A GOODLY little sack of water-worn nuggets of gold had been washed out
of the subterranean stream by Pierre Luzon and Dick Willoughby. The
captive had found in the work both an exciting pastime and the ease
of mind that comes from the thought that his time was being spent to
profitable account. So week after week he had toiled on cheerfully,
setting for himself each day a full day’s task. In this way also,
although the want of sunshine had paled his cheeks, he had maintained
his health by the regular physical exercise.
But as the appointed date of his release drew near, Dick’s mining
enthusiasm suffered an eclipse. The gold no longer tempted him,
the eight-hour day became a burden to his soul, his whole being was
possessed with feverish restlessness. He was not only filled with eager
excitement at the thought of again folding Merle in his arms, but he was
fired with curiosity to know what events were happening outside
which would enable him to step forth a free man, exculpated from all
connection with the crime of which he had been suspected, restored to an
honorable place among his fellow men.
But Pierre remained obstinately deaf to all hints for information.
“I can say nozing,” was his invariable reply. Then, to divert Dick’s
mind, he would challenge him at chess, a game in which they had proved
to be pretty equally matched, or he would produce the latest batch of
newspapers.
The young fellow had read with great delight the announcement that his
plans for the ideal city had been awarded the prize of ten thousand
dollars. Still more welcome had been the warmly congratulatory note
received from Merle at the hands of Pierre; for this letter, while it
made no reference to the point, virtually sealed the pact between the
two lovers that the money would provide for a glorious honeymoon trip to
Europe. Dick had sent instructions to Munson to notify the Los Angeles
syndicate in his name that the reward was to remain to the credit of
the winner until he would come personally to Tejon to claim it, probably
about the middle of October.
It wanted now only two days of the fateful date, the eleventh of that
month. Dick had already gathered together his personal belongings ready
for removal. He was pacing the grotto, when his eye chanced to fall upon
the sack of gold.
“I forgot about that, Pierre, old fellow,” he remarked. “We have to
divide this spoil.”
“No,” replied Pierre, with quiet determination, “it is all yours, Mr.
Willoughby, honestly earned, too. I have no need for any of ze gold. I
have all ze money I can ever spend during ze rest of my life.”
No amount of argument could shake the old Frenchman’s resolution.
“Then what is to be done with the sack? By jove, I’ll share it with our
Hidden Treasure Syndicate. By the way, where is Jack Rover now, Pierre?”
“He is living in Buck Ashley’s old store. Buck, you know, is ze
postmaster at Tejon, and has a splendid store in ze new city. But Jack
Rover, he just hang about ze old place.”
“Well, Pierre, I’ve got a plan. You say it will not be until Tuesday
afternoon that I leave these quarters?”
“Zat is so, and I am sorry you must still wear ze blindfold, but it will
be for ze last time now.”
“Oh, I’m not kicking about that. I know the conditions under which I
came here. But it will be evening when we get clear of the hills, and I
won’t have any particular place to go to. Next morning it will be best
for me to ride right over to Bakersfield, to surrender myself and
secure my formal discharge. When, did you say, am I to get the necessary
documents for all this?”
“Before you depart from ze cave.”
“Well, everything will fit in fine. Tomorrow you have kindly promised
to take out my things. Just carry the nuggets along with you also, and
leave everything in Jack’s charge. But tell him that nothing must be
opened or disturbed until I arrive. I’m going to give Jack Rover the
surprise of his life when he sees that gold. The sack is too heavy
to handle, but I guess we can make it into several packages. Jack was
always crazy to find Guadalupe’s sand-bar.”
“So were lots of ozers,” grinned Pierre. “But they have never found it
yet. Even you will not be able to find it again when you are led out of
zese hills wearing ze blindfold.”
“I am fully aware of that, old man,” laughed Dick in reply. “I suppose
I couldn’t discover the place again in a hundred years. But Jack’s eyes
will fairly pop when he sees that bunch of gold marbles. He will be
mighty pleased to show the nuggets around to some of the boys who have
laughed over his enthusiasm, always declaring that Guadalupe’s gold
simply came from some old-timer’s sack of dust that had been part of
Joaquin Murietta’s plunder.”
“Oh, no. All ze bandits get out much gold from ze riffle in zose
days—Don Manuel himself had plenty.”
“Well, Pierre, you just pack all my belongings to Buck Ashley’s old
store. And you tell Jack Rover to expect me about six o’clock the night
after tomorrow—that’s Tuesday. And I wish Munson to be there, too—I’ll
want him to accompany me to Bakersfield.”
“If you write a leetle note to ze lieutenant,” suggested Pierre, “I will
see zat it reaches his hands. But you must say very leetle—just a few
words. For nozing must be told to anyone outside until you are free.”
“All right, Pierre. Here goes.” And Dick seated himself at the writing
table. In a very few moments he had completed his task.
“See,” he said, returning to Pierre’s side. “I wish you to know exactly
what I have written—just a hurried scrawl.” And he read aloud while the
old Frenchman’s eyes rested on the paper:
“On Tuesday night next, about six o’clock, meet me at Buck Ashley’s
old store. I shall want you to ride over to Bakersfield with me next
morning, where my acquittal is assured. Give Merle the glad news. Yours,
Dick.”
“Guess that’s all right?” he added, as he folded the note and placed it
in an envelope on which he had already inscribed the name of Lieutenant
Munson.
Pierre had signified his approval with a nod, and now he carefully
bestowed the letter in the pocket of his shirt.
“He will get ze letter—he will surely be zere.”
“Then you say I cannot write to Merle—Miss Farnsworth, I mean?”
“I have ze strictest orders,” replied Pierre. “Nozing must be told just
yet. Bah! It is only two days more.”
“Two mighty long days for me, old sport,” said Dick, half in jest and
half in sober earnest, as he sat down and began cutting at a plug of
tobacco.
Most of next day Willoughby was alone. But at the regular dinner hour
Pierre appeared, and announced that he had safely packed the valise and
the gold in four bags to the old store, and Jack Rover had been apprised
of Dick’s coming on the following night.
“He knew what was in ze sacks,” laughed Pierre. “Zey were so very heavy,
oh my! But I told him I would come back and shoot him like a jack-rabbit
if he opened zem before you came.”
“Guess it needed an old bandit like you to scare Jack Rover,” replied
Dick, jocularly. But he was very happy—everything was going along
well—only another four-and-twenty hours now and his captivity would be
at an end.
That night Dick could hardly sleep a wink, and next morning he was too
restless and impatient for his approaching liberation to keep within the
confines of the little grotto. In the darkness of the big central cavern
he walked up and down, casting occasional glances at the distant glow of
the log fire where, as he could see, both the aged squaw and the white
wolf were on vigilant and ceaseless guard.
Suddenly his steps were arrested. With great surprise he gazed toward
the log fire. There, with Guadalupe and the white wolf, stood the figure
of a strange man, cloaked and wearing a big sombrero. All their shapes
were outlined against the ruddy glow, and the monstrous beast was
actually fawning at the newcomer’s feet. A moment later the stranger,
with a parting wave of his hand to Guadalupe, advanced toward the spot
where Dick was standing. Close by was an oil lantern set in a socket of
the rock wall to mark the entrance to the inner grotto.
For a minute the approaching figure had been swallowed up in the
darkness, but now came the sound of his footsteps crunching on the sandy
floor, and a few seconds later he appeared in the flickering radiance.
Dick Willoughby had already made his inference as to the identity of
the newcomer—he had been so often told that no living man but the bandit
chief, Don Manuel, could pass the white wolf with impunity.
But the name Dick pronounced was quite a different one.
“Senor Ricardo Robles—it is you—you?”
“It is I,” replied the Spaniard, quietly, as he extended his hand.
“Then you are—Don Manuel—the—”
Dick faltered and paused.
“Yes, I am Don Manuel de Valencia, the outlaw, the bandit of Tehachapi,
the White Wolf, as he is commonly called. Come within, my friend. I have
matters of importance to communicate.” And the visitor led the way
with an ease that showed his perfect familiarity with every opening and
turning in the great subterranean series of chambers.
“I cannot remain with you very long,” said Mr. Robles, when they were
seated in the inner grotto, “for I have a number of things to attend to
during the few hours that still remain at my disposal.”
“I must not ask questions,” remarked Dick, although his words belied the
questioning look in his eyes.
“Oh, although I speak in confidence,” Mr. Robles replied, “having
learned to trust you, I shall make no secret of my contemplated
movements. Tonight I hope to settle my last score”—he paused, then
corrected himself—“my last piece of business in California. If all goes
well, within twenty-four hours I shall be on the high seas. Never
mind my exact route, but my final destination is Spain, the land of my
fathers. There, perhaps, you and I may meet again.”
“I hope so. I have come to be deeply interested in you, Mr. Robles.”
“And I in you, young man, all the more because you are now engaged
to one I hold very dear. Since her birth, Merle Farnsworth has been
a—little protégée of mine.” Again he had hesitated, and his voice had
vibrated from emotion. But he was smiling now as he went on: “I have
watched with sympathetic interest and approval the progress of your love
affair.”
“Through your spy-glass on the tower?” laughed Dick.
“Well, partly in that way, perhaps,” replied Mr. Robles, with eyebrows
humorously upraised. “You have had my quiet support from beginning to
end, and now that you have won the young lady’s heart, you have my most
sincere congratulations. May you have long years together, and every
happiness.”
He had clasped Dick’s hand, and placed his disengaged hand
affectionately on the young man’s shoulder.
“You are really very kind,” said Dick, cordially responding to the hand
clasp.
“Because I have counted you worthy of your great good fortune in winning
such a girl as Merle. And I have taken much the same liking to your
friend, Chester Munson. Have you heard the news:
“No, but I can guess it.”
“Yes, he and Grace Darlington are engaged. And to them I give my
heartiest blessing just as I have given it to you and Merle. For Grace,
like her adopted sister, has been always very dear to me. I have loved
them both very dearly indeed all through their young lives.”
“And both are devoted to you, as I happen to know,” affirmed Dick with
warm conviction.
“I believe it,” replied Mr. Robles. His hand sought an inner pocket and
drew forth a legal-looking document. “I came here not only to bid you
good-bye, but more important still to place this in your possession.”
“My release?” exclaimed Dick eagerly, as his fingers closed on the
paper.
“Well, not exactly—but it will lead to that, never fear. It is an
affidavit which has been properly sworn to before a San Francisco notary
public. It briefly sets out my confession. It was I, Don Manuel de
Valencia, who killed Marshall Thurston, or at least was responsible for
his killing.”
As he spoke the words, the outlaw drew himself proudly erect. Dick was
too overwhelmed with amazement to reply.
“The young ruffian was shot partly because he deserved his fate for
insulting Merle, partly because, as you cannot but know, Don Manuel, the
White Wolf, had sworn a vendetta against the whole Thurston brood.”
“Then Ben Thurston—is he dead, too?” gasped the listener.
“Not yet,” was the grim reply. Then he paused and changed his tone.
“But I want to speak not another word about this. What happens to Ben
Thurston is nothing of your concern—must be nothing of your concern. For
this document here frees you from all legal entanglements, and I have no
wish that you should by any chance become enmeshed again. So we dismiss
Ben Thurston from our talk and from our minds. When you lodge this paper
with the authorities at Bakersfield, it will be a matter only of a few
formalities to secure dismissal of the charge against you. For I even
put it on sworn record that your jail delivery that night was against
your will.”
“I have forgotten to thank you for that same delivery. I never dreamed
you were my liberator, Mr. Robles.”
“Because that night I was Don Manuel de Valencia. But at present I
am Ricardo Robles, and in that capacity it is for me to thank you for
having so chivalrously protected our dear Merle from the necessity of
associating her name in any way with the death of that worthless young
scoundrel. I appreciate the cheerful manner in which you have, for her
sake, and let me add, for my sake, too, borne your long imprisonment
here.”
“I’ve been mighty comfortable,” laughed Dick, with a glance around his
luxurious quarters. “And Pierre Luzon has been a treasure—a good comrade
all the time.”
“Ah, yes, Pierre,” exclaimed the outlaw, musingly. “Pierre is a very
good fellow. He has been faithful to me for thirty long years.”
“And where does he go after tonight?” asked Dick. “He cannot stay here,
all alone except for Guadalupe.”
“Everything is arranged. Guadalupe is accustomed to live alone. But
tonight Pierre accompanies me on my long journey.”
“So we may all meet again?”
“Yes, we may all meet again,” responded Robles, slowly and gravely,
“far, far away from the Tehachapi mountains. But now I must go,” he went
on in a brisk tone, “for I have to make some final preparations. You
have the affidavit; see that you do not lose it on your ride down the
mountains.”
“You just bet I won’t,” replied Dick, as he held tightly to the precious
document with both hands.
“Pierre will come for you here early in the afternoon. Be prepared to go
with him then. As for myself, Willoughby, there is for the present only
one word more to be spoken. Adios!” Again they clasped hands, and a
moment later Don Manuel was gone.