FOR this last hour, Don Manuel,” she said, placing a hand on his, “I have been going over all the long story of the past, from the days when you were a little boy and Rosetta was suckled at my bosom. Why should I not have loved her?” asked the old duenna almost fiercely. “Why should I not love her still?” she added, in a lower tone, as she bowed her head and covered her eyes with her disengaged hand. “There is love that can never die, Don Manuel.”
“Nor should we wish it otherwise,” he said gently, caressing the hand extended toward him. “And this very night our undying love for dear little Rosetta will be proved—tonight at last she will be avenged.”
With a start Tia Teresa sat erect.
“Then it is all arranged?” she asked breathlessly.
“Yes, all finally arranged,” was his quiet rejoinder. “We meet this evening on Comanche Point—the place where I have always vowed he should answer for his crime. And you remember what day this is?”
“I remember—can I ever forget?—the very day we found her dead beneath the cliff.”
“The very day, Tia Teresa. So my vengeance will be complete. Before now I could have shot him a dozen times. But he would never have known that his death was by my hand. Tonight, however, he will know. And he will realize that the vendetta is the law of God—an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth; his life, so precious to himself, for hers so dear to us in the happy old-time days.”
“But you, Don Manuel?” she asked fearfully.
“It does not matter much about me,” he answered. “But all the same I have come to speak a little in regard to myself. Tonight Ben Thurston assuredly will die, and should I perish with him, the story of the vendetta cannot fail to be revived and the identity of the recluse, Ricardo Robles, with Don Manuel, the outlaw, will be established. This will come as a great shock to all my dear friends at La Siesta—to Mrs. Darlington as well as to Grace and Merle. But this counts for little—the name of Don Manuel is just as honorable a name as that of Robles. And you can tell them further that all the loot I ever took from the gringos lies today untouched in Joaquin Murietta’s cave. I sullied my hands with none of it. I was made rich by the sale of, my ancestral estates in Spain. And that wealth the law cannot confiscate, for I have been only its trustee during all those years. Everything I possess has been vested from the first in the names of Merle Farnsworth and Grace Darlington.”
“Grace as well?” murmured Tia Teresa, enquiringly.
“Certainly, for I love both the girls dearly; there is ample to divide between them, and by ranking them together I guard Merle from the thought that I was anything more to her than to Grace. To both alike I was just a deeply attached friend.” He paused a moment, then regarded Tia Teresa fixedly. “For my little girl must never know that her father was an outlaw, with a price on his head; yes, with blood on his hands, if it is only the blood of the worthless Thurston breed.”
“That is no stain—it is an honor—it is a duty that you owed,” exclaimed the duenna with fervency, her hands clenched against her bosom as she spoke.
“You understand—we understand the vendetta, you and I, Tia Teresa. But the Americanos do not understand. And I have brought up my little girl as an American, for her own happiness I long ago realized. So she would never understand. When she comes to know that her old friend Ricardo Robles was Don Manuel de Valencia as well, she will breathe a gentle prayer of rest for his soul. But she will not be distressed by the knowledge that her father was the bandit and outlaw—she will not have to face the cruel world with that stigma attached to her name. For that I have contrived, for that I have suffered the dumb agony of childlessness all these years.”
“And that, in God’s name,” exclaimed Tia Teresa, “is part of the price Ben Thurston, thrice accursed, has to pay.”
“And tonight will pay,” responded Don Manuel, determinedly. “But I speak of all this just to put you on your guard. It will be necessary for me to say something to Mrs. Darlington as well. I have brought for her the papers that will establish the rights of Merle and Grace to all I leave behind.” As he spoke he touched his coat where the shape of a packet in an inner pocket showed.
“Your will?”
“No. As I have explained, I require no will. The property is theirs already. And I do not need to tell you, my dear Tia Teresa, my beloved friend, that you, too, have not been forgotten.” As he spoke he raised her hand and pressed it reverently to his lips.
“Don’t speak like that, Don Manuel,” she protested.
“I know that all I owe to you can never be repaid,” he continued, humbly, gratefully—“the devoted life-service for me and for Rosetta and our beloved parents as well.”
Again he kissed her hand, and this time she accepted the seal of his high-souled and chivalrous regard. There were tears in her eyes now.
“But, Don Manuel, you need not die tonight. Death for him—that is right. But why for you?”
“Perhaps not for me—most certainly,” he replied with a little, reassuring smile. “Oh, do not imagine that I deliberately court death for tonight. On the contrary, I have all my plans carefully laid. An automobile is ready for the road, and I have a yacht waiting for me at a quiet spot on the coast, and if all is well, by tomorrow’s dawn Pierre and I will be on the ocean. No one around here except at La Siesta will miss Ricardo Robles, and if the name of Don Manuel is associated with the death of Ben Thurston, only once more will the White Wolf have strangely disappeared just as he used to do in the old times.”
He was laughing, not loudly, but just with carefree, almost joyous triumph, as he rose to say good-bye.
“Then, Tia Teresa, if events work out just as I have planned, we may all meet again, somewhere, somehow—I cannot say more at present. For I shall be happy to see my little girl happy in her married love, and later on I shall close my eyes contentedly when I can feel assured that nothing from the past will ever emerge to spoil her life or bring to her distress of mind.”
Tia Teresa, too, had arisen.
“God grant it may be so,” she fervently exclaimed. “But somehow my mind misgives me. Today I am softened as I have never been before. Even for the sake of our dear Rosetta in Heaven I feel inclined to plead with you to let Thurston go his way and the vendetta be forgotten.” And she clung to his arm imploringly.
“Never!” cried Don Manuel, putting her gently but resolutely aside. “That can never be, Tia Teresa. You know it. A vow sworn over my wronged and murdered sister’s grave, over the graves of my parents as well, must be fulfilled. To break it at the very moment when it is in my power to give it fulfillment would be the act of a coward—a sacrilege that could never be atoned. No more words like that. I must not even listen.”
She was sobbing as she dropped back into her chair. Her silence was the confession that she was powerless to argue against the unwritten law of the vendetta.
“So I kiss you good-bye for the present, Tia Teresa.” He suited the action to the word, and, stooping, saluted her first on one cheek, then on the other. “Be your old brave and resolute self again. Where shall I find Mrs. Darlington?”
“Alone in her boudoir. This is her day for correspondence,” replied the duenna, resolutely striving to repress her tears.
“Then I’ll leave you here. Let your best wishes go with me.”
Almost lightly he touched her hand and was gone, disappearing among the roses.
Tia Teresa bowed her head across her folded arms. She was thinking not of the past now, but solely of the future.
“How would it all end?”
AM glad to find you alone,” spoke Mr. Robles, as he advanced into the subdued light of Mrs. Darlington’s boudoir.
She was seated at her escritoire. Around her were letters lying open for answer, others sealed and ready for the mail, also sundry books of account which indicated that the chatelaine of La Siesta was a business woman who paid attention to the running of her household and the management of her estate.
“Always so pleased to see you,” she replied, as she rose to give her visitor welcome.
“Pray, keep your seat, Mrs. Darlington. You form an attractive picture—the lady who is not too much of a lady to neglect her correspondence and her business affairs. And it is about some business matters that I have come to talk with you this evening.”
She smiled pleasedly over the compliment paid in the old-fashioned courtly style of the true Spanish grandee. She herself always suggested the old-time, old-world lady of fashion—one belonging to the old lace and sweet lavender era that has so nearly passed away.
“Business matters?” echoed Mrs. Darlington. “That sounds quite serious. We have had no cause to talk business for years and years. La Siesta has certainly justified its name.”
“But even the most pleasant siesta must in time come to an end,” he replied with a grave smile. “There are things in this world that must be accomplished—calls of duty that interfere sadly with continuous repose. I am leaving tonight on a journey—perhaps a long journey,” he added slowly and thoughtfully.
“Oh, going abroad? The wanderlust again? That’s too bad. We shall all miss you so much.” She spoke the words with real concern in her tone and in her eyes.
“Not exactly the wanderlust,” he responded. “But there is a certain task I must perform. And it takes me away—far away from your delightful La Siesta.”
“And for a long time?”
“That will be decided by events. I shall write you a long letter when once I am on the ocean. Meanwhile there are certain documents I wish to leave in your charge, my good kind friend.”
He drew the packet from the breast pocket of his coat. “They are important papers, and I wish them to be locked in your safe.”
“Under seal, I see,” she remarked, indicating the big circle of wax that closed the cover.
“Yes, sealed with my signet,” he answered, touching the ring on his finger. “But all the same I wish you to know the nature of their contents. That is why I have sought this little private talk.”
Silently she settled herself to listen, and he went on:
“You are aware that many years ago I sold out all my interests in Spain—lands and flocks and mines. Well, except for the money I used in building and furnishing my home, I invested the whole amount so realized in British Government bonds. But not in my own name. They stand in the names of Merle Farnsworth and Grace Darlington.”
Mrs. Darlington showed some surprise.
“Merle, of course. But why Grace, Mr. Robles? I need not tell you that she is already well provided for.”
“That I fully understand. But I preferred it so. To me both children were very dear, and have always continued to be very dear. There was more than a sufficiency to divide. I wished them to share my patrimony, even though the one might have a greater claim on me than the other. But it was precisely, to guard against such a thought occurring to the mind of any outsider that I have treated Merle and Grace exactly alike. The secret that Merle is my daughter is known only to you and Tia Teresa and me, and, as I have always wished, it must be kept from Merle herself and from all others—now, more than ever,” he added after a little pause.
“I have never sought to pry into this mystery,” replied Mrs. Darlington. “You had valid reasons for it, I well understood. But I was glad for the wee baby’s sake to take her to my heart—the child of the dearest friend of my girlhood days. And it was nice, too, for her to have her mother’s maiden name—Merle Farnsworth. So, from the very first, I loved her just as much as my own baby, Grace.”
“That I know,” said Robles, gratefully touching her hand. “I can never adequately thank you for the mother love you have so generously bestowed on my child. And I have always been grateful, too, for the chivalrous manner in which you have never sought to have me explain my actions in this matter—my virtual separation from the daughter whom, while hiding our relationship, I have loved all through her young life with passionate devotion.”
Mr. Robles was deeply moved. He bowed his head and covered his eyes with his hand. In sympathy, Mrs. Darlington also was greatly affected.
“You have been the best of fathers to Merle,” she said in a trembling voice, “even though Merle little dreams of what she really means to your life. But oh, Mr. Robles, how often have I not pitied you when I have seen you restraining in her presence the natural impulses of your heart!”
“It was my duty,” he replied, regaining his composure by stern self-command and sitting erect again. “My bounden duty to her,” he added, resolutely. “So, as you have so kindly done before, we shall leave that subject alone. You call it a mystery. Be it so. Just let it abide a mystery to the end. Now, Mrs. Darlington,” he went on in a changed tone, “please lock up these papers. If I ever want them again I shall come to you. But if anything should happen to me, the seal is to be broken. You are my trustee. But there is no troublesome will to prove and execute. As I have already indicated, all the property I die possessed of, all the property that is inalienably and rightfully mine, including my home on the hill—everything is already apportioned between Merle and Grace, and stands in their names by a deed that dates back almost to their days of infancy.”
“It is unheard-of generosity,” protested Mrs. Darlington. “I mean so far as Grace is concerned.”
“Not another word, I beg of you. I have already given valid reasons besides those of affection and gratitude. Now, Mrs. Darlington, let me see you lock up these documents, and my mind will be at rest.”
Without further speech she took the packet of papers from his hand, crossed the room, and, standing before a safe inset into the wall and already open, deposited the papers in a little drawer. Then she swung back the safe door, and the click of the combination as she turned the knob told that her visitor’s wishes had been fully complied with. Slowly she returned to her seat at the desk.
“Thank you,” said Mr. Robles, pressing her hand.
“Then I am not to ask why you are leaving us tonight?” enquired Mrs. Darlington.
“Please not. I just came to you, as I have many times done before, to speak the little word—Adios. And it has always been spoken brightly between us, my dear friend. For have I not returned again and again like the proverbial bad penny?” he continued with a smile.
“And so it will be yet again, I hope,” she replied. “Bad pennies of your kind, Mr. Robles, are better than minted gold. And you must think of the young people. Engagements should not be too long. Everything is settled so far as Dick and Merle are concerned—with your full approval?”
“With my fullest approval, and to my great joy and peace of mind.”
“Well, and you know, too, that it is just the same old story as regards Chester Munson and my little girl.”
“Munson has so informed me. He wanted my congratulations on his good fortune. Chester Munson is certainly a fine fellow, and Grace could have made no better choice for the bestowal of her love. Again I am filled with happiness at the turn events have taken.”
“But if there are to be wedding bells for four, their peal will not be so joyous if you are absent, my dear Mr. Robles.”
“I shall try to be present,” he replied, with a little wistful smile. “Who knows? Wouldn’t it be fine if the wedding bells were to ring in Spain?”
“No, no, my friend. You forget that all four are young Americans. The honeymoons in Spain, if you like. But the weddings in California, please.”
“So be it,” he answered. “Then if I cannot get back for the wedding bells, we may have a family reunion during the honeymoons.” He laughed almost gaily as he rose. “Now, where are our young Americans? I wish to say good-bye to them, too.”
“Where Dick Willoughby is, I cannot say. But he is safe—you still assure me of his safety, Mr. Robles?”
“Assuredly. And I have good news for our dear Merle. Tomorrow Willoughby will be free, with every suspicion removed from his name.”
“Oh, that will be glad tidings indeed for Merle—for both the girls.”
“Then let us take the news to them. Where shall we find them?”
“As usual, I fancy, in their favorite cosy corner. And Mr. Munson is here, too. He is to have luncheon with us. He said you had given him a day off from his onerous library duties.”
“Quite correct. I told him I would meet him here, for I have a message for him as well. Come then, let us join the young people.”
Again, like the courtly hidalgo, he presented a hand to his hostess and led her from the room.
AS Mrs. Darlington had anticipated, the trio of young Americans were discovered in the cosy corner. Grace and Munson were engaged in a tête-à-tête that was obviously very delightful to themselves, while Merle at a discreet distance was busily engaged in watering the pot plants and flowers. She was the first to sound a note of warning.
“Here comes mother, and Mr. Robles, also, I do declare.”
The young lovers started a little apart, and Grace in a moment was demurely busy over a bit of sewing that had been resting undisturbed in her lap during the previous half hour.
Merle advanced toward Mr. Robles.
“This is delightful,” she exclaimed, as she warmly shook hands. “You will stay to luncheon, of course.”
“No, my dear. This is to be only a brief visit, I am sorry to say.”
Grace had also come forward, and he saluted her in his usual quiet, kindly manner. But for Munson he had a word of sly banter.
“Better than drilling a squad or cataloguing musty old books,” he remarked, bestowing a significant side glance in Grace’s direction.
“Infinitely better,” replied the ex-soldier and amateur librarian, with frank and unabashed satisfaction.
Mr. Robles took a seat close to Merle.
“I came to bring you two pieces of news,” he said, taking her hand, yet addressing his words to all the company. “First and foremost, by tomorrow the charge against Dick Willoughby will be withdrawn, and he will be a free man.”
“Oh, that is good news indeed,” cried Merle, fairly hugging its bearer.
“Then they have at last discovered the murderer of young Thurston?” enquired Munson in a tone of eager satisfaction.
“Yes, or rather he has discovered himself, I believe. Oh, you need not ask me for the name. It will only be made public when Willoughby formally claims his liberty.”
“I am so thankful,” murmured Grace. “But of course Dick’s complete exoneration was bound to come.”
“And I am the bearer of a special message to you, Mr. Munson. I have not read it. But it was given to me as the one most likely to get it promptly into your hands.”
Speaking thus, he passed over to Munson the hasty scrawl that Dick had written in the cavern and entrusted to Pierre Luzon for delivery.
Munson ripped open the envelope, first scanned the contents, then read aloud:
“On Tuesday night next, about six o’clock, meet me at Buck Ashley’s old store. I shall want you to ride over to Bakersfield with me next morning, where my acquittal is assured. Give Merle the glad news. Yours, Dick.”
“That I have already been privileged to do,” said Mr. Robles, as he smiled down on the young girl by his side. Their eyes met, and a look of grave earnestness came into Merle’s.
“And the second item of news, Mr. Robles?” she asked, in a low tone. “I hope it is also gladsome tidings.”
“Oh, it is of comparative unimportance,” he answered. “Simply that I am going away on a long journey, and may not see all you happy young people again for quite awhile.”
Merle’s face fell. “I am so sorry,” she murmured, a note of real feeling in the softly-spoken words.
“As you grow older you will realize that the world is full of partings, Merle,” he answered.
“But why should there be partings among us?” she protested. “Now that Dick is free, there is not a shadow on all our happiness. And we do so wish you to share it, Mr. Robles. It will not be just the same if you are gone.”
“It is very kind of you to think like that.”
“That’s just how we all think,” interjected Grace. “But when duty calls, one must needs answer,” replied Robles. “Right there is an end to all argument.”
“And where are you going this time, Mr. Robles?” enquired Merle.
“On a long journey—as far as Europe, I hope. But my plans are not quite certain, except that I start tonight. However, I shall be in correspondence with Mrs. Darlington, and I trust that when you young people come to make that contemplated foreign tour, your footsteps will be turned in my direction. Meanwhile you have, all of you, as you already know, my warmest congratulations and heartiest good wishes.”
As he spoke, Mr. Robles rose. His manner indicated that he wished no further questioning. After a comprehensive glance around, he advanced, first of all, to Munson and extended his hand.
“Mr. Munson, you will receive a letter tomorrow that contains an offer for you to continue your work in my library, which I hope will prove acceptable, at least for the present. Grace, my dear, I take the liberty of an old friend.” And he kissed her brow. “With your mother I already have had a good long talk,” he continued, as he pressed Mrs. Darlington’s hand and looked into her eyes. “And now, Merle, dear, I am going to ask you to gather me some roses in your garden. I want them for a particular purpose, and, as you know, there are no roses like those of La Siesta.”
Merle was standing eager and happy to do his bidding—privileged to have the chance of conferring such a little service on her dear old friend, her friend from the earliest childhood days of her remembrance. With impulsive good-nature, Grace was ready to help as well. But a quiet look from her mother restrained her, and Merle and Mr. Robles passed from the verandah, hand in hand.
For nearly an hour they wandered among the rose bushes, picking the choicest blooms, talking a little on many things, silent at times, but both happy in each other’s companionship. At last Mr. Robles looked at his watch. The hour of parting had come.
Merle had deftly tied the roses in a bunch, and now she placed them in his hands.
“A bouquet from me—from your little friend Merle,” she murmured, with a wistful attempt at a smile.
“From my dear little friend, Merle,” he replied, gravely repeating her words as he looked down into her upraised face. It was a beautiful face, in its fresh youthfulness, its eager joy of living, the sublime unconsciousness of self that reveals the spotless soul. For an instant their eyes met.
During that brief spell Robles’ whole being trembled. His arms moved as if to enfold the sweet girl to his breast. But with a mighty effort he controlled himself, and he simply kissed her on the brow, just as he had done to Grace in the cosy corner.
“God bless you, Merle, my dear,” he murmured as he turned away with a final wave of his hand.
In a moment he was gone from her view. But the girl’s gaze remained fixed—still directed down the avenue of trees along which the figure of her life-long friend had disappeared. There was a look of dazed wonderment in her eyes.
“Oh, can it be so—could it be so?” she faltered, as she raised a hand to hold back the tears.
An hour later Robles was in the little Mexican churchyard, scattering the rose blooms gathered by his daughter Merle on the graves of the dead relatives whose names she would never know as such. Already there were the flowers that Tia Teresa had that morning brought—a garland of white arum lilies around the cross that marked the sleeping place of Rosetta, wreaths of rich red carnations on the tombstone inscribed with the father’s and the mother’s names.
And now on the turf beneath the memorials Don Manuel, with lingering fingers, dropped the roses here and there, as if to rest with their beauty and their fragrance on the forms of his beloved dead. The last bloom fluttered to the ground. Then, standing erect, hands upraised, no words uttered, but with the unspoken words none the less reverberating through his very soul, he vowed once again the vendetta which he had sworn on the identical spot thirty long years before.
When he turned to leave the tiny hamlet of the dead, a wonderful transformation had come over his countenance. The placid calm was gone; the fierce fire of implacable hatred and unswervable resolve burned in his eyes. He had bidden adieu to all the softer things in this life. His sole concern now was with the enemy whom he had marked down for death that night.
BEN THURSTON, during the afternoon, seated in his big armchair, had first nodded over a newspaper and then dropped off to sleep. He was awakened by a touch on the shoulder—rudely awakened, for he jumped to his feet, and in a dazed way glared at the disturber.
“Excuse me,” apologized Leach Sharkey, “but I want to remind you that this is the afternoon when we are to meet that old Portugee I told you about.”
“I need no reminder,” was the gruff reply. “I am ready to start when you are. By the way, what’s the fellow’s name?”
“José, he said. He claims to know every nook and corner in the range. Has lived in the mountains for many years; keeps goats and bees, and shoots a mountain lion occasionally, earning the bounty as well as getting the skin.”
“Shoots,” echoed Thurston, somewhat nervously.
“Oh, that was in his younger days mostly, I fancy. Today he is a tottering old man who couldn’t hold a rifle straight if he tried. But he’s well acquainted with the mountains, that’s the main thing. He tells me he has known where Dick Willoughby is hiding since the very day after he broke jail.”
“Then why didn’t he come to me?”
“Because he knew nothing about the reward. But at our very first chance meeting among the hills I very soon made five thousand dollars look mighty good to him. By gad, you should have seen his eyes pop and his hands tremble.”
“It is a fortune for such a man.”
“That’s what got him. He has been supplying Willoughby with goats’ milk, but is paid only two bits a quart. So he grabbed at my bait like a hungry coyote. You have the money ready, I suppose? Treasury bills—that’s what he stipulated for, because he’s too frail to hump a sack of gold around.”
“The money is in that wallet on my desk. You had better carry it.”
Sharkey stepped across the room and shoved a fat leather wallet into the breast pocket of his coat.
“So frail, is he?” Thurston went on, musingly. “Well, I needn’t take a gun.”
Sharkey smiled. He knew Ben Thurston’s timidity in even handling a revolver, and the man’s abject reliance on his armed bodyguard.
“Not the slightest necessity,” assented the sleuth. “I’ve always got my brace of bulldogs ready;” and the professional gunman, touching the broad leather belt to which his holsters were attached, grinned complacently.
“And no danger to be feared from Willoughby himself, you said?”
“None whatever. In fact, he don’t have a gun, José declares. So he only sneaks out after dark for a constitutional. The old fellow will take us to the spot where we can grab him by the neck.”
“That sounds like business,” replied Thurston, rubbing his hands. “And shoot him down, Sharkey, if he runs.”
“He won’t give us the slip this time—you can bet dollars to doughnuts on that. But of course he’s got to have the chance of hands-up before I fire. Killing is killing, and I prefer the handcuffs. There is really less trouble in the long run.”
“Well, perhaps I, too, would prefer to see him hanged,” murmured Thurston, with gloating satisfaction. “But don’t forget that we must get him this afternoon, dead or alive. I’m sick of this life of watching and waiting.”
“The end’s in sight at last.”
“Then we’ll go back East—after I have had my revenge. It will be sweeter to me after all the trouble we’ve encountered. And by God, we’ll drag that Farnsworth girl, too, through the mire. Hell to all of them! I’ve never had anyone but enemies around me here.”
While speaking, Thurston reached for his overcoat thrown across the back of a chair.
“All right, we’ll start,” said Sharkey. “I’ll go and get the horses ready.”
It was about half past three o’clock when the riders reached the base of the mountain barrier not far from the entrance to Tejon Pass.
“We’ve got to make it on foot now,” remarked Sharkey, as he swung himself from the saddle. “I’ll tether the horses to this manzanita.” Thurston dismounted, and while his companion led the animals under the trees, he gazed aloft at the precipice beetling in front of them.
“Damn it, I wish you had chosen any other place than Comanche Point,” he exclaimed irritably.
“We had to come to the spot where we can find our man,” replied Sharkey complacently. “It is on the ridge above that Willoughby has his place of hiding. Come along, we have a good stiff climb before us.”
He led the way up the first slope of the winding trail and Ben Thurston followed, reluctantly now, half doubting the wisdom of his having left his home for such an adventure.
Meanwhile there had been two other riders on the range that afternoon, mounted on little hill ponies. The one man was blindfolded; the other rode in advance and guided the second pony by a leading rein. It had been the usual experience to which Dick Willoughby had now become accustomed—hour after hour along winding, maze-like trails. At last the call had come to dismount, and the bandage had been removed from Dick’s eyes. He saw that he was in a little box-like nook in the mountains.
“You will remain here,” said Pierre Luzon, “until I whistle for you—you know my signal. Zen you will lead ze ponies along zis path. When you come to me, I will put you on ze road for home, and we will say good-bye.”
“I suppose I may smoke,” laughed Dick, philosophically. The day of surprises had left him dulled to any further wonderment.
“Sure, smoke,” replied Pierre. “But remember ze forest regulations,” he added with a chuckle, “and do not set ze brush on fire.”
“Oh, I’m no green tenderfoot,” laughed
Willoughby, as he drew his briar-root from his pocket. “And it’s quite a balmy afternoon for October.”
He sat down and propped his back against a moss-grown rock.
“You must not stir from here,” continued Pierre. “Remember I have to find you again.”
“Guess I’ve learned to obey orders. I’m quite comfortable where I am.” And Dick started contentedly smoking.
Pierre, following the little path to which he had drawn Dick’s attention, pushed through the brushwood and disappeared.
Just ten minutes later Pierre Luzon stood on Comanche Point and gazed down the trail leading up from the pass below.
“Zey are coming, zey are coming!” he exclaimed eagerly to himself, with finger outpointed in the direction of the two climbers on foot half way up the ascent. Then he slipped back into the shadow of a clump of stunted pines that grew close to the cliff.
Fifteen minutes or so passed. Then the heads of Ben Thurston and Leach Sharkey showed above the final steep ascent that led directly on to the projecting spur known as Comanche Point. Thurston was breathing hard after the difficult climb.
“Here we are at last,” remarked Sharkey cheerfully, as he glanced around.
Even as he spoke, a tottering figure came forth from among the pines. A few minutes before, Pierre Luzon had been erect and vigorous and nimble on his feet, but now he seemed to be indeed a frail and bowed old man.
“I have come,” he said, as he approached the figures on the cliff.
“Hands up, then,” cried the sleuth, half laughing. “You remember, I said I would search you for a gun.”
“I have no gun,” Pierre answered, as he halted and elevated his arms.
Sharkey advanced and, without taking the trouble to draw either of his own weapons, ran his fingers with the quick touch of experience over the old man’s clothes.
“I knew you were on the square, José,” said the bodyguard, quickly satisfied. “Well, I’ve brought the mazuma.”
He drew from his pocket the fat wallet, opening it for a moment to display the wads of greenbacks. Then he put it back again.
“Now where is our man?”
“He is down here, just a little distance,” replied Pierre, in a cautious whisper. “I am not strong enough to hold him. But you come. Ze boss, he can remain here for ze present.”
Ben Thurston had turned away and was looking down into the valley.
“We’ll be back in a short time,” called out Sharkey.
But Thurston, if he had heard, made no reply.
“Now show the way, old fellow,” continued the sleuth, addressing his guide.
A moment later Ben Thurston was alone.
Alone on Comanche Point—gazing over the broad sweep of lands that had been his princely heritage, but which he had now lost forever! The valley lay beneath him, bathed in the mellow evening sunshine. But his eyes were riveted on a single spot. And what a transformation scene for the erstwhile cattle king—this new city with its checkerboard of streets and all around it new homes amid plots of young fruit trees and meadows of alfalfa!
The whole picture was one of fascinating beauty—the city itself the finishing touch that gave it human interest. But in Ben Thurston’s soul there was nothing but bitterness and disgust. He had kept on complaining that he had been unscrupulously plundered by the Los Angeles syndicate, and with the realization now of what enterprise and enlightened progress could achieve, he began to feel that he had been mercilessly stripped of what was rightfully his. Greed and envy and vain regrets were all commingled in his surge of envenomed thoughts. But avarice predominated.
“Good God, to think I parted with the rancho at a beggarly acreage price, when I might have been selling town lots today. There will be a dozen other towns springing up to follow this one.”
In his agony he groaned aloud and covered his eyes with his hands to shut out the hateful sight.
Just at that moment the sound of a twig crackling underfoot smote his ear. He turned round; into his face stole an ashen look of terror as he watched an approaching figure wrapped in a Spanish cloak and crowned by a broad-brimmed sombrero. His haggard eyes asked: “Is it man or ghost?” He would have screamed aloud, but found himself voiceless from fear.
At last the figure stood before him with proudly folded arms.
“The White Wolf!” gasped Thurston, in a faint whisper.
“Yes, Don Manuel de Valencia—the White Wolf, as you choose to call him. And now at last, Ben Thurston, we meet face to face, and alone—after thirty long years, and without a woman’s tears this time to save you!”
Ben Thurston sank to the ground, a huddled heap, trembling in every limb.
PIERRE LUZON led Leach Sharkey along the trail. Beyond Comanche Point it dipped again owing to the contour of the mountain, then at a distance of about fifty yards, took a sharp turn round an abrupt face of rock.
“Where the hell are you taking me?” asked the sleuth, as they approached this bend.
“Only a little further,” replied the guide, in a feeble quavering voice as he glanced over his shoulder.
The men were only a few paces apart. In the shadow cast by the cliff, Pierre’s pallid face with its stubbly white beard looked like that of a veritable ancient, and his bent form and tottering steps completed the picture. The sleuth smiled at his momentary discomposure.
Around the turn, however, Pierre grabbed at a revolver lying ready to his hand on a ledge of rock, and when Sharkey followed, it was to find a hale and stalwart man, erect, alert, with the flash of conscious power in his eyes.
“Hands up!” cried Pierre, in a voice of stern command. Leach Sharkey was standing three short steps away and was looking now into the muzzle of a big automatic pistol. Over his countenance there stole a sickly smile. But he knew the rules of the game too well to attempt any resistance. His hands went slowly above his head until both arms were fully extended.
“You’ve got the drop on me all right, José,” he murmured, in self-apology.
“Face the rock,” came the next curt order—the very tone was reminiscent of old bandit days.
Sharkey obeyed in silence, and in a trice both his guns were withdrawn from their holsters and flung among the brushwood.
“You go ahead now,” said Pierre, stepping aside to let the other pass. “You can drop your hands, but if you cry out or attempt to run, zen you are one dead man.”
The discomfited sleuth meekly complied, although there was now a black scowl on his face as he stepped on ahead. In all his professional career, Leach Sharkey had never before fallen so ignominiously into a trap like this.
Not a word was spoken while a distance of some two hundred yards was being traversed. Then Pierre called out the one word: “Halt!”
Sharkey did not dare even to look round. He stood still as a piece of statuary.
“You sit on zat stone over zere,” continued Pierre, “and do not rise until I give you permission. Now we will proceed to business.”
Sharkey sat down as ordered.
“Hell, you can have your five thousand dollars right enough,” he said, pulling the wallet from his pocket.
“No, my friend. I did not bring you here to rob you. I am out on parole, and I never break my word. I am Pierre Luzon!” He spoke the name with triumphant pride.
“Good God!” exclaimed Sharkey, in dumfounded surprise. “You belonged to the White Wolf’s gang?”
“I belong now to ze gang. Ze White Wolf is alive!”
Leach Sharkey had looked sick before, but a ghastly grey pallor came into his face now.
“Then he has got hold of Ben Thurston—at last?” he faltered.
“Yes, at last,” replied Pierre, with a grim smile of joy. “Don Manuel and Ben Thurston are alone on Comanche Point just now. Zey will settle old scores—zat is zeir affair. Now, I attend to my affair.”
Sharkey looked up enquiringly, but said no more.
“Leach Sharkey,” continued the old Frenchman, “you are one strong man. You will now take ze handcuffs from your pocket—I know you carry zem—and drop zem over your shoulder. Zere, zat is right. I am glad you obey wizout giving me any further trouble. Now, you will hold out your hands, behind your back—you know exactly how.”
Yes, Leach Sharkey knew exactly how. And he also knew what the business end of a big revolver meant, with the forefinger of a daring bandit like Pierre Luzon on the trigger. He was handcuffed and helpless right enough in very short order. For the first time in his life the man who had so often slipped the bracelets on others, found the bracelets around his own wrists.
“Next I want ze key of ze handcuffs,” Pierre resumed. “Which pocket, please?”
Sharkey, with a downward thrust of his chin, indicated the waistcoat pocket.
“Zank you,” said Pierre, as he thrust in his fingers and produced the key. “Now, we will throw zis zing away”—as he spoke it went whizzing through the air—“and when you get home to ze rancho, ze blacksmith zere will set you free.”
“Oh, I’m going home, am I?” said the sleuth, considerably reassured.
“Yes, Pierre Luzon no longer rob or kill or break ze law. He keep his word of honor always. And I promised to bring Dick Willoughby to you tonight. Now I shall be true to zat promise, too.”
And through his teeth he blew a shrill whistle.
At the sound Dick Willoughby started up, and shook the ashes from his pipe. Following Pierre’s instructions, he led the two ponies along the little trail through the chaparral. Within five minutes he emerged on a broader trail, right at the spot where the Frenchman was standing.
“Hello, Pierre!” Then Dick’s eyes fell on Leach Sharkey, and at the very first glance he saw the shackled hands. “But what’s the meaning of all this?” he asked in bewildered surprise.
“It means zat you will take zis man down ze mountains. He came to arrest you, but you can tell him now zat you are one free man. You can show him ze paper which proves it was not you, but Don Manuel, who is responsible for ze death of young Thurston.”
“Great Caesar!” muttered the sleuth, “I thought that from the first, but the old fool would not listen to me.”
“Mr. Sharkey,” said Dick, “you and I have no quarrel. What Pierre says is true—I have a sworn affidavit in my pocket, fixing the responsibility for that unhappy affair where it belongs.”
“I believe you, Mr. Willoughby,” replied the sleuth. “I’m glad you are innocent, but I was only doing my duty in trying to arrest the man charged with the crime.”
“I understand all that. I bear you no ill will.”
“And I’d shake hands if it were not for these damned bracelets,” continued Sharkey.
“Pierre, there is no need of handcuffs,” said Dick, turning to the Frenchman. “Set him free. We will go peaceably home together.”
“No, no,” replied Pierre, determinedly. “Leach Sharkey, he is one giant in strength. He will go home as he is. Besides, I have trown ze key away.” And he laughed aloud.
Sharkey nodded in helpless admission of his sorry plight.
“Too bad,” murmured Dick.
“And now,” continued Pierre, “zere is no time to be lost. We will help zis man onto your pony, and you will ride my pony and hold ze leading rein.”
“But he can’t ride with his hands behind his back like that,” objected Dick.
“Oh, yes, he can,” grinned Pierre. “Ze good horseman ride wid his knees, and most of ze road you can be by his side and hold him on. And it is ze only way, for ze key, as I have said, is gone.”
“I suppose we’ve got to accept the situation,” said Dick, with a glance at Sharkey’s lugubrious countenance. The man of strength was obviously crestfallen at his almost ridiculous plight of powerlessness.
Pierre resumed his instructions. “You will not go back to Comanche Point, but will take ze mule trail down into ze valley. You know it, Mr. Willoughby—it is about one mile furzer on.”
“I know it,” replied Dick.
“You will leave Mr. Sharkey at the rancho and zen ride to ze place where your friends are waiting for you. Now, zat is all. I must go. We have already said ouradios, my dear young friend.” Dick grasped the proffered hand and warmly pressed it.
“Good-bye, Pierre. I can never thank you enough for all you have done for me. Good-bye.” Leach Sharkey was assisted into the saddle, and the horsemen started on their way.
“Good-bye,” shouted back Dick Willoughby, yet once again.
“Adios!”
And as the two figures disappeared around a bend, the Frenchman uttered a deep sigh. “A splendid young fellow! I wonder shall we ever meet again!”—this was the thought in his mind as for just a moment he stood in an attitude of deep dejection.
Then swinging around, he started back at a run for Comanche Point.