MOST of the cattle had been driven off the land. The vaqueros had
dispersed to the four points of the compass. Chester Munson had vacated
his room in Dick Willoughby’s old home, and had taken up his residence
and library duties at Mr. Robles’ mansion on the hill. Sing Ling had
folded his tent like the Arab and silently stolen away in the same
direction. A small army of surveyors had appeared on the scene and were
quartered in the rancho buildings.
The only one of the old-timers who still lingered on was Ben Thurston,
more gloomy and morose than ever, seldom stirring out of doors now, but
conducting all his business by telephone or through the agency of the
sleuth, Leach Sharkey, his only companion.
Jack Rover had pitched his camp temporarily at the store. Buck Ashley
had assigned him Pierre’s cot, but the cowboy had fixed it under a
wide-spreading sycamore, preferring to sleep in the open rather than
share the grocery-perfumed atmosphere of the store building.
Tom Baker was around most of the time. The three men clung together with
a vague sense that they had a common interest in the vast treasure which
had so far eluded them, but which might any day come again within reach
of their eager claws. It afforded an endless theme of conversation,
varied by talk about the passing of the rancho and all the train of
changes which were bound to follow the close settlement of the valley.
One morning Jack Rover found Buck at the door of the store, with a pair
of antiquated-looking field glasses at his eyes.
“Where did you get the goggles, Buck?” asked Jack.
“Oh, I rummaged ‘em out of a trunk—had almost forgot I had the blamed
things. But we used to keep a sharp lookout in the old bandit days—got
kinda ready for any suspicious lookin’ riders on the road.” He had
spoken while still peering through the binoculars, but now he turned to
Jack and proffered him the glasses. “I do wonder what ‘n hell we’re all
cornin’ to anyway. This here ranch that we’ve bragged up as bein’
the biggest in all California! Ugh!” The grunt was one of unspeakable
disgust. “Take a look for yourself.”
Jack turned the glasses in the direction Buck had been gazing, and began
to adjust the focus.
“What’s the matter now?” he asked.
“Matter ‘nough,” growled the storekeeper. “San Antonio Rancho is goin’
to the dogs. Do you see them specks away out yonder in the valley?
That’s another band of surveyors. One feller’s peekin’ through a
spy-glass set on a tripod; another feller goes ahead and puts up tall
stakes with big figgers on ‘em, and the other fellers are chainin’ off
the distances. This ‘ere ranch ‘ll surely look like a checker-board
blamed soon.”
“Progress,” said Jack, laconically.
“Progress, hell!” snapped Ashley. “These new fellers that bought the
ranch have sure ‘nuff driv’ off all the cattle and now they’re dividin’
up the land. I bet they’ll take the postoffice away from me—not that
it pays much, for the Lord knows it don’t—but it brings customers to my
store.”
“Well, Buck,” said the cowboy, consolingly, “there are lots worse things
than moving a postoffice. What’s to prevent your setting up the finest
grocery store in the new model city the advertisements speak about?”
“That would suit me fine, wouldn’t it?” cried the old storekeeper,
with scathing contempt. “Goin’ around in a biled shirt, and handin’ out
pencils and chewin’ gum to the little school gals that’ll be swarmin’
all over the place. Not on your life, Jack! I’ll be losin’ both my
postoffice and my store in these new-fangled times.” He paused a moment,
then his tone changed to one of aggressiveness. “However, they ain’t
built their doggoned new town yet, and it’s my belief all this boom talk
is just so much hot air.”
“In any case you won’t need to worry, Buck, after we get on the tracks
of Pierre Luzon again. I intend to find the old squaw’s sand-bar, or my
name isn’t Jack Rover.”
“And I betche I’m a-goin’ to find Joaquin Murietta’s cache,” concurred
the old man with equal determination.
Just then Tom Baker slouched out of the store, where he had overheard
the conversation.
“Oh, things are a-goin’ to turn out all right in the end, boys, don’t
fret over that. And there’s one thing gol-dern certain, there’ll be some
great things doin’ in this ‘ere valley once they get started on buildin’
the town. The new place will just spring up like Oklahomy City, or
Liberal, Kansas, or some of them big towns that had twenty thousand
people livin’ in ‘em inside o’ thirty days from the time they were
surveyed and laid out.”
“That seems quite impossible,” commented Jack.
“Not impossible by a derned sight. My brother was at Liberal, Kansas,
down there on the Rock Island, near No Man’s Land, you know. The new
town had been talked of and talked of for mebbe three or four months,
just as this new town is bein’ talked about today. Then finally the
mornin’ came when the new town of Liberal was to be opened up. There
was to be a regular town openin’, so to speak, and a sale of lots.
Why, great guns, when the management of that town company rode into the
station, on the early train, they found more’n ten thousand people right
there campin’ in covered wagons, tents and all that sorta business, just
awaitin’ for the auctioneerin’ to start.”
Tom paused to take a fresh chew of tobacco and then rambled on:
“I tell you, boys, that within thirty days there was twenty thousand
people livin’ in that ‘ere town. Two banks were established, and one of
them had one hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars in deposits, too.
Oh, there’s lots of people who remember the rush to Liberal, and the
boomin’ of Oklahomy City also. And history’s fixin’ to repeat itself
right here on this ‘ere ranch. Things will be sizzlin’ when the town
site is finally located and the rush starts pourin’ in from Portland,
Oregon, on the north, to San Diego on the south, with a few thousands
from Texas and other states this side o’ the Rocky Mountains. They’ll
sure be great doin’s when the Los Angeles syndicate announce they’ve
awarded to some feller that ten-thousand-dollar prize for the best plans
for their ideal city, as they keep on callin’ it.”
“Munson and I were speaking about the contest and the prize,” remarked
Jack, “and were saying that if Dick Willoughby were only here, he’d
about win, hands down. You know he was an architect once, before he came
West.”
“Dick Willoughby,” snorted Ashley, “How can he compete when he don’t
know anything about the blamed business? He’s hid away, right enough.”
“Munson knows a thing or two,” remarked Tom Baker. “If he’d only apeak,
he could tell us where Dick is. That’s my opinion.”
“And there once again you’re dead wrong,” retorted Jack, warmly. “If
Munson only knew where Dick is hiding, he would have got that very prize
competition advertisement into his hands long before now. He’s sore
because he can’t send Dick the word. Where is Dick Willoughby? By gad,
it’s a mystery.”
“I guess you’re right,” said the sheriff. “That sort o’ exonerates
Munson from keepin’ things from his partners. I think I owe it to
Chester Munson to drink his health—just for ever doubtin’ him. What
shall it be, boys?”
And the open-air meeting adjourned.
It was the very evening of the day on which this conversation had been
held in Buck Ashley’s store that Dick Willoughby rode forth from the
cavern blindfolded and under the guidance of Pierre Luzon. For the first
hour progress was slow—round many turnings, down steep declivities, with
just here and there a few miles of easier trail. But then there had been
a swift canter for another hour over grass land, and now at last the
riders were upon a well-made road. Dick divined that this must be the
highway leading to La Siesta, but from what point of the compass they
had come he had not the remotest conception.
Very soon Pierre Luzon, still riding ahead with the leading rein, came
to a halt.
“Here we are. Dismount, please,” he said. “You are free to remove ze
bandage.”
Dick looked; they were right below the knoll on which the Darlington
home stood. Lights were gleaming from the windows. Dick could even hear
the faint tinkle of the piano.
“I hide ze ponies here in zis little grove of trees,” Pierre continued,
pointing to a coppice not fifty yards from the main road. “In two
hours’ time, at eleven o’clock”—Pierre looked at his watch in the bright
moonlight—“monsieur will return. I have your word?”
“My word as a gentleman, Pierre,” exclaimed Dick, extending his hand.
“So long then, old fellow. I’ve got to make the best use of my time.”
The piano playing stopped abruptly when Willoughby, unannounced,
appeared at the door of the music room.
“Dick!” exclaimed Merle delightedly, leaving the instrument and rushing
toward him. If they had been alone Dick felt that right then she would
have jumped into his arms. But at the distance of a few paces she halted
and clasped her hands.
“How ever did you get here, Mr. Willoughby?” she asked intensely.
“I rode here,” he answered, as they shook hands. “But it is only a brief
visit. Hallo, Miss Grace! I’m delighted to see you again. And you, Ches,
old sport—why this is great luck to find you here! Mrs. Darlington, I’m
mighty glad to see you all once more.”
The whole bevy were crowding around him, shaking hands and expressing
their joyful surprise.
“We knew you were safe, that was all,” explained Munson.
“So you were having just the same jolly good times,” laughed Dick,
glancing at the piano. “I’m simply dying for some music.”
“But wait a minute,” exclaimed Munson, drawing a fat wad of newspaper
cuttings from his pocket. “I’ve got to tell you about a competition you
must get into—new plans for an ideal city here—”
“In the heart of the old rancho,” smiled Dick, as he completed the
sentence. While he spoke, he placed his arm affectionately across his
chum’s shoulders. “I know all about it, old man. I’m working hard on my
plans—they are already more than half done.”
“Bravo!” shouted Munson. “That’s great news.”
“But here, too, is Mr. Robles,” exclaimed Dick, breaking from the group
and stepping across the room. “Excuse me, senor, but I did not notice
you were here till this moment.”
“No excuse needed, my friend. You were better engaged”—this with a
humorous side-glance at the young ladies. “But I am glad to see you
looking so well.”
“Where have you been, Mr. Willoughby?” asked Grace.
“That I cannot tell you,” replied Dick gravely. “I have pledged my
solemn word. I must leave you at eleven o’clock, returning whence I
came. And meanwhile nobody must ask me a single question about my place
of hiding. There now—that’s all. What shall it be first, Miss Merle, a
piano solo or a duet with the violin?”
“Supper, I should say,” exclaimed Mrs. Darlington, as she left the room.