Loe raamatut: «A Vendetta of the Hills», lehekülg 13

CHAPTER XXVIII – The Prize Winner

DICK WILLOUGHBY’S sensational escape from La Siesta had added another thrill to the mystery surrounding the murder of Marshall Thurston. But as week succeeded week without further incident, the affair gradually faded away as a topic of conversation. All the talk now was about the coming of the new town. The fever of speculation was in the air.

“Say, boys,” remarked Jack Rover one evening to his two cronies at the store, “I’m sure getting crazy about the new town. I’ve got a thousand bones of my own savings besides the money from old Pierre Luzon, and I’m going to invest every dangnation cent of it in town lots on opening day. You bet I’ll be there mighty early in the morning when the sale starts.”

“I’m sorta locoed myself,” said Baker, “about them lots in the new town. Guess I’ll grab off a few good corners. I look for an early rise – prices’ll go up like blazes,’ I’m ‘lowin’.”

Buck Ashley snorted contemptuously. “Say, you fellers are two dippy ones. That new town talk is a lot o’ hot air, d’you hear? Jest the agitatin’ work of them pesky town boomers. Won’t ‘mount to nothin’.”

Jack Rover started a defence, but was quickly motioned to silence by old Tom Baker, who, after clearing his throat, pushed his hat back and glared at Buck Ashley.

“Buck,” said he, “you’re a thick-headed fool. The openin’ of that town will amount to one hell of a sight, don’t you fergit it. Why, that Los Angeles syndicate cuss who’s a-runnin’ the machine is sharper than a razor blade. Just think for one little puny moment,” Tom Baker went on, enthusiastically, “of that printed notice being in every blamed newspaper in the whole country – yes, and on the other side of the Atlantic pond – offerin’ ten thousand dollars for the best plans for an ideal city. Gosh all hemlock, they do say as how the mails were just chuck full of answers – architect fellers as well as them as ain’t architects, a-tryin’ to get their hooks on that ten-thousand-dollar prize. It was a mighty smart business notion, I’m a-tellin’ you, and has boomed the town to beat the band.”

“But,” inquired Buck Ashley, in a sarcastic way, “who is confounded fool enough to buy lots in such a wild-cat scheme, no matter how much they advertise it? That’s what I’m askin’.”

“I will, for one,” said Jack Rover. “As I said before, I’m going to put in my last dollar.”

“As for me,” chimed in Tom Baker, “I will lay my money on this ‘ere proposed new town bein’ the biggest town in the whole dangnation State of California outside of sea-board towns.”

Just then through the gathering darkness a lone horseman rode up to the store, dismounted and came hurriedly in. It was none other than Chester Munson, flushed and excited, as he sang out a good-natured salute: “Hallo, boys. I have news for you.”

As he spoke he pulled a Bakersfield daily paper from his pocket. “The new town!” he fairly shouted. “All about it, right on the front page, pictures and all. And it is Dick Willoughby who wins the ten-thousand-dollar prize!”

“That’s great news, sure,” cried Jack.

“It’s a mighty pity Dick ain’t here to celebrate,” growled the sheriff.

“What’s to be the name of the town?” asked Buck Ashley, in a disbelieving tone.

“Tejon, after the old fort here,” replied Munson, as he pointed to the featured article with its big-type headlines and started to cull a few sentences.

“It says that the new city of Tejon, right here in the heart of a rich horticultural valley, is bound to be one of the top-notch towns of California. And the opening day is going to be immense. Next Tuesday is the date fixed. Maps and plans of the new town will be ready for distribution from the land company’s office, corner Main Street and Broadway, at nine o’clock Monday morning. Let me see,” he went on, looking up from the paper, “this is Wednesday. Mighty few days to wait, boys. You just ought to see the excitement in Bakersfield.”

“Well, I say there ain’t no such town,” snapped Buck Ashley, “nor no such a company’s office buildin’, ‘cause I was down there day before yesterday myself, right where them surveyin’ fellers have been foolin’ ‘round for weeks, peekin’ through spy-glasses at each other and measurin’ off so many feet this way and so many feet that way, like a bunch o’ kids playin’ some game. No, siree, there’s nothin’ but long rows of white stakes driv in the ground. Looks to me as if they was a-gettin’ ready to build a lot of henhouses. Of course the railroad’s there, and the only thing changed that I could see was a lot of side-tracks they’ve put in.”

“Well, things have been humming the last two days,” laughed Munson. “This afternoon I found all the side-tracks filled with trains of lumber, carload after carload, and not less than two or three hundred workmen, all as busy as nailers. Looked to me as if a three-ring circus were getting ready for a big show. They are already running up electric light poles and stringing the wires. Some of the men are unloading cars, some stacking up lumber, others are putting up tents, and the entire business reminded me of a hive of extremely busy bees. Go down and look for yourself, Buck, and you’ll be convinced at last that the new town has arrived.”

The old storekeeper had come from behind the counter, and stood leaning against a stack of boxes.

“I’ve been here for more’n a quarter of a century, boys,” he said, in a tone of seriousness that approached to sadness, “and this old store seems like home to me. I’m some fighter and I’m some stayer. But, hell, I reckon I know when I’m licked. I guess this new town puts a crimp in me and my business, and – ”

“Honk-honk; honk-honk” – it was the distant warning of an automobile that interrupted Buck’s speech, and drew all four present to the doorway. There was the glare of twin headlights on the southern road.

“Some of the Los Angeles buyers, most likely,” suggested the sheriff.

And so the travellers proved to be. The automobile halted at the store, but only one of the party of four or five descended.. He was a bright-faced, clean-shaven man, of dapper build and faultlessly attired. In his hand was a bunch of papers.

“Mr. Buck Ashley?” he inquired.

“I’m your man,” replied Buck, stepping from the doorway.

“Well, we can’t stop tonight. But we wanted to say ‘how-do.’ I represent the Los Angeles Trust Syndicate, and these documents just arrived yesterday from Washington, D. C.”

“Can’t be for me, then,” replied Buck, hesitating to take the proffered papers.

“But they are,” replied the stranger with a laugh. “Oh, we haven’t forgotten the interests of the old identities. We’ve had your name in mind all the time, and this is a removal order from the Government to change your postoffice over to the new town of Tejon.”

Buck was speechless as his fingers closed on the documents.

“We’ll hope to see you over on Tuesday morning, Mr. Ashley, so that you can secure a good site for your new store. Now I must be going. We have got to be in Bakersfield by eleven o’clock.”

“Honk-honk,” and the automobile was gone.

“Hell, Buck, have you lost your tongue?” cried Tom Baker, slipping the storekeeper on the shoulder. “Don’t you see what it all means? You’re goin’ to shift camp, old man; you’re goin’ into the new town.”

“Gosh ‘lmighty!” murmured Buck, at last recovering the power of articulation. “I think the first thing to do is to lubricate.”

“A taste from the mystery keg,” suggested the sheriff, as they all crowded back into the store.

“The mystery keg? What’s that?” asked Munson.

Buck laid his hand on a small barrel at the end of the counter.

“We call it the mystery keg,” he replied, “because we just found it yesterday mornin’ settin’ at my back door. It has come to us sorta like manna from heaven.”

“And tastes like manna, too,” interjected Baker.

“It means free drinks for all this pertic’lar bunch,” continued Buck, “for there is no question as to where the keg came from. Look at the date on the top – 1853. This ‘ere barrel came out of Joaquin Murietta’s wine cellar.”

“You don’t say?” exclaimed Munson, pressing forward eagerly to examine the little brass-hooped keg, looking bright and sound despite its antiquity.

“This whisky is sixty years old at least,” Buck went on, turning the tap and filling a small pitcher.

“Tastes like it might be a hundred years older,” remarked the sheriff. “Mellow as fresh drawn milk.”

Buck handed Munson a pony glass of the rare old beverage.

“By jove, it is fine,” said the lieutenant, judicially smacking his lips.

“Just makes my internals feel as soft and roly-poly as a ripe pomegranate,” murmured Tom, as he set down his empty glass and rubbed his belt-line in a complacent way.

“Well, we’ll fill up again, boys,” cried Buck. “Here’s to dear old Pierre Luzon, for it was sure him who sent us the mystery keg.”

“And to Dick Willoughby who won the prize,” cried Jack Rover.

“And to our host,” added Munson in a courtly way. “To Buck Ashley, boys, the postmaster of the new city of Tejon.”

“Hip, hip, hurrah!” – all four voices shouted the triple toast as the upraised glasses clinked merrily.

Buck resumed his former position, with his back against the cracker boxes.

“As I was sayin’, boys, when that automobile interrupted us, I know when I’m licked. But I know, too, that the fightin’ blood is still left in me, and I was a-goin’ to remark that this new town sure ‘nuff looks a winner. I’ve got plenty of lumber right in my back yard, and tomorrer mornin’ I begin to have the scantlin’s cut, for, by jingoes, I’ll be the chap who will build the first buildin’ in the new town.”

“Bully for you,” cried Munson.

“I say what I mean,” continued Buck, his face aglow with enthusiasm, “and on Tuesday mornin’ I’ll buy the first town lot if I have to stand in line for forty-eight hours to get it.”

“Life in the old dog yet,” laughed Jack Rover. “It’s wonderful the effect of Pierre Luzon’s brew,” smiled the sheriff. “I think we’ll just have four more spoonfuls, Buck, of that distilled nectar of sunshine. Success to the new store, old man!”

CHAPTER XXIX – The Rendezvous

SUMMER had come and gone and it was now the early days of October. The mystery of Dick Willoughby’s disappearance had remained unsolved, yet it was on his plans that the new city of Tejon had been laid out, and, like the fabled palace in the Arabian Nights’ tale, had sprung into being with such rapidity that men rubbed their eyes to satisfy themselves whether the transformation scene were an actuality or the baseless fabric of a dream. Within three months of the opening day auction of lots Tejon was a thriving, hustling centre of population, with whole avenues of beautiful homes, several blocks of stores on the main street, schoolhouse and other public buildings well on the way to completion.

Electricity had helped to the accomplishment of the miracle, for it had been only necessary to tap the great power cables running across the old rancho from the Kern River canyon to secure the supplies of “juice” both for lighting and traction purposes. So there was already an interurban tramway service connecting with the county seat, Bakersfield, while at night the new town was a blaze of electricity. All around country homes were going up, and ten and twenty acre holdings were being planted to fruit trees or ploughed for alfalfa.

Ben Thurston still clung to the ranch house, although it was definitely understood now between him and the new owners that Thanksgiving Day was to be the extreme limit of his occupancy. The hue and cry after Dick Willoughby had in a measure subsided, but, if the authorities had relaxed their efforts, Thurston still sought relentlessly and indefatigably for the man accused of the slaying of his son.

One night at a lonely road-house on the outskirts of Bakersfield, the sleuth, Leach Sharkey, was in close and secret conference with a bent and bowed old man. This was none other than Pierre Luzon, although his physical condition seemed to have greatly changed and he answered now to the name of José.

The two men had met a few days before on the range; Pierre had spoken of the scant living he was making from a herd of goats he pastured on the mountains, and in the course of conversation had thrown out a hint for information as to the amount of the reward that Mr. Thurston would be willing to pay if Dick Willoughby were handed over to him. Sharkey had eagerly followed the lead thus given. Hence this midnight meeting in the road-house parlor for the discussion of terms and conditions over the bottle of whisky that helps so efficaciously to dispel distrust and unloosen tongues.

More than an hour had been spent in skirmishing preliminaries, but now Leach Sharkey was congratulating himself that he had got his man fixed just right. He was running over the final arrangements so as to make sure that everything was clearly understood.

“Then Mr. Thurston and myself are to come to Comanche Point. You will take us from there to the place where we’ll find Willoughby. That’s the understanding, José?”

Pierre nodded in acquiescence.

“And you will bring wiz you ze reward of five tousand dollars – not gold or silver, remember, but treasury bills, for I am not strong enough now to carry a very heavy weight. Zen when you have paid me ze money, I will lead you to Mr. Willoughby.”

“All right. I’m going to trust you and take my chances. But bear in mind that you don’t get away with the cash until I have actually put the handcuffs on the man I’m after.”

“Oh, I will not run away, Mr. Sharkey.”

“By God, if you try any monkey tricks on me, I’ll shoot you in your tracks. Make no mistake about that, José. And it will be hands up first to prove to me you have no gun.”

“As I have promised,” replied Pierre with some dignity, “I shall come unarmed. But remember, Mr. Thurston and you must be alone. If zere are any ozers I will not show myself – I will give no sign.”

“Don’t worry about that. We’ll be alone. I need no other protection than the two guns I always carry.” As he spoke, the sleuth slipped a hand to one of his hip pockets, and with a grim smile, laid a vicious-looking revolver on the table.

Luzon evinced no disquietude; he merely smiled.

“Mr. Sharkey he is ze famous man wiz ze two guns. I would take no risk wiz him. But I wish to win ze reward.”

“Well, then, the reward is yours if you play the game straight. Thurston and I will be there, and you will be there unarmed. The hour?”

“Four o’clock. I will watch you come to Comanche Point all alone along ze road.”

“You’re certainly a cautious old duck,” laughed Sharkey. “However, that’s all right. Four o’clock, then. And you said Tuesday next week, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Tuesday.”

Sharkey glanced at a big advertisement calendar on the wall.

“That will be the eleventh of the month. Then I think everything is understood. Now I want to be off. I can just catch the last car to Tejon. Shake. You can finish that drop of whisky by yourself, old man.”

They shook hands and Sharkey was gone.

The other waited for a few moments, cautiously and cunningly listening to the retreating footsteps. Then he sprang erect, transformed in an instant into a hale and vigorous man. Into his eyes there leapt a flash of joy, in his heart was a song of triumph.

“So the villain Ben Thurston will be there at Comanche Point on the very anniversary of the night, just thirty years ago, when he committed that foul crime – at the very spot where the poor little Senorita Rosetta and her unborn babe perished at his hands. Glory be to God! At last the hour of vengeance comes!”

CHAPTER XXX – Don Manuel Appears

A GOODLY little sack of water-worn nuggets of gold had been washed out of the subterranean stream by Pierre Luzon and Dick Willoughby. The captive had found in the work both an exciting pastime and the ease of mind that comes from the thought that his time was being spent to profitable account. So week after week he had toiled on cheerfully, setting for himself each day a full day’s task. In this way also, although the want of sunshine had paled his cheeks, he had maintained his health by the regular physical exercise.

But as the appointed date of his release drew near, Dick’s mining enthusiasm suffered an eclipse. The gold no longer tempted him, the eight-hour day became a burden to his soul, his whole being was possessed with feverish restlessness. He was not only filled with eager excitement at the thought of again folding Merle in his arms, but he was fired with curiosity to know what events were happening outside which would enable him to step forth a free man, exculpated from all connection with the crime of which he had been suspected, restored to an honorable place among his fellow men.

But Pierre remained obstinately deaf to all hints for information.

“I can say nozing,” was his invariable reply. Then, to divert Dick’s mind, he would challenge him at chess, a game in which they had proved to be pretty equally matched, or he would produce the latest batch of newspapers.

The young fellow had read with great delight the announcement that his plans for the ideal city had been awarded the prize of ten thousand dollars. Still more welcome had been the warmly congratulatory note received from Merle at the hands of Pierre; for this letter, while it made no reference to the point, virtually sealed the pact between the two lovers that the money would provide for a glorious honeymoon trip to Europe. Dick had sent instructions to Munson to notify the Los Angeles syndicate in his name that the reward was to remain to the credit of the winner until he would come personally to Tejon to claim it, probably about the middle of October.

It wanted now only two days of the fateful date, the eleventh of that month. Dick had already gathered together his personal belongings ready for removal. He was pacing the grotto, when his eye chanced to fall upon the sack of gold.

“I forgot about that, Pierre, old fellow,” he remarked. “We have to divide this spoil.”

“No,” replied Pierre, with quiet determination, “it is all yours, Mr. Willoughby, honestly earned, too. I have no need for any of ze gold. I have all ze money I can ever spend during ze rest of my life.”

No amount of argument could shake the old Frenchman’s resolution.

“Then what is to be done with the sack? By jove, I’ll share it with our Hidden Treasure Syndicate. By the way, where is Jack Rover now, Pierre?”

“He is living in Buck Ashley’s old store. Buck, you know, is ze postmaster at Tejon, and has a splendid store in ze new city. But Jack Rover, he just hang about ze old place.”

“Well, Pierre, I’ve got a plan. You say it will not be until Tuesday afternoon that I leave these quarters?”

“Zat is so, and I am sorry you must still wear ze blindfold, but it will be for ze last time now.”

“Oh, I’m not kicking about that. I know the conditions under which I came here. But it will be evening when we get clear of the hills, and I won’t have any particular place to go to. Next morning it will be best for me to ride right over to Bakersfield, to surrender myself and secure my formal discharge. When, did you say, am I to get the necessary documents for all this?”

“Before you depart from ze cave.”

“Well, everything will fit in fine. Tomorrow you have kindly promised to take out my things. Just carry the nuggets along with you also, and leave everything in Jack’s charge. But tell him that nothing must be opened or disturbed until I arrive. I’m going to give Jack Rover the surprise of his life when he sees that gold. The sack is too heavy to handle, but I guess we can make it into several packages. Jack was always crazy to find Guadalupe’s sand-bar.”

“So were lots of ozers,” grinned Pierre. “But they have never found it yet. Even you will not be able to find it again when you are led out of zese hills wearing ze blindfold.”

“I am fully aware of that, old man,” laughed Dick in reply. “I suppose I couldn’t discover the place again in a hundred years. But Jack’s eyes will fairly pop when he sees that bunch of gold marbles. He will be mighty pleased to show the nuggets around to some of the boys who have laughed over his enthusiasm, always declaring that Guadalupe’s gold simply came from some old-timer’s sack of dust that had been part of Joaquin Murietta’s plunder.”

“Oh, no. All ze bandits get out much gold from ze riffle in zose days – Don Manuel himself had plenty.”

“Well, Pierre, you just pack all my belongings to Buck Ashley’s old store. And you tell Jack Rover to expect me about six o’clock the night after tomorrow – that’s Tuesday. And I wish Munson to be there, too – I’ll want him to accompany me to Bakersfield.”

“If you write a leetle note to ze lieutenant,” suggested Pierre, “I will see zat it reaches his hands. But you must say very leetle – just a few words. For nozing must be told to anyone outside until you are free.”

“All right, Pierre. Here goes.” And Dick seated himself at the writing table. In a very few moments he had completed his task.

“See,” he said, returning to Pierre’s side. “I wish you to know exactly what I have written – just a hurried scrawl.” And he read aloud while the old Frenchman’s eyes rested on the paper:

“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.”

“Guess that’s all right?” he added, as he folded the note and placed it in an envelope on which he had already inscribed the name of Lieutenant Munson.

Pierre had signified his approval with a nod, and now he carefully bestowed the letter in the pocket of his shirt.

“He will get ze letter – he will surely be zere.”

“Then you say I cannot write to Merle – Miss Farnsworth, I mean?”

“I have ze strictest orders,” replied Pierre. “Nozing must be told just yet. Bah! It is only two days more.”

“Two mighty long days for me, old sport,” said Dick, half in jest and half in sober earnest, as he sat down and began cutting at a plug of tobacco.

Most of next day Willoughby was alone. But at the regular dinner hour Pierre appeared, and announced that he had safely packed the valise and the gold in four bags to the old store, and Jack Rover had been apprised of Dick’s coming on the following night.

“He knew what was in ze sacks,” laughed Pierre. “Zey were so very heavy, oh my! But I told him I would come back and shoot him like a jack-rabbit if he opened zem before you came.”

“Guess it needed an old bandit like you to scare Jack Rover,” replied Dick, jocularly. But he was very happy – everything was going along well – only another four-and-twenty hours now and his captivity would be at an end.

That night Dick could hardly sleep a wink, and next morning he was too restless and impatient for his approaching liberation to keep within the confines of the little grotto. In the darkness of the big central cavern he walked up and down, casting occasional glances at the distant glow of the log fire where, as he could see, both the aged squaw and the white wolf were on vigilant and ceaseless guard.

Suddenly his steps were arrested. With great surprise he gazed toward the log fire. There, with Guadalupe and the white wolf, stood the figure of a strange man, cloaked and wearing a big sombrero. All their shapes were outlined against the ruddy glow, and the monstrous beast was actually fawning at the newcomer’s feet. A moment later the stranger, with a parting wave of his hand to Guadalupe, advanced toward the spot where Dick was standing. Close by was an oil lantern set in a socket of the rock wall to mark the entrance to the inner grotto.

For a minute the approaching figure had been swallowed up in the darkness, but now came the sound of his footsteps crunching on the sandy floor, and a few seconds later he appeared in the flickering radiance. Dick Willoughby had already made his inference as to the identity of the newcomer – he had been so often told that no living man but the bandit chief, Don Manuel, could pass the white wolf with impunity.

But the name Dick pronounced was quite a different one.

“Senor Ricardo Robles – it is you —you?”

“It is I,” replied the Spaniard, quietly, as he extended his hand.

“Then you are – Don Manuel – the – ”

Dick faltered and paused.

“Yes, I am Don Manuel de Valencia, the outlaw, the bandit of Tehachapi, the White Wolf, as he is commonly called. Come within, my friend. I have matters of importance to communicate.” And the visitor led the way with an ease that showed his perfect familiarity with every opening and turning in the great subterranean series of chambers.

“I cannot remain with you very long,” said Mr. Robles, when they were seated in the inner grotto, “for I have a number of things to attend to during the few hours that still remain at my disposal.”

“I must not ask questions,” remarked Dick, although his words belied the questioning look in his eyes.

“Oh, although I speak in confidence,” Mr. Robles replied, “having learned to trust you, I shall make no secret of my contemplated movements. Tonight I hope to settle my last score” – he paused, then corrected himself – “my last piece of business in California. If all goes well, within twenty-four hours I shall be on the high seas. Never mind my exact route, but my final destination is Spain, the land of my fathers. There, perhaps, you and I may meet again.”

“I hope so. I have come to be deeply interested in you, Mr. Robles.”

“And I in you, young man, all the more because you are now engaged to one I hold very dear. Since her birth, Merle Farnsworth has been a – little protégée of mine.” Again he had hesitated, and his voice had vibrated from emotion. But he was smiling now as he went on: “I have watched with sympathetic interest and approval the progress of your love affair.”

“Through your spy-glass on the tower?” laughed Dick.

“Well, partly in that way, perhaps,” replied Mr. Robles, with eyebrows humorously upraised. “You have had my quiet support from beginning to end, and now that you have won the young lady’s heart, you have my most sincere congratulations. May you have long years together, and every happiness.”

He had clasped Dick’s hand, and placed his disengaged hand affectionately on the young man’s shoulder.

“You are really very kind,” said Dick, cordially responding to the hand clasp.

“Because I have counted you worthy of your great good fortune in winning such a girl as Merle. And I have taken much the same liking to your friend, Chester Munson. Have you heard the news:

“No, but I can guess it.”

“Yes, he and Grace Darlington are engaged. And to them I give my heartiest blessing just as I have given it to you and Merle. For Grace, like her adopted sister, has been always very dear to me. I have loved them both very dearly indeed all through their young lives.”

“And both are devoted to you, as I happen to know,” affirmed Dick with warm conviction.

“I believe it,” replied Mr. Robles. His hand sought an inner pocket and drew forth a legal-looking document. “I came here not only to bid you good-bye, but more important still to place this in your possession.”

“My release?” exclaimed Dick eagerly, as his fingers closed on the paper.

“Well, not exactly – but it will lead to that, never fear. It is an affidavit which has been properly sworn to before a San Francisco notary public. It briefly sets out my confession. It was I, Don Manuel de Valencia, who killed Marshall Thurston, or at least was responsible for his killing.”

As he spoke the words, the outlaw drew himself proudly erect. Dick was too overwhelmed with amazement to reply.

“The young ruffian was shot partly because he deserved his fate for insulting Merle, partly because, as you cannot but know, Don Manuel, the White Wolf, had sworn a vendetta against the whole Thurston brood.”

“Then Ben Thurston – is he dead, too?” gasped the listener.

“Not yet,” was the grim reply. Then he paused and changed his tone.

“But I want to speak not another word about this. What happens to Ben Thurston is nothing of your concern – must be nothing of your concern. For this document here frees you from all legal entanglements, and I have no wish that you should by any chance become enmeshed again. So we dismiss Ben Thurston from our talk and from our minds. When you lodge this paper with the authorities at Bakersfield, it will be a matter only of a few formalities to secure dismissal of the charge against you. For I even put it on sworn record that your jail delivery that night was against your will.”

“I have forgotten to thank you for that same delivery. I never dreamed you were my liberator, Mr. Robles.”

“Because that night I was Don Manuel de Valencia. But at present I am Ricardo Robles, and in that capacity it is for me to thank you for having so chivalrously protected our dear Merle from the necessity of associating her name in any way with the death of that worthless young scoundrel. I appreciate the cheerful manner in which you have, for her sake, and let me add, for my sake, too, borne your long imprisonment here.”

“I’ve been mighty comfortable,” laughed Dick, with a glance around his luxurious quarters. “And Pierre Luzon has been a treasure – a good comrade all the time.”

“Ah, yes, Pierre,” exclaimed the outlaw, musingly. “Pierre is a very good fellow. He has been faithful to me for thirty long years.”

“And where does he go after tonight?” asked Dick. “He cannot stay here, all alone except for Guadalupe.”

“Everything is arranged. Guadalupe is accustomed to live alone. But tonight Pierre accompanies me on my long journey.”

“So we may all meet again?”

“Yes, we may all meet again,” responded Robles, slowly and gravely, “far, far away from the Tehachapi mountains. But now I must go,” he went on in a brisk tone, “for I have to make some final preparations. You have the affidavit; see that you do not lose it on your ride down the mountains.”

“You just bet I won’t,” replied Dick, as he held tightly to the precious document with both hands.

“Pierre will come for you here early in the afternoon. Be prepared to go with him then. As for myself, Willoughby, there is for the present only one word more to be spoken. Adios!” Again they clasped hands, and a moment later Don Manuel was gone.