SUMMER had come and gone and it was now the early days of October. The
mystery of Dick Willoughby’s disappearance had remained unsolved, yet it
was on his plans that the new city of Tejon had been laid out, and, like
the fabled palace in the Arabian Nights’ tale, had sprung into being
with such rapidity that men rubbed their eyes to satisfy themselves
whether the transformation scene were an actuality or the baseless
fabric of a dream. Within three months of the opening day auction of
lots Tejon was a thriving, hustling centre of population, with whole
avenues of beautiful homes, several blocks of stores on the main street,
schoolhouse and other public buildings well on the way to completion.
Electricity had helped to the accomplishment of the miracle, for it had
been only necessary to tap the great power cables running across the old
rancho from the Kern River canyon to secure the supplies of “juice” both
for lighting and traction purposes. So there was already an interurban
tramway service connecting with the county seat, Bakersfield, while at
night the new town was a blaze of electricity. All around country homes
were going up, and ten and twenty acre holdings were being planted to
fruit trees or ploughed for alfalfa.
Ben Thurston still clung to the ranch house, although it was definitely
understood now between him and the new owners that Thanksgiving Day was
to be the extreme limit of his occupancy. The hue and cry after Dick
Willoughby had in a measure subsided, but, if the authorities
had relaxed their efforts, Thurston still sought relentlessly and
indefatigably for the man accused of the slaying of his son.
One night at a lonely road-house on the outskirts of Bakersfield, the
sleuth, Leach Sharkey, was in close and secret conference with a bent
and bowed old man. This was none other than Pierre Luzon, although his
physical condition seemed to have greatly changed and he answered now to
the name of José.
The two men had met a few days before on the range; Pierre had spoken of
the scant living he was making from a herd of goats he pastured on the
mountains, and in the course of conversation had thrown out a hint for
information as to the amount of the reward that Mr. Thurston would be
willing to pay if Dick Willoughby were handed over to him. Sharkey had
eagerly followed the lead thus given. Hence this midnight meeting in the
road-house parlor for the discussion of terms and conditions over the
bottle of whisky that helps so efficaciously to dispel distrust and
unloosen tongues.
More than an hour had been spent in skirmishing preliminaries, but now
Leach Sharkey was congratulating himself that he had got his man fixed
just right. He was running over the final arrangements so as to make
sure that everything was clearly understood.
“Then Mr. Thurston and myself are to come to Comanche Point. You will
take us from there to the place where we’ll find Willoughby. That’s the
understanding, José?”
Pierre nodded in acquiescence.
“And you will bring wiz you ze reward of five tousand dollars—not gold
or silver, remember, but treasury bills, for I am not strong enough now
to carry a very heavy weight. Zen when you have paid me ze money, I will
lead you to Mr. Willoughby.”
“All right. I’m going to trust you and take my chances. But bear in
mind that you don’t get away with the cash until I have actually put the
handcuffs on the man I’m after.”
“Oh, I will not run away, Mr. Sharkey.”
“By God, if you try any monkey tricks on me, I’ll shoot you in your
tracks. Make no mistake about that, José. And it will be hands up first
to prove to me you have no gun.”
“As I have promised,” replied Pierre with some dignity, “I shall come
unarmed. But remember, Mr. Thurston and you must be alone. If zere are
any ozers I will not show myself—I will give no sign.”
“Don’t worry about that. We’ll be alone. I need no other protection than
the two guns I always carry.” As he spoke, the sleuth slipped a hand to
one of his hip pockets, and with a grim smile, laid a vicious-looking
revolver on the table.
Luzon evinced no disquietude; he merely smiled.
“Mr. Sharkey he is ze famous man wiz ze two guns. I would take no risk
wiz him. But I wish to win ze reward.”
“Well, then, the reward is yours if you play the game straight. Thurston
and I will be there, and you will be there unarmed. The hour?”
“Four o’clock. I will watch you come to Comanche Point all alone along
ze road.”
“You’re certainly a cautious old duck,” laughed Sharkey. “However,
that’s all right. Four o’clock, then. And you said Tuesday next week,
didn’t you?”
“Yes, Tuesday.”
Sharkey glanced at a big advertisement calendar on the wall.
“That will be the eleventh of the month. Then I think everything is
understood. Now I want to be off. I can just catch the last car to
Tejon. Shake. You can finish that drop of whisky by yourself, old man.”
They shook hands and Sharkey was gone.
The other waited for a few moments, cautiously and cunningly listening
to the retreating footsteps. Then he sprang erect, transformed in an
instant into a hale and vigorous man. Into his eyes there leapt a flash
of joy, in his heart was a song of triumph.
“So the villain Ben Thurston will be there at Comanche Point on the very
anniversary of the night, just thirty years ago, when he committed that
foul crime—at the very spot where the poor little Senorita Rosetta and
her unborn babe perished at his hands. Glory be to God! At last the hour
of vengeance comes!”