CHAPTER VII.

ARRIVAL OF THE GUEST.

It was Saturday evening; the moon rose upon a scene which utterly changed the whole aspect of the ranche.

Since early in the afternoon the road from the mines had been filled with men, who poured down into the valley to seek relaxation after their week's successful toil, and relieve themselves, perhaps, of every ounce of the yellow dust which they had labored so hard to gain.

About the tents and cabins were grouped scores of men from every nation of the civilized world. Long tables had been set out in the open air, covered with such food as the owners of the huts could procure; barrels of liquor were standing under the trees, ready broached, and moist at the tap from frequent applications.

A great fire had been kindled near the cabins, at which quarters of beef, joints of venison, and groups of wild game were roasting with a slow success that filled the air with appetizing odors. In fact, the whole valley took the appearance of a political barbecue or gipsy encampment. The miners, in the slouched hats, red shirts, and muddy boots, gave picturesque effect to the scene which a philosopher would have condemned and an artist forgiven at the first glance.

The ranche had its full share of visitors; food and drink were bountifully provided. Yates and Dickinson moved about among the men, excited by liquor and evil passions, and urging them on to every species of excess, like fiends seeking to drag down humanity to their own base level.

Secure in her chamber, Sybil listened to the tumult and smiled quietly. She really had something in common with Lucretia Borgia besides the golden tint in her hair. She was neither shocked nor afraid; but had grown so accustomed to such scenes that they no longer had any power to affect her.

She was sitting by her window, and looking toward the path which led from the mountains, so absorbed in thought that she scarcely heard the shouts and hideous din which ascended from below.

At last she beheld two men on horseback coming down the declivity, preceded by a guide. No trace of exultation lit up her features; the face grew more hard and stern; the peculiar look which gave such age to her countenance settled over its whiteness--that was all. She clenched her hands on the window-sill, and watched their approach.

"Margaret's cousin," she whispered, once; "well, hereafter in my dreams I shall be worthy her thanks--she was fond of him--shedding tears--yes, yes, it is my turn now!"

The men rode slowly on, and as they reached the foot of the mountain, and the demoniac scene, lighted by the moon and the glare of the camp-fires, burst upon them, they simultaneously checked their horses, and looked at each other in horrified astonishment.

"Great heavens, what a sight!" exclaimed Hinchley.

"It's like going down into purgatory," muttered the domestic. "Shall we have to spend the night here, Mr. Hinchley?"

"You can't do no better," interrupted the guide; "it's the same thing clear to Wilson's ranche. You'll do well enough at Phil Yates's; he promised you rooms and beds to yourselves--you'd best come on."

The guide looked eagerly about as he spoke, his savage nature in a state of pleasurable excitement, and anxious to join the desperate crowds that were scattered through the valley.

"I wish we had stopped at the diggings," Hinchley said.

The guide had stepped away from them, and they conversed for a few seconds in private.

"Luckily, nobody knows we've got the money and dust with us," said the man.

"That is true. I dare say we are quite as safe in this crowd as we should be alone with the people that live at Wilson's house. You must keep a good look-out all night, Martin; I will see that our rooms are close together. If we are assailed we must do our best."

There was no time for further conversation; the guide summoned them impatiently, and they rode on toward the ranche, passing several camp-fires about which were grouped evil-looking men drinking and gambling, some upon the ground, some upon the newly-made stumps from which the forest-trees had been cut.

Nobody paid much attention to them, and they passed on up to the house, where Yates received them with a rough courtesy which was in a measure reassuring, compared with the appearance of the crowds they had seen.

"You have hit on a bad night," he said, as he conducted them into the house; "but I will give you rooms up stairs--you will be quiet enough there."

"Show us to them at once," said Hinchley; "I am fairly sick with this disgusting scene."

"I used to feel so," returned Yates; "but a man gets accustomed to any thing in these regions."

He led them through the hall and up the stairs, the servant carrying the saddle-bags and packages. They were shown into a comfortable room, which, in comparison with the scene they had left, appeared like a palace.

"You will do very well here," said Yates. "That next room is for your man. I'll have some supper sent up to you. I don't keep a tavern, nay how, but those rascals below would tear my house down about my ears if I refused them admittance. It's nothing when you are acquainted with California life."

"I'm blessed if I don't hope my acquaintance'll be a short one," muttered Martin.

Yates laughed as he left the room, and Hinchley threw himself into a chair, wearied with many days' privation and hard riding.

"I guess we're safe enough here," said Martin.

"Oh, yes; I apprehend no danger at all."

While they waited for their supper, and listened to the horrible din below, Yates went on to the room where Sybil was seated.

"They have come," he whispered, going close to where she sat.

"I know it," she replied, quietly.

"You don't feel afraid, Sybil? You won't draw back?"

"I?" she laughed, in her scornful way.

"Stop that noise!" exclaimed Yates, with a menacing gesture; "you laugh like a ghost."

Mad as he was with liquor and evil passions, there was something so unnatural in that sound that it half sobered him.

While they stood eyeing each other, the door opened, and Dickinson reeled into the room.

"Come down stairs, Phil," he said; "there'll have to be another barrel of whisky got out."

"You are drunk," said the other.

"A man needs to be," he shivered. "Good heavens, Mrs. Yates, how you look!"

"Never mind that," she answered. "Go, both of you, and do your best to keep that crowd of demons occupied."

"They are mighty good-natured with us," said Tom. "That idea of yours, Sybil, of giving them the liquor, has set us up wonderfully; hark! they're cheering Phil now."

Sybil flung up the window, and leaned over the sill, as shout after shout arose like the yelling of fiends.

Dickinson pulled her hastily back.

"Don't let them see you--no woman would be safe! I have told everybody you had gone down to Featherstone's."

"No, keep yourself close, Sybil," said Yates.

"Do not fear for me; go down stairs, both of you. I want to be alone."

"What time do you think--"

It was Dickinson who began to speak; she checked the broken utterance with a look.

"At the time I appointed; half past one."

She looked from one to the other, but neither of those hardened men had the nerve to meet her eyes. They shrunk out of the room in silence, without another word being spoken, and once more Sybil was alone.

The riot and confusion increased. Men rushed about like demons, singing, shouting, and clashing their cups together. The veranda and grass in front were covered with poor wretches, who had fallen there in their intoxication, and were recklessly trampled upon by their companions. Yells and shrieks went up, shot after shot was fired, knives gleamed in the starlight, more than one fierce contest occurred, but through it all that woman sat at her window and waited, appalled neither by the horror of the scene, nor the fearful thoughts which surged through her soul.