CHAPTER XLII – Wedding Bells
A FULL year had passed, and the good people of Tejon had at last ceased to speak daily about Dick Willoughby’s exciting adventures, Ben Thurston’s inglorious death, and the romantic and now indubitable ending of the famous outlaw, Don Manuel.
Both the victims of the desperate fight on Comanche Point had been laid to rest – Don Manuel, in the little Mission churchyard above the hill, side by side with the beloved sister of his youthful days, whose betrayal and death he had at last avenged, although at the cost of his own life; Ben Thurston, in the modern cemetery beside his son, the poor weak youth in whom the once sturdy family of pioneers had sunk to final decadency. Pierre Luzon, the brave and chivalrous old Frenchman, slept near the grave of the chief he had served so loyally, and, according to the old-time bandit code of ethics, so nobly and so well. In the God’s acres where all feuds pass to oblivion there was perfect peace.
Sing Ling had unobtrusively departed for China, a wealthy man, as the bank manager at Bakersfield could have told, no doubt destined to become a leading magnate in the Flowery Land. Guadalupe was never seen again; the aged squaw had probably died in her secret cave. The white wolf, too, had perished; a cowboy riding the range had been attracted by some buzzards flying and circling round and round far up on the mountain side, and on making his way to the indicated spot, had found the animal’s carcass picked almost to the bones. The old days were forever gone.
But in the beautiful city of Tejon a glorious era of happiness was in progress. Christmas-tide had come round again, and had been made gay with a tournament of roses, and then with the dawning of the New Year had followed a round of festivities in honor of the double wedding of Dick Willoughby and Merle Farnsworth, Chester Munson and Grace Darlington.
In no place was there more sincere and hilarious rejoicing than in the back parlor of Buck Ashley’s fine new store, where the mystery keg, sacredly reserved for this great occasion, was once more on tap and the postmaster, assisted by Tom Baker and Jack Rover, dispensed hospitality to a few chosen friends. But all good things come to an end, and it was with a regretful sigh that the sheriff squeezed out the last few drops from the tilted keg and sipped for the last time “the blessed nectar” that had served to keep green the memory of “dear old Pierre.”
The marriage ceremonies had been performed in a fine little church that sheltered all denominations in the new town, and amidst a shower of rice and old shoes the happy couples had departed for the wedding breakfast at La Siesta.
To Merle the day was one of blissful joy, but of tender regrets as well. During the quiet afternoon hours she and Dick had conversed about their dear old friend, Mr. Robles – the gallant and chivalrous Don Manuel – the beloved father whose identity as such was known only to their own two selves besides Mrs. Darlington and Tia Teresa.
And now the hour of departure on the honeymoon trail had come. The idea of a trip to Europe had been abandoned for the present. The young couples were going up among the Canadian Rockies, by divergent routes which would meet a little later on, and all were full of enthusiasm at the thought of seeing the mighty mountains in their wintry grandeur.
Mrs. Darlington accompanied the young people to the railway station, but Tia Teresa was too deeply affected to trust herself away from home. Merle had kissed her a tender good-bye in the apartment in the tower, and, despite the joyful promise that they would soon meet again, had left the old duenna in prayerful tears before her little altar.
At last they were pulling out from the depot, where the church crowd of the morning had reassembled in full force, with fresh supplies of good-luck munitions.
Thus, like a disbanding company of players, the actors in this tale of California, pass into history. The olden days of bandits are no more, while the hatred of the gringo is only a tradition. The broad acres of the San Antonio Rancho no longer lie comparatively fallow in Nature’s pasture, but are tilled by the thrifty plowman as he labors afield with fullest confidence of a bountiful reward. Meanwhile, the mountains that look down upon the beauteous valley guard their secret well. But searching eyes will yet, undoubtedly, sometime, somewhere, rediscover the mysterious cavern with its hoarded millions of loot, stored by the rapacious hands of Joaquin Murietta, the White Wolf, and their brigand bands, its lake of oil from which outlaws fed their lamps, and its subterranean river from whose shallow riffles Guadalupe, and Dick Willoughby also, gathered a wealth of golden spoil.