died down to an imperceptible whisper as they moved farther away. Stanley thought they argued over something. Then the man called Dave passed him and went swiftly up the hill.

Vaguely troubled, Stanley returned to the veranda. It was unoccupied for chilly evening breezes had driven the loungers indoors. Absently he paced the creaking boards and, having reached a corner of the building, continued his promenade along what seemed to be the rear of the building. Here a line of doors opened on the veranda like the upper staterooms of a ship.

Why should he trouble his mind about McTurpin and a paramour? thought Adrian. Yet his thought was curiously disturbed. Something Spear had read from a letter vexed him dimly like a memory imperfectly recalled. What was there about McTurpin and a child? Whose child? And what had it to do with the veiled woman who had ridden with the gambler from the mines. Impishly the facts eluded him. Inez would know. But Inez must not be bothered just now--at this time.

He paused and listened. Was that a woman sobbing? Of course not. Only his nerves, his silly sentiment. He would go home and forget the whole thing.

There it was again. This time he could not be mistaken. Noiselessly he made his way toward the sound. It stopped. But presently it came again. From where? Ah, yes, the window with a broken pane.

Soft, heartbroken, smothered wailing. Spasms of it. Then an interlude of silence. Adrian's heart beat rapidly. He tip-toed to the window, tried the door beside it. Locked. After a moment's hesitation he spoke, softly: "Is someone in trouble?"

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