It was the truth.  There was no denying the authority of the document, the facts of the situation, or its ultimate power and significance.  There was consternation, stupefaction, and even a half-humorous recognition of the absurdity of their position on most of the faces around him.  Incongruous as the scene was, it was made still more grotesque by the attitude of Jim Hooker.  Ruthlessly abandoning the party of convicted trespassers, he stalked gloomily over to the side of Clarence, with the air of having been all the time scornfully in the secret and a mien of wearied victoriousness, and thus halting, he disdainfully expectorated tobacco juice on the ground between him and his late companions, as if to form a line of demarcation.  The few Mexicans began to edge towards the gateway.  This defection of his followers recalled the leader, who was no coward, to himself again.

“Shut the gate, there!” he shouted.

As its two sides clashed together again, he turned deliberately to Clarence.

“That’s all very well, young man, as regards the title.  You may have bought up the land, and legally own every square inch of howling wilderness between this and San Francisco, and I wish you joy of your d—­d fool’s bargain; you may have got a whole circus like that,” pointing to the gloomy Jim, “at your back.  But with all your money and all your friends you’ve forgotten one thing.  You haven’t got possession, and we have.”

“That’s just where we differ,” said Clarence coolly, “for if you take the trouble to examine the house, you will see that it is already in possession of Mrs. Peyton,—­my tenant.”

He paused to give effect to his revelations.  But he was, nevertheless, unprepared for an unrehearsed dramatic situation.  Mrs. Peyton, who had been tired of waiting, and was listening in the passage, at the mention of her name, entered the gallery, followed by the young ladies.  The slight look of surprise upon her face at the revelation she had just heard of Clarence’s ownership, only gave the suggestion of her having been unexpectedly disturbed in her peaceful seclusion.  One of the Mexicans turned pale, with a frightened glance at the passage, as if he expected the figure of the dead man to follow.

The group fell back.  The game was over,—­and lost.  No one recognized it more quickly than the gamblers themselves.  More than that, desperate and lawless as they were, they still retained the chivalry of Western men, and every hat was slowly doffed to the three black figures that stood silently in the gallery.  And even apologetic speech began to loosen the clenched teeth of the discomfited leader.

“We—­were—­told there was no one in the house,” he stammered.

“And it was the truth,” said a pert, youthful, yet slightly affected voice.  “For we climbed into the window just as you came in at the gate.”