AROUND Dick Willoughby there had been woven a web of circumstantial
evidence that even before his trial had convinced most people of his
guilt. Only a few tried friends who absolutely refused to believe him
capable of shooting down an unarmed man from ambush clung to their
faith that he had had nothing to do with the slaying of young Marshall
Thurston. Among the general public the only question in discussion was
whether the jury were likely to find extenuating circumstances and,
should the life of the prisoner come to be spared, how long would be his
sentence.
Ben Thurston had lavished money with a free hand toward securing every
possible piece of testimony in support of the prosecution, and before
his return home even the cautious New York lawyer, Mr. Hawkins, had
admitted that the case against Willoughby appeared to be conclusive. It
was only a matter of a few weeks now when Thurston would be leaving the
district.
Already San Antonio Rancho was in possession of the syndicate; their
foreman was in charge, the stock under their control, and it was only
out of consideration that the former owner was being permitted to linger
a little longer in residence. But for the gloomy and morose man there
seemed to be gloating satisfaction in the grim thought that before
shaking off forever the dust of his old home he would first of all
ensure the hanging of his son’s murderer.
Among the most regular visitors at the jail were the ladies of La
Siesta, and rumor now began to run around that Miss Merle Farnsworth,
despite Willoughby’s pleading that she should not mix her name up in
the case, would offer some surprising evidence in favor of the accused
man—evidence that might not exonerate Willoughby from responsibility for
the deed, but perhaps would fully justify his act to the minds of the
jurymen.
It was now only three days from the trial, and the whole county was agog
with expectation.
That night in the small hours five masked men rode very quietly through
the streets to the vicinity of the jail. All were heavily armed, and one
of them was leading an extra saddle horse. The party dismounted under
the shadow of some trees. One man held the horses, while his four
companions, with drawn revolvers, advanced to the gateway. Whether it
was a simple case of cowardly yielding to threats, or whether there had
been preliminary financial greasing of locks and bolts, aided perhaps
by sympathy for the prisoner, the fact remains that within a very few
minutes Dick Willoughby had been brought from his cell.
“You are a free man, Mr. Willoughby,” said the leader of the masked band
in a low voice. “You will come with us.”
“Who are you?” asked Dick.
“We are friends—that is enough.”
“I have no wish to go,” protested Dick in the hearing of the jailers.
“The jury must acquit me—I am ready to remain here until they do acquit
me.”
“Take care. The man with the money can put the rope round your neck.”
“I am not afraid.”
“There is another reason. The name of a certain young lady must not be
introduced into this case.”
“I have begged her not to testify.”
“But she will testify if this trial goes on—that you know well. Now you
will come with us, for her sake if not for your own.”
“Be it so then,” replied Dick. “Lead the way.” Just as quietly as they
had come the little band of riders rode through the silent and deserted
streets. They took the southern road, and for the first few miles kept
to the thoroughfare. Then, reaching a stretch of unreclaimed land, they
started across country. The night was moonless and dark, but Dick knew
instinctively that they were making for the mountainous country to the
north of the Tejon Pass.
The leader rode a short distance ahead. Not a word was spoken. In about
two hours they were among the foothills. The pace slackened, and then,
as they reached a clump of oaks, a halt was called. From under the
shadow of the trees a man appeared, leading two sturdy little mountain
ponies. The newcomer wore no mask.
“This man will be your guide from now on,” announced the leader, whose
features were still concealed by the strip of black cloth tied around
the lower part of his face. “I am sorry we must ask you to wear a
blindfold, Mr. Willoughby. But you are among friends, and I feel sure
you will help us all by your ready assent.”
“I am in your hands,” replied Dick, quietly. A few minutes later he was
seated on one of the ponies, his eyes securely bandaged. The saddle was
a big comfortable Mexican one, and he rested his hands on the horn; for
there was no bridle, only a leading rein held by the man mounted on the
other pony.
“Adios!”
It was the leader’s voice again, and now once more Dick was on the move,
the nimble little pony cantering gently over the turf. 0006
Hour succeeded hour. The sun had risen, as the blindfolded rider could
tell from the warmth of the atmosphere. The canter had long since
changed to a walk, and Dick knew that they had been climbing steadily,
with many a turn and sometimes up precipitous slopes.
At last a strange chilliness came into the air. Dick imagined that he
heard a growl, as of some savage animal. Then there came a stop, and
he caught some whispered words—a woman’s voice he could have sworn,
speaking in some strange tongue. After a few minutes his pony started
again.
But they had not gone more than a hundred yards further when his guide
called out.
“Here we are, sir. I will help you to descend. Zen I take ze bandage
away. You see again.”
The voice had a quaint foreign accent. For a little time Willoughby
remained blind. Then he began to see things, and involuntarily rubbed
his eyes in amazement.
He was in a vast vaulted cavern with no visible entrance revealed by
the dim light of several lanterns suspended from the roof. In the far
distance a log fire was burning, and silhouetted against its ruddy
glow was the figure of the aged Indian squaw, Guadalupe, with a great
dog-like creature standing by her side.
“Guadalupe!” exclaimed Dick in profound surprise, turning to his guide.
This man he now saw was old, with short gray hair and a short gray
beard. His face was pale, but there was a pleasant gleam in his eyes.
“Yes, Guadalupe,” the guide replied. “Guadalupe, she guard ze entrance
to our cave—she and ze white wolf. No one can get past ze white wolf
unless Guadalupe speaks ze word.”
“And who are you?”
“Oh, call me Pierre. I am Mr. Willoughby’s servant. Here are fine
beefsteaks ready for breakfast. Come.”
“Pierre!” murmured Dick. “Pierre Luzon?”
“Zat is my name. I am Pierre Luzon.”