CHAPTER XXIX

THE SQUATTER CONSPIRACY

Instantly the slight man rose. He had narrow eyes, shrewd and calculating and the sinuous motions of a contortionist. Linking his arm with Benito's, he smiled, disclosing small, discolored teeth. There was something ratlike about him, infinitely repellant. "Come, I'll tyke ye to 'im," he volunteered.

But this did not suit Benito's purpose. "I must go alone," he said emphatically.

The other eyed him with suspicion. "Then find him alone," he countered, sullenly. But a moment later he was plucking at Benito's elbow. "What's it all abaout, this 'ere news? Cawn't ye tell a fellow? Give me an inklin'; trust me and I'll trust you; that's business."

Benito hesitated. "It's about the ranch," he returned at a venture.

"Ow, the rawnch. Well, you needn't 'ave been so bloody sly about it. Alec isn't worried much abaout the rawnch. 'E's bigger fish to fry. But you can see 'im if you wants. 'E's at the Broken Bottle Tavern up in Sydney Town."

They had a drink together; then Benito parted from his informant, ruminating over what the little man, so palpably a "Sydney Duck," had told him.

Benito surveyed his reflection in a glass. In his rain-bedraggled attire he might pass for one of the Sydney Ducks himself. His boots were splashed with mud, his scrape wrinkled and formless. He pulled the dripping hat into a disheveled slouch, low down on his forehead. McTurpin had not seen him with a beard, had failed to recognize him at the polling station. Benito decided to risk it.

* * * * *

One of the largest and most pretentious of Sydney Town's "pubs," or taverns, was The Broken Bottle, kept by a former English pugilist from Botany Bay. He was known as Bruiser Jake, could neither read nor write and was shaped very much like a log, his neck being as large as his head. It was said that the Australian authorities had tried to hang him several times, but failed because the noose slipped over his chin and ears, refusing its usual function. So he finally had been given a "ticket of leave" and had come to California. Curiously enough the Bruiser never drank. He prided himself on his sobriety and the great strength of his massive hands in which he could squeeze the water out of a potato. Ordinarily he was not quarrelsome, though he fought like a tiger when aroused.

Benito found this worthy behind his bar and asked for a drink of English ale, a passable quality of which was served in the original imported bottles at most public houses.

The Bruiser watched him furtively with little piglike eyes. "And who might ye be, stranger?" he asked when Benito set down his glass.

"'Awkins--that's as good a nyme as another," said Benito, essaying the cockney speech. "And what ye daon't know won't 'urt you, my friend." He threw down a silver piece, took the bottle and glass with him and sat down at a table near the corner. Hard by he had glimpsed the familiar broad back of McTurpin.

At first the half-whispered converse of the trio at the adjoining table was incomprehensible to his ears, but after a time he caught words, phrases, sentences.

First the word "squatters" reached him, several times repeated; then, "at Rincon." Finally, "the best lots in the city can be held."

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

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

"But it's government ground. It's leased to Ted Shillaber," one objected.

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

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

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

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

"Ker-CHEW!"

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

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

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

"The cove you don hout o' his rawnch?" asked the Bruiser, curiously.

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

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

"And why'll it fail, my young jackanapes?" the gambler blazed at him. "Do you reckon I'll let you go to give the alarm?"

It was then Benito threw his bombshell. It was but a shrewd guess. Yet it worked amazingly. "Your plan will fail," he said with slow distinctness, "because Sam Brennan and Alcalde Geary know you set the town afire. Because they're going to hang you."

Rage and terror mingled in McTurpin's face. Speechless, paralyzing wrath that held him open-mouthed a moment. In that moment Windham acted quickly. He hurled the bottle, still half full of ale, at his antagonist, missed him by the fraction of an inch and sent the missile caroming against the Bruiser's ear, thence down among a pyramid of glasses. There was a shivering tinkle; then the roar as of a maddened bull. The Bruiser charged. Windham shot twice into the air and fled. He heard a rending crash behind him, a voice that cried aloud in mortal pain, a shot. Then, silence.

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