IN the outside world the question on everybody’s lips was—who had
fired the fatal shot among the pine woods? The young reprobate had been
thoroughly despised, but he had no known enemies except Willoughby. So
while Willoughby’s staunch friends could only reiterate the question
in vain perplexity, most people were inclined to answer it with Dick’s
name. The angry quarrel between the two young men was universally
known and had been subjected to sundry embellishments—for example, the
threatened horse-whipping had become an actual recorded event, and so
on. And even there were whispers about rivalry in some love affair—that
Marshall had had his eye on one of the young ladies at La Siesta where
Dick for some time had been a constant caller.
So among the cowboys on the ranch, the oil drillers who frequented
the Bakersfield saloons and had often enough stood around while young
Thurston had set up the drinks, the newspaper reading public generally
for whom all the facts had been set forth in elaborate detail—the
universal concensus of opinion seemed to be that Dick Willoughby was the
man. Not that this verdict of popular opinion carried with it any real
reprobation. Everyone agreed that the worthless degenerate had met even
a kindlier fate than he merited. Had he lived, not all his father’s
millions could have long saved him either from the penitentiary or an
asylum for the insane.
A week passed. Thurston brooded in solitude, but at his bidding Leach
Sharkey kept up active investigations with a view to nose out every bit
of evidence that could tell against the accused man. Sharkey worked,
not from any special animosity against Willoughby, but from keen
professional pride.
Dick accepted his confinement with manly fortitude. It. was one of those
untoward happenings that come into some people’s lives for no obvious
reason, but he was calm in the confidence that everything would be made
clear in a very short time.
Moreover he was clear to his own conscience, which was the main thing.
Next in importance was that Merle, Grace and Mrs. Darlington, Robles and
Munson, all the friends whom he held in highest esteem, had never for
one moment doubted him. In their unshaken friendship was sufficient
reward for all the tribulations through which he was passing.
Meanwhile word had reached Buck Ashley that old Tom Baker was on his way
home in company with Pierre Luzon, to whom the Governor of the State
had at last granted parole. In view of Dick’s imprisonment Munson had
well-nigh lost all interest in the romance of the buried treasure. But
it had been Dick himself who had insisted that his friend must attend to
their joint interests during his period of enforced sequestration.
Thus it had come about that Munson found himself one evening at the
store, awaiting with Jack Rover and Buck Ashley the arrival of the
automobile in which the sheriff was bringing the liberated convict
from San Quentin. In a brief letter Tom Baker had explained that he had
decided on this manner of transportation both because of its ensuring
privacy and also because Pierre Luzon was so enfeebled by age, sickness
and prolonged confinement that he could not travel by train. “I’ve
rigged up a stretcher,” wrote Tom, “but the poor old Frenchie is as weak
as a kitten, and we’ll have to run slow.”
Nine o’clock that night was the scheduled hour around which the
automobile might be expected. Buck Ashley had the extra cot for the
invalid all ready in his own bedroom at the rear of the store.
It was close on ten o’clock, however, before the headlight of the
automobile showed across the valley on the high-road. Buck piled another
big log on the fire in the sitting room. He saw that the doors were all
carefully closed and the shades pulled down. Then he brought in from the
bar a tray with glasses and a bottle of whisky.
“Kentucky bourbon—that was old Pierre Luzon’s favorite lotion,” he said
as he set down the tray. “And I guess he’ll be glad of a good stiff
drink on a cold night like this.”
At last the automobile entered the yard, and the invalid was carried in
on the stretcher and propped up comfortably in a rocking chair near the
cheerful blaze. His teeth were chattering from cold, and he gratefully
gulped down the stiff glass of bourbon which Buck lost no time in
proffering him.
“You see,” explained Tom Baker, as he bustled around, “the Governor just
grants paroles; he can’t grant pardons. Some sort of a board has to pass
on the pardons. But I got him out all right, and that’s the main thing.
Eh, Pierre, old man?”
The sheriff nodded with great friendliness to his protégé. Luzon
responded with a wan smile that silently spoke his thankfulness. His
face was deathly pale, but there was wonderful snap and vitality in
the black bead-like eyes that roamed around the room and searched each
countenance.
Buck was now standing by the rocker. He laid a hand familiarly on the
Frenchman’s shoulder.
“You see, Pierre, old scout, I don’t forget you”—he pointed to the
bottle on the table. “Kentucky bourbon, the best I’ve got in the house,
and the very label you used to call for. Now we’ve got to drink to your
speedy recovery. Fill up all round, boys. The drinks are on me tonight.”
“Hip, hip, hooray!” shouted Tom, as the glasses tinkled.
“Hush!” exclaimed Buck, warningly. “We don’t want to bring any booze
fighters prowlin’ around here tonight. You see, Pierre, we four are in
cahoots and understand each other. You know Tom and myself—we ain’t in
need of any guarantee. And you can trust Mr. Chester Munson and Jack
Rover here to the limit.”
Luzon bowed acknowledgment of the informal introduction.
“It was we who put up the cash to get you out of San Quentin,” continued
Buck, as he dropped into a chair close beside Tom Baker.
“Together with Dick Willoughby,” interjected Munson.
“Oh, yes, not forgettin’ Dick,” resumed the storekeeper, “as fine a
young feller as ever walked on shoe leather. But, by God, he’s in jail
just now.”
“Eh?” ejaculated the ex-convict, with a look of awakening, almost
fraternal, interest.
Buck turned to the sheriff.
“Of course, Tom, you’ll have read all about that terrible affair in the
newspapers?”
The sheriff surreptitiously grabbed Buck’s arm. He spoke in a
confidential whisper.
“Drop that subject for the present. I’ve said nothin’ about it to old
Pierre in case it might upset him. I ain’t dared to mention the name
Thurston to him, for he shared the White Wolf’s hatred of the breed.”
Then Tom gave a little cough and glanced across the fireplace at the
Frenchman. “Just a little cowboy shootin’ scrap, Pierre, in which our
chum Dick Willoughby has got himself temporarily involved. But say,
boys,” he went on, casting his eyes toward Munson and Rover, “I just
thanked the Lord it wasn’t me as had to arrest Dick. Of course if I had
still been sheriff I’d a done it—when I was a sworn-in officer, duty was
duty all the time with me, as every damned horse-thief within a hundred
miles knows. But to take an honest man into custody for shootin’ a
miserable human coyote like that young—”
“Well, we’re not a-goin’ to speak about him just now,” interrupted Buck,
bestowing a cautioning kick on the sheriff’s shins.
Tom took the timely reminder.
“That would have gone sore against the grain,” he said emphatically, as
he reached for the whisky bottle and replenished his tumbler.
“Glad to be back?” asked Buck, beaming pleasantly on old Pierre.
The Frenchman lifted one thin hand and smiled.
“Here I will become once more strong,” he murmured. “No place in ze
world like ze dear old Tehachapi mountains.”
“Wal, I see you’ve begun to let your beard grow again,” continued Buck,
pointing to the gray stubbled chin. “And when your hair comes along,
too, you’ll just be lookin’ fine and dandy. The same old Pierre that
used to sit for hours at a time in the store.”
He paused a moment, surveying the visitor.
“A leetle more whisky, please,” murmured Pierre, as he watched the
sheriff lay down his glass.
“All the whisky you want, old fellow,” exclaimed Buck, with effusive
hospitality. “By gunnies, you’re entitled to a good few nips after all
the long years you’ve been locked up. Ain’t that so, boys?”
“I should say,” declared Tom, fervently, wiping his lips with the back
of his hand.
The Frenchman drank gratefully, and as he felt the warm alcoholic glow
in his vitals, uttered a deep-drawn “Ah!” of appreciation.
“Tastes good, don’t it?” observed Buck. “You never turned down a drink
of good whisky in the old days, did you, Pierre? Great times then! And
gosh almighty, don’t it beat hell, I never suspected who you were all
those years you used to sit around the store smokin’ that big-bowled
pipe of yourn? And you knew about the cave then?”
“Oh, Pierre Luzon, he know how to keep one secret,” responded the
Frenchman, smiling.
“Yes, and good for us all you kept it, old man,” exclaimed the sheriff.
“He’s a-goin’ to show us the cave tomorrow, Buck. There will be six in
the divvy-up now, boys, for of course Pierre Luzon stands in. That’s
agreeable all round, fellers?”
“Sure, sure,” responded the others in unison. Tom turned to the
Frenchman.
“I told you, Pierre, we’d play the game fair and square with you. Ain’t
that right?”
“I trust you all,” replied Luzon. “I show ze cave tomorrow to my friend,
Tom Baker, and you gentlemen who have been so kind to make up one purse
to bring me back here from zat horrid prison.”
“Guess you’re about the only feller that knows where it is?” enquired
Buck, cautiously.
Luzon looked at his questioner and spoke just one word: “Guadalupe.”
“Does Gaudalupe know?” exclaimed Jack Rover. “I thought her long suit
was the riffle where she gets her placer gold.”
“Guadalupe,” answered Pierre, speaking slowly, “she know ze cave, but
she not know where ze treasure is buried. Ze cave her home. She live
zere. Lots and lots of times she come out, and nobody ever track her
when she go back. Ze outlaws they sharp-shoot from places in ze hills
nobody could see. But I show you,” he continued, nodding his head at
Jack Rover, “I, Pierre, show you where zat riffle is. I know both where
Guadalupe wash out placer gold and ze secret chamber in ze big cave
where Joaquin Murietta bury him money and where ze White Wolf, Don
Manuel—peace to his soul!”—Pierre Luzon crossed himself—“hide sacks and
sacks of ze yellow gold. Oh, yes!”
This long speech had exhausted the old man. He dropped his head wearily.
“What you need now is a good long sleep,” exclaimed Tom Baker. “Another
jolt of bourbon Pierre, and then you get in between the blankets, old
fellow.”
“I’ve got your bed all ready in the next room,” observed Buck.
“I guess I go to bed zen,” assented Luzon.
He gulped down with relish a nightcap of the old whisky. Then Buck and
Tom helped him from his chair.
“It is good to be here,” murmured the Frenchman. “I grow strong again
among ze mountains. I never go back—never go back to San Quentin, that
one horrid prison.”
“We’ll nurse you like a baby,” said Buck assuringly, as he led the
feeble old man into the adjoining room.