B M Bower

The Gringos B M Bower

Bill Wilson came to the door of his saloon and stood with his hands on his hips, looking out uponthe heterogeneous assembly of virile manhood that formed the bulk of San Francisco's population ayear or two after the first gold cry had been raised. Above his head flapped the great cloth signtacked quite across the rough building, heralding to all who could read the words that this was BILLWILSON'S PLACE. A flaunting bit of information it was, and quite superfluous; since practicallyevery man in San Francisco drifted towards it, soon or late, as the place where the most whisky wasdrunk and the most gold lost and won, with the most beautiful women to smile or frown upon thelucky, in all the town. The trade wind knew that Bill Wilson's place needed no sign save its presence there, and wasloosening a corner in the hope of carrying it quite away as a trophy. Bill glanced up, promised theresisting cloth an extra nail or two, and let his thoughts and his eyes wander again to the sweepingtide of humanity that flowed up and down the straggling street of sand and threatened to engulf thestore which men spoke of simply as "Smith's."A shipload of supplies had lately been carted there, and miners were feverishly buying bacon, beans, "self-rising" flour, matches, tea-everything within the limits of their gold dust and theircarrying capacity-which they needed for hurried trips to the hills where was hidden the gold theydreamed of night and day. To Bill that tide meant so much business; and he was not the man to grudge his friend Smith ashare of it. When the fog crept in through the Golden Gate-a gate which might never be closedagainst it-the tide of business would set towards his place, just as surely as the ocean tide wouldclamor at the rocky wall out there to the west. In the meantime, he was not loath to spend a quiethour or two with an empty gaming hall at his back. His eyes went incuriously over the familiar crowd to the little forest of flag-foliaged masts thattold where lay the ships in the bay below the town. Bill could not name the nationality of them all;for the hunting call had reached to the far corners of the earth, and strange flags came flutteringacross strange seas, with pirate-faced adventurers on the decks below, chattering in strange tonguesof California gold. Bill could not name all the flags, but he could name two of the bonds that bind allnations into one common humanity. He could produce one of them, and he was each night gainingmore of the other; for, be they white men or brown, spoke they his language or one he had neverheard until they passed through the Golden Gate, they would give good gold for very bad whisk