ensing. It was made a rule, upon
Brannan's advice, that none should be served until he had voted.

Brown kept shouting: "Ship-shape, gents, and reg'lar; that's the word.
Place your vote and then you drinks.... Gord bless yer merry hearts."

Thus he harangued them into order and coaxed many a Russian, Spanish,
English and American coin across his bar. Suddenly he looked into the
eyes of Aleck McTurpin.

"Give me a brandy sling," the gambler ordered. He was in a rough mood,
which ensues from heavy and continued drinking.

"Have ye voted, Aleck?" Brown inquired.

"I vote when I please," McTurpin answered sullenly, "and I drink when it
suits me." He took from an inner pocket of his coat a derringer with
silver mountings, laid it meaningly upon the bar. "I ordered a
brandy sling."

Brown paled, but his eye did not waver. Almost casually, he spoke. "Stop
your jokin', Aleck. Rules is rules."

McTurpin's fingers closed about the pistol. His eyes were venomous.

Then Benito Windham entered. Just inside the door he paused,
uncertainly. "I have come to vote for Senor Bartlett as Alcalde,"
he declared.

A laugh greeted him. "You should not announce your choice," said
Inspector Ward severely. "The ballot is supposedly secret."

McTurpin turned, his quarrel with Brown instantly forgotten. "Throw the
little greaser out," he spoke with slow distinctness. "This is a white
man's show."

There was a startled silence. "He's drunk," Brown told them soothingly.
"Aleck's drunk. Don't listen to him."

"Drunk or not, I back my words." He waved the weapon threateningly. "Sit
down there," he ordered Windham. "If you want to vote you'll vote for a
gentleman. Write Bob Ridley's name on your ballot, or, by God! I'll fix
you." Benito, as if hypnotized, took a seat at the table and dipped his
quill in the ink. The others stirred uneasily, but made no move. There
was a moment of foreboding silence. Then a hearty voice said from the
door: "What's the matter, gentlemen?"

No one answered. McTurpin, the pistol in his hand, still stood above
Benito. The latter's fingers held the quill suspended. A drop of ink
fell on the ballot slip unnoted. Brannan, with a puzzled frown, came
forward, laid a hand upon the gambler's shoulder.

"What's the matter here?" he asked more sharply.

McTurpin turned upon him fiercely. "Go to hell!" he cried. "I'm running
this."

Brannan's voice was quiet. "Put the pistol down!" he ordered.
Deliberately McTurpi