But there's room enough in California for you and me. As for
any 'shooting talk,' it's all bosh. You will get in a hot corner,
unless you hear me out. I tell you now, to acknowledge your child
by that woman. Save your election; save yourself, old man.
"She'll go off to France, but you've got to give her child a square
name and a set-out."
"Never!" yells Hardin, forgetting himself, as with blind rage he
points to the door.
"All right," says Joseph, coolly. "You'll never be senator till
you send for me. You have fair warning. My cards are face-up on
the table." Hardin, speechless with rage, sees him disappear.
Peyton and Joe Woods walk over the silent plaza, with the twinkling
stars sweeping overhead. They exchange but few words. They seek
the rest of their pillows. Joe's prayers consist of reloading his
revolvers.
The last watcher in Mariposa is Hardin, the hate of hell in
his heart. A glass of neat brandy is tossed off. He throws himself
heavily on the bed. The world is a torment to him now. "On to
Sacramento" is his last thought. Money, in hoards and heaps, will
drown this rich booby's vain interference. For, legislatures sell
senatorial honors in California openly like cabbage in a huckster's
wagon, only at higher prices.
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