MEANWHILE events had been happening in the conning tower high up
among the hills. The Mexican boy on duty had observed the lone rider
approaching the gateway at La Siesta, and for a brief few moments had
put the figure under observation by the telescope. He had then sprung
alertly erect and pressed a button on the wall. Mr. Robles had quickly
responded to the summons, and it was he who had had his eye to the
lens during the scene in the rose garden which had terminated in the
ignominious expulsion of young Thurston at the hands of the infuriated
duenna.
When the recluse at last withdrew his gaze, his hands were clenched and
he stood absolutely rigid in the tenseness of his indignation. He had
seen Merle’s insultor ride toward the hills and Merle herself taken
indoors under Tia Teresa’s protecting care. For almost a minute the
storm of rage held him, then he relaxed and his look changed to one of
terrible determination. He seized a rifle that was hanging on one of the
walls and swiftly departed.
At the arched gateway he spoke a few words to the two retainers on
guard, and when he passed through the postern one of them, also equipped
with a rifle, followed. Taking a cross-cut from the high road, together
they descended the wooded hillside.
In a little canyon just below the forest Dick Willoughby was rounding
up a bunch of vagrant steers. He was alone, riding at a walking pace,
driving a dozen or more beasts in front of him, and keeping an eye among
the brushwood searching for more.
On the roadway through the woods Marshall Thurston ambled along. He was
a poor and awkward rider at all times, the discreetly-veiled jest of
the nimble cowboys, to whom reins, saddle, and spurs were all as second
nature. Now, when he imagined himself free from observation, he did not
take pains to display even a semblance of horsemanship and, with bridle
dropped, steadied himself by a grip on the saddle horn.
In her bedroom Merle had soon recovered from her distress of mind.
Dashing the tears from her eyes, she had enjoined Tia Teresa to say
nothing to anyone about the unpleasant incident. Mrs. Darlington would
be angered and would certainly tell Mr. Robles, while if the story ever
reached Dick’s ears there could be no saying what further trouble might
not ensue—a horse-whipping at least, with jeopardy to Dick’s position
at the rancho and embitterment of an already dangerous quarrel. So Tia
Teresa, to complete the comforting process, had assented to secrecy.
On the pathway down through the forest the Mexican, now in advance,
uttered a low “hist,” halted, and held out a warning hand toward his
master. The gaze of both was now fixed in the same direction. Below them
could be seen the figure of the horseman coming around a bend in the
roadway. The Mexican raised his rifle to the shoulder, but the hand of
Robles detained him. The time was not yet—the distance was too great in
view of the obstructing timber.
Robles turned away and rested an arm against a tree trunk. His eyes were
downcast; for the moment his mind was far away. He saw once again the
little cemetery on the hill, with the marble cross inscribed “Hermana,”
and the other gravestone at the head of the twin mounds that marked the
resting place of his parents whose hearts had been broken by Rosetta’s
tragic end. The fingers of the man who had long years ago sworn the
vendetta worked nervously, closing and unclosing themselves.
The rider was nearer now, in a higher loop of the road where the trees
were more scattered than below. Merle, drowsy from the reaction of her
emotions, had dropped off asleep on her sofa. Tia Teresa had returned to
the portico, to make sure that the interloper had taken himself off
for good and would not return. In the little canyon Dick Willoughby was
quietly riding behind his accumulating drove of cattle.
Suddenly a shot from among the woods rang through the air. Tia Teresa
heard it, and after the start of first surprise, into her eyes came the
light of swift comprehension and her whole face was illumed by fierce
vindictive joy. “At last, at last,” she murmured, “vengeance begins.”
And in the fervor of her triumph she threw up her extended arms, as if
to give benediction to a righteous deed.
Dick also heard the sharp detonation which his experienced ear knew at
once to be from a rifle, not from the shot-gun that some sportsman
after quail or rabbits might have been using. He betrayed no great
surprise—just the unspoken word “curious” hovered on his lips as,
halting his horse, he turned in his saddle to glance upward in the
direction whence the sound had come. Then after a moment he wheeled the
pony round, and, abandoning his drove for the present, ascended at a
leisurely pace the narrow pathway which he knew communicated with the
winding highroad above.
When the bullet had reached its fated billet, Marshall Thurston’s
fingers were still gripping the saddle horn. And right there the missile
of death struck, glancing upward from the metal crown and piercing
the victim right through the heart. Not a cry—just an outflung arm, a
swaying figure slipping down onto the roadway, and a terrified riderless
horse pivoting quickly round on its haunches, then galloping madly for
home.
Dick, glancing upward through the timber, caught a glimpse of the
fleeing steed, and he touched his own pony with the spur so that it,
too, darted forward.
Farther along the road Tia Teresa heard the clatter of the hoofs and saw
the animal in its swift stride disappear in the direction of the rancho.
She knew now for certain that her surmise was correct, and the first
flush of triumph on her fact settled down into an expression of grim
satisfaction. “It served him right in any case.” she muttered. “It was
just what the young villain deserved.” Then she re-entered the house and
passed upstairs. Her young mistress was placidly asleep, smiling in her
dreams. The duenna nodded her head in a satisfied sort of way; Merle
would learn the news at the proper time, and would not meanwhile be
agitated by wild conjectures. So she tiptoed from the room, and was soon
busied with domestic duties as if nothing had happened.
Dick, emerging on foot from the last steep ascent of the canyon,
promptly swung himself again into the saddle and started at a loping
canter up the winding roadway through the woods. After rounding the
first comer he spied the huddled figure on the ground. Before he turned
the body over he knew that the man was dead. But when the dead face
looked up at his, it was with a terrible shock of surprise that he
recognized Marshall Thurston.
Dick stood for a few moments, gazing around in utter bewilderment. One
hand of the dead man was shattered and bloody, while a big splurge
of red on the shirt showed where the bullet had completed its work.
Murder—palpable murder! But who could have done this deed? Who had any
valid motive to rid the world of this stray piece of humanity—and in
such coldblooded manner, not in the heat of some angry quarrel, but by a
deliberate act of assassination in a place so lonely as these pine-clad
hills? Dick sat him down by the roadside and pondered these questions.
There was no real pity in his heart. Young Thurston had been utterly
bad—not big-brained enough to belong to the social dregs, but just
equally worthless scum, the more repellent because it made itself
visible all the time. He would pass almost without a tear except from
the father whose own record had been so foully besmeared that there
could be scant sympathy even for him in the hour of his bereavement.
Dick just wondered and wondered. For the time being he had quite
forgotten that old legend—the Vendetta of the Hills.