MERLE paused at the foot of the stairway leading up to one of the towers
where Tia Teresa had her room. She deliberated for a moment, consulted
the tiny watch on her wrist, then turned to retrace her footsteps.
“There will be plenty of time,” she murmured to herself. “I shall be
best able to manage Tia Teresa when I know still more than I do now.”
She repaired to her own room and put on her automobile cloak, cap, and
veil. Without telling anyone of her plan, she left the house, went to
the garage, selected a runabout that was specially her own, and was soon
speeding along the highway in the direction of the cluster of hills amid
which the little Mexican cemetery was nestled.
She had been there just once before, several years ago, and she knew
that her machine would have no difficulty in ascending the trail. Within
less than an hour, indeed, she was at her destination.
In the grey evening twilight the place looked very dismal and desolate.
The tiny adobe chapel in one corner was falling into ruins because of
disuse and neglect. A tall rank growth of weeds overran most of the
graves. But there were two that showed marks of loving attention, and
toward these Merle advanced. Here she found the fresh wreaths around the
headstones, and her own roses scattered on the turf.
“Hermana”—she read the single word on the white marble cross adorned
with spotless arum lilies. “Sister,” Merle murmured, translating the
word.
Then she turned to the big gravestone close at hand, and moved the
wreaths of red carnations so that she might read the words inscribed.
From these she soon knew that this was the family burial place of the de
Valencias—that here rested the former owners of the San Antonio Rancho,
the beloved parents of two children, Manuel and Rosetta.
“Manuel,”
“Rosetta”—she repeated the names. The latter awakened no memory,
but when she filled out the former to “Don Manuel de Valencia,” she
instantly recalled the old-time bandit of whom she had heard many a
tale.
“The White Wolf,” she murmured eagerly.
“Yes, yes. His father once owned the rancho, and that was the cause of
the deadly feud—the Vendetta of the Hills. But I thought all that was
forgotten. Yet here are the beautiful fresh flowers.”
Seating herself on a flat monument near by, Merle pondered, piecing
things together. “Sister”—the cross must mark the grave of the girl
Rosetta, and have been erected by her brother, Don Manuel. Then whose
hand had strewn the roses? Mr. Robles! In a flash she knew that Mr.
Robles was Don Manuel.
And her father, too! The further thought came with such suddenness,
with such absolute conviction of certainty, that for a moment she felt
appalled. Her father the notorious robber chief, the desperado on whose
head a price had been set, the outlaw who had defied the whole state
of California to arrest him. Somehow she felt no shame—Don Manuel de
Valencia had been a sort of heroic knight-errant in all the stories she
had heard—his hand only against the rich, his heart always for the poor
and oppressed, his attitude toward the intrusive gringos quite justified
by the sharp practice whereby he had been robbed of his patrimonial
acres. It was this very story of wrong which had been one of the reasons
that had from the first predisposed the household at La Siesta to
despise the Thurston family at the Rancho San Antonio.
Then from thinking of Don Manuel, Merle’s mind passed to Ricardo
Robles—the courteous, dignified, generous, lovable man she had known all
her life, the very man whom she had rejoiced that day to call her own
father. Don Manuel could be judged only by this standard, and her heart
went out again to Mr. Robles, whatever the name which he had formerly
worn.
The shadows were closing around her, the night air bit sharply, and
Merle arose. Two or three of the rose blooms had fallen beyond the lines
of white stones that marked the graves. Merle advanced, and picking
these up gently, placed them on the breasts of the sleeping dead. Her
own kith and kin! Now she realized how she came to have brown eyes and
raven tresses—the blood of Spain was in her veins. With this thought
throbbing in her heart, she left the cemetery and hurried away for home.
Tia Teresa was the only Roman Catholic at La Siesta, a devout member
of the faith of her fathers and of her childhood days with which no
one around her had ever sought to interfere. Her room was her private
chapel, a curtained recess at one end being fitted up with a crucifix, a
small altar, and a prie-dieu.
Here Tia Teresa was kneeling and praying, the only light in the
apartment coming from the altar candles, when Merle softly tiptoed
in, still wearing her automobile cloak. She hesitated to advance, and
momentarily turned to withdraw. But Tia Teresa had seen her, and by a
gesture had bidden her to remain. For a few moments the old duenna’s
lips continued to move, then she told another bead on her rosary, arose
from her knees, crossed herself devoutly, and with a final prostration
before the crucifix, terminated her devotional exercises.
“What brought you here, my child?” she asked, approaching Merle.
“Why are you engaged in prayer tonight?” asked Merle, answering question
with question.
“You know I often pray,” replied Tia Teresa. “You have seen me many,
many times.”
“Yes, but not at this hour, when you are always with my mother.”
“She will be wondering where I am. I had better go to her now.”
“No,” rejoined Merle. “I wish to speak to you. Come here, Tia Teresa;
sit down by my side, and treat me once again as the little girl of the
long ago whom you used to pet and fondle.”
“That’s very easily done,” responded Tia Teresa, with a pleased smile,
seating herself on the low sofa close to Merle. “Come to my heart, my
darling, as in the long ago.”
And the duenna drew the girl to her loving, protecting bosom. She
noticed now that Merle was trembling under the influence of some deep
emotion.
“What is wrong with you, my dear?” she asked anxiously.
“I have learned many things today, Tia Teresa,” replied Merle, taking
her old nurse’s hands and softly stroking them. “First, that Mr. Robles
is my father”—the duenna started, but Merle went quietly on—“and that he
is really Don Manuel de Valencia, the famous outlaw.”
“Whoever told you that?” fairly gasped Tia Teresa.
“No one. I found everything out for myself. After I had looked into Mr.
Robles’ eyes at our parting this afternoon, I knew the truth. It was
impossible for mother to deny it, but it is not she who has told me
anything. I have just returned from the little Mexican cemetery on the
hillside where Mr. Robles, my father, had taken the flowers for which he
asked me.”
“And you saw his flowers—and my flowers, too?” faltered the duenna,
realizing now how Merle had gleaned her knowledge.
“Yes; I inferred that the wreaths were yours, and of course I knew that
the scattered roses were from my father. He is Don Manuel. But I want
you to tell me a little about Rosetta.” It was Merle now who put her
arms around Tia Teresa and drew her affectionately to her.
“You have always loved me, you know, my dear,” the girl went on
coaxingly. “Now I understand why you were so deeply attached to Mr.
Robles, for you told me once that you had nursed Don Manuel. And that
is why I have been, perhaps, just a little closer to you than
Grace”—the pressure of Tia Teresa’s arms told that Merle had correctly
divined—“because I was of the blood of your old master. But why has
there been all this secrecy toward me?”
“Don Manuel’s name could not be revealed—he had been outlawed.”
“And Rosetta—tell me about Rosetta?”
“She was the real cause of the feud between Mr. Thurston and Don
Manuel.”
The duenna had spoken the words before she had realized how much they
told. With unfaltering intuition Merle guessed their meaning.
“You mean to tell me that Thurston wronged Rosetta—betrayed her?”
Tia Teresa nodded assent—she was too deeply agitated to speak another
word.
“And this day—the eleventh of October—the day when you decorate her
grave?” enquired Merle, in a tone and with a look that compelled an
answer.
“Is the day she was found dead on the rocks below Comanche Point,”
replied Tia Teresa.
At the same moment the duenna started to her feet. A wonderful and
terrible transition came over her usually placid countenance. Her eyes
fairly blazed with mingled fury and hatred. Her fists were clenched by
her side. Her whole frame trembled.
“Murdered by Ben Thurston!” she added, the words hissing like hot lava
from her lips.
“Murdered?” cried Merle, incredulously. She too, had risen.
“Yes, pushed over the cliff by his coward hands. His torn coat, one of
the buttons between her dead fingers, proclaimed his guilt before God
and man. But there was no justice in the land in those days—the
days when the gringos broke up our Spanish homes. Now you know
everything—that was the real reason of the Vendetta of the Hills.”
Tia Teresa was calm again—it was Merle who was deeply agitated, too
deeply agitated for a moment to speak.
The duenna went on triumphantly. “But the vendetta once sworn will
always be fulfilled. Tonight at Comanche Point—”
Then she stopped short, as she saw the look of terror and horror on
Merle’s pale face.
“Tonight?” queried the young girl tremulously. “They meet tonight? Then
that is where Mr. Robles is going—that is why he bade us all that sad
good-bye? My father, oh, my dear father!” And dropping down again on the
sofa, she burst into a passion of weeping.
Tia Teresa sought to soothe her. But Merle was not to be comforted.
Yet while she sobbed she was thinking, for suddenly she rose again and
dashed away her tears.
“At what hour tonight?” she asked.
“I do not know,” answered the duenna.
“Then he is in danger—perhaps at this very moment he is in danger. Don
Manuel’s life—my father’s life is worth a hundred lives of such a man
as Ben Thurston. Quick, quick, Teresa. Get your mantilla and cloak. My
runabout is in readiness. There, let me help you.”
Merle was speaking with swift insistence.
“Where are you going?” whispered Tia Teresa, as the girl’s fingers were
buttoning her cloak.
“To Comanche Point. We may not be too late to save him.”
A minute later the two women had stolen down the narrow stairway of the
tower and were speeding through the gathering darkness of the night.