ed of
such defense--the onslaught of Benito found him unprepared. He went over
backward, the young man's fingers on his throat. From the overturned
table money rattled to the floor and rolled into distant corners.
Hastily the non-combatants sought a refuge from expected bullets. But
no pistol barked. McTurpin's strength far overmatched that of the other.
Instantly he was on his feet. Benito's second rush was countered by a
blow upon the jaw. The boy fell heavily.

McTurpin smoothed his ruffled plumage and picked up the scattered coins.
"Take the young idiot home," he said across his shoulder, as he strode
out. "Pour a little whisky down his throat. He isn't hurt."

CHAPTER III

THE GRINGO SHIPS

Government was but a name in Yerba Buena. A gringo engineer named
Fremont with a rabble of adventurers had overthrown the valiant Vallejo
at Sonora and declared a California Republic. He had spiked the cannon
at the Presidio. And now a gringo sloop-of-war was in the bay, some said
with orders to reduce the port. Almost simultaneously an English frigate
came and there were rumors of a war between the Anglo-Saxon nations.

The prefect, Don Rafael Pinto, had already joined the fleeing Governor
Castro. Commandante Francisco Sanchez, having sent his soldiers to
augment the Castro forces in the south, was without a garrison and had
retired to his rancho.

Nevertheless, had the Senora Windham, with her son and daughter, called
upon Sub-prefect Guerrero in hope of justice. Her rancho was being taken
from her. Already McTurpin had pre-empted a portion of the grant and
only the armed opposition of the Windham vaqueros prevented an entire
dispossession.

Though Guerrero listened, courteous and punctilious, he had obviously no
power to afford relief. He was a curiously nervous man of polished
manners whose eyelids twitched at intervals with a sort of slow St.
Vitus' dance.

"What can I do, Senora?" with a blend of whimsicality and desperation.
"I am an official without a staff. And Sanchez a commander stripped of
his soldados." He stepped to the door with them and looked down upon the
dancing, rippling waters of the bay, where two ships rode.

"Let these gringos fight it out together. This McTurpin is an Inglese,
I am told, from their far colony across the sea. If the Americanos
triumph take your claim to them. If not, God save you, my senora.
I cannot."

Don Guillermo Richardson, the former harbormaster, came up the hill a