"No," returned Benito. Once more he plunged down hill, seized a bucket and began the interminable passing of water. He looked about for Adrian but did not see him. He became a machine, dully, persistently, desperately performing certain ever-repeated tasks. Hours seemed to pass. Then, of a sudden, something interrupted the accustomed trend. He held out his hands and no bucket met it. With a look of stupid surprise he stared at the man behind him. He continued to hold out his hand. "Wake up," cried the other, and gave him a whack across the shoulders. "Wake up, Benito, man. The fire's out." Robert Parker, whose hotel was a litter of smoking timbers, and Tom Maguire, owner of what once had been the Eldorado gambling house, were discussing their losses. "Busted?" Parker asked. "Cleaned!" Maguire answered. "Goin' to rebuild?" "Yep. And you?" "Sartin. Sure. Soon as I can get the lumber and a loan." "Put her there, pard." Their hands met with a smack. "That's the spirit of San Francisco," Ridley remarked. "Well we've learned a lesson. Next time we'll be ready for this sort of thing. Broderick's planning already for an engine company." "I reckon," Adrian commented as he joined the group, "a vigilance committee is what we need even more." To this Benito made no answer. Into his mind flashed a memory of the trio that had left Thieves' Hollow at daybreak. CHAPTER XXVII POLITICS AND A WARNING Benito Windham rose reluctantly and stretched himself. It was very comfortable in the living-room of the ranch house, where a fire crackled in the huge stone grate built by his grandfather's Indian artisans. Many of the valuable tapestries imported from Spain had been removed by McTurpin during his tenure, but even bare adobe walls were cheerful in the light of blazing logs, and rugs of native weave accorded well with the simple mission furniture. In a great chair that almost swallowed her sat Alice, gazing dreamily into the embers. Family portraits hung upon the wall, and one of these, stiff and haughty in the regimentals of a soldado de cuero, seemed to look down upon the domestic picture with a certain austere benignity. This was the painting of Francisco Garvez of hidalgo lineage, who had stood beside Ortega, the Pathfinder, when that honored scout of Portola had found the bay of San Francisco and the Golden Gate. "Carissima, how he would have loved you, that old man!" Benito's tone was dreamy. Alice Windham turned. "You are like him, Benito," she said fondly. "There is the same flash in your eye. Come, sit for awhile by the fire. It's so cosy when it storms." Benito kissed her. "I would that I might, but today there is an election in the city," he reminded. "I must go to vote. Perhaps I can persuade the good Broderick to dine with us this evening; or Brannan--though he is so busy nowadays. Often I look about unconsciously for Nathan Spear. It seems impossible that he is dead."