That he was mortally
wounded his gazing eyes gave evidence. Yet such was his immense vitality
that he muttered, clutching at his throat--staving off dissolution with
the mighty passionate vehemence of some dominating purpose. Brannan bent
to listen.
"Write," he gasped, and Brannan, with an understanding nod, obeyed. "I
bequeath my claim ... south fork ... American River ... fifty feet from
end of Lone Pine's shadow ... sunset ... to my pard ... Benito Wind--"
His voice broke, but his eyes watched Brannan's movements as the latter
wrote. Dying hands grasped paper, pencil ... signed a scrawling
signature, "Joe Burthen." Then the head dropped back, rolled for a
moment and lay still.
CHAPTER XVIII
NEWS OF BENITO
Brannan turned from contemplation of the dead to find himself surrounded
by a curious, questioning group. A bartender, coatless, red-faced,
grasping in one hand a heavy bung-starter as if it were a weapon of
defense; a gambler, sleeves rolled up, five cards clutched in nervous
fingers; half a dozen sailors, vaqueros, a ragged miner or two and
several shortskirted young women of the class that had recently drifted
into the hectic night-life of San Francisco.
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