WILLOUGHBY had found his friends Munson and Jack Rover at Buck Ashley’s
old store, eagerly awaiting his coming, with a fine supper sizzling on
the cook stove, prepared in Jack’s finest professional cowboy style.
“We’ve got to feed you up a bit, I reckon,” grinned Jack, as he slipped
the Gargantuan slab of beef-steak from the griller on to the big hot
dish waiting for its reception.
“And some potatoes, too,” he went on, “not forgetting the fried onions
that beat all your newfangled sauces to a frazzle.”
Dick was nothing loth to fall to. He had been too excited to do more
than taste the midday meal that Pierre Luzon had prepared for him in the
cavern. It had been a long hard day, and now he was hungry as a wolf.
In ordinary circumstances he had no objection to fried onions, but,
with delicate regard for possible contingencies, he left to the others a
monopoly over this item in the bill-of-fare.
There were so many things to talk about that it was a difficult matter
to know where to begin. But at the close of the meal Jack Rover solved
the question by sweeping the supper things from the table, and emptying
thereon the contents of one of the bags of gold.
“Good old Guadalupe!” exclaimed the delighted cowboy, as he patted the
nuggets with a loving hand. “I always told you that the ancient squaw
had a real gold mine. I guess we’ll be able to stake out our claims
tomorrow, eh, Dick, my boy?”
“I’m afraid not,” smiled Willoughby. “The fact is that, although I
helped to wash out that gold, I have not the faintest idea where the
riffle is up among the hills.”
Jack’s face fell. There was a moment of disappointed silence, and just
then there came the sound of a faint tapping at the outer door.
“What’s that?” asked Munson. The faces of all three showed that they had
heard simultaneously.
Dick rose, crossed over, and threw the door wide open.
“My God, who’s this?” he asked, as he stooped over the figure lying
prone across the steps. “Pierre, Pierre!” he added, as he turned over
the face. “It’s Pierre Luzon, boys, and desperately wounded!”
The others were pressed together in the doorway.
“Looks as if he had crawled here on his hands and knees,” remarked
Munson.
“There’s his horse out among the chaparral,” exclaimed Jack, pointing to
the shadowy form of the animal from which the wounded man had obviously
tumbled.
“Stand clear,” cried Dick, gathering up Pierre in his arms. “He has
fainted, but is still alive.”
And Dick, carrying the senseless form, passed into the bedroom beyond
the living room, and there laid poor old Pierre on the very cot which
he had occupied once before—on the eventful night when Tom Baker had
brought the paroled convict from San Quentin.
A few drops of whisky brought the wounded man back to consciousness.
Dick leaned over him and caught the faintly whispered words. Piérre was
speaking in the French of his childhood days.
“He is dead—he is dead! At last Rosetta is avenged!”
Dick motioned his companions to silence. He bent down close to the dying
bandit.
“Who is dead, Pierre? Ben Thurston?”
“Yes, yes. Ben Thurston. Glory be to God! Don Manuel is avenged!”
“And how did you come to be shot, Pierre? Where is Don Manuel?”
“Dead—dead, too!” The wounded man this time cried out the words and
struggled to sit up. His eyes opened wide, and fastened themselves on
Dick. His voice again dropped to a whisper; he was speaking lucidly now.
“But perhaps he lives. Who knows? Go and save him, Dick—Don Manuel—go,
go.”
Exhausted, Pierre sank back on the pillow. His eyes closed. The death
rattle was in his throat. “Where is he—where shall I find Don Manuel?”
Dick uttered the words close to Pierre’s ear. He alone caught the faint
answer. Pierre Luzon was dead.
“He’s gone, Chester,” said Dick, standing erect. Munson stooped, put his
ear to Pierre’s breast, then pressed apart one pair of the eyelids.
“Yes, it’s all over,” he said solemnly, as he folded the coverlet over
the already marble-like face.
In stricken silence the three men passed to the outer room, shutting the
door softly behind them.
“What’s happened?” asked Jack Rover, “I couldn’t catch his bloomin’
lingo.”
“Something terrible. There has evidently been a fight to the death on
Comanche Point between Ben Thurston and Don Manuel. Looks as if both of
them had gone over the cliff in the struggle.”
“Gee!” muttered the cowboy.
Dick remained just a moment in deep thought. His plan of action was
promptly decided on.
“Munson, old man, you saddle my pony, and ride to Tejon for help. Jack,
you remain here with the body.”
“And with the nuggets,” remarked the cowboy drily.
Dick paid no heed to the interruption. He continued:
“I’ll take the horse outside, and ride back to Comanche Point. That’s
the best we can do, and the main thing is to do it quickly. Pass me that
flask of whisky—it may come in handy. I’m off now, boys. You’ll find me
at the cliff. Bring a doctor, Ches. So long!”
The moon had now risen, and while Dick was galloping toward Comanche
Point from the one direction, the runabout, with Merle at the wheel and
Tia Teresa by her side, was speeding from the other end of the valley
toward the same destination. The horseman was the first to arrive.
Willoughby had no need to search long beneath the precipice. A loud,
continuous cry of lamentation guided him to the spot. There, wailing
over the corpse of Don Manuel, was the old Indian squaw, Guadalupe. Even
in death the two bodies were locked in each other’s embrace, and Dick
noted with horror that Ben Thurston’s teeth were buried in the flesh of
his enemy’s shoulder. Guadalupe was in the act of trying to separate the
dead men when Dick intervened.
Great heavens, what a withered, aged face was raised toward his own!
It was the first time he had ever seen Guadalupe unveiled and at close
quarters. Her cheeks were wrinkled into a hundred folds; her eyes were
sunken in deep cavernous hollows. When he touched her, she rose and,
jabbering furiously for all the world like an angry ape, reviled him
with curses, her meaning unmistakable, although she spoke in some
strange Indian tongue.
Just then Dick caught the distant chug-chug of the automobile. He looked
up the valley, wondering who might be passing at that hour of night.
This was not the main highway; nobody ever came to Comanche Point after
dark. Some intervening spur of the foothills dulled the sound; all was
still and silent.
He became conscious that Guadalupe’s fury had spent itself, and turned
round. The squaw was gone. His eyes searched the scrub; at one place he
saw the twigs bending, and he even fancied he could detect the outline
of the white wolf gliding away through the brushwood. But that was all.
Again the sound of the automobile smote his ears; louder now, and only a
few hundred yards away he beheld the headlights sweeping toward the spot
where he stood. He resolved to intercept the vehicle and stepped across
the belt of chaparral that intervened between him and the roadway.
Gaining the thoroughfare, he called aloud and the machine slowed down.
But what was his utter amazement when Merle jumped’ from the runabout.
To her there could be no more surprises on this night of surprises.
“Dick,” she exclaimed, as she accepted his embrace almost as a matter of
course.
“How do you come to be here, Merle, my darling?” he asked, holding her
in his arms.
“Something terrible is going to happen. I have come to try to prevent
it. Have you seen Don Manuel?”
“Don Manuel!” He repeated the name in great surprise.
“Mr. Robles is Don Manuel,” she gasped by way of explanation.
“I am aware. He told me so today.”
“Well, where is he now? And his enemy, Mr. Thurston?”
Dick still had an arm on her shoulder. She was gazing up into his face,
her voice trembling with emotion as she breathlessly plied him with her
questions.
“You have come too late, dearest,” Willoughby gently replied.
“Dead!” she exclaimed.
“Both are dead. They fought and rolled over the precipice. I have just
found their bodies lying in the chaparral back there.”
Merle leaned forward, sobbing on his breast.
“Take me to him, take me to him,” she cried.
“No, Merle, my dear. It is better not. You must go home. Tia Teresa,”
he added, addressing the duenna who had drawn near, “she must go home.
Munson has gone to Tejon for help. There will be people arriving here
very soon now.”
“He is really dead—Don Manuel?” asked Tia Teresa in a voice of awed
sadness.
“There can be nothing but the one answer,” replied Dick. “Don Manuel has
passed on.”
“Take me to him,” moaned Merle.
“No, no, Merle. This is no sight for you.”
“But, Dick, Dick, don’t you know one other thing?” she pleaded, raising
her tearful eyes.
“What other thing?”
“Don Manuel—was my father—my dear, dear father.”
Again Willoughby was overwhelmed with amazement.
“Your father?” he murmured.
“Yes, I only came to know it today. So, Dick, dear, even though he is
dead, let me kiss him now, let me kneel by his side and tell him that I
loved him, and will always love and revere his memory. Let me watch by
him until the others come.”
Dick drew the sobbing girl close to him. His eyes sought those of Tia
Teresa. He shook his head, telling the duenna in an unmistakable way
that Merle must be taken home—that she must not be shocked by the
gruesome spectacle hidden in the chaparral.
Even as their eyes met, the faint throb of an automobile was heard, and
glancing across the plain Dick saw the far-away headlights twinkling
like twin stars. With a gesture he directed Tia Teresa’s attention to
the coming help.
“I shall watch by our beloved dead one,” said the duenna. “My place is
by his side. Come, dearie,” she went on, placing an arm around Merle’s
waist. “Mr. Willoughby will drive you back to La Siesta, and I shall
see that your father’s body is taken to his home. There we shall pay all
honor to the dead.”
Together they led Merle, unresisting now, to the runabout. Dick got in
beside her, and took the wheel.
“They will be here very soon now,” he said to Tia Teresa. “Mr. Munson
will give you all the help you require. I’ll look after Merle.” He
backed the machine, turned, and the little red light swept up the
roadway into the distance. From across the valley the headlights of
a big automobile were now glaring like flashing suns in the soft
moonlight.
It was the hands of Tia Teresa that separated the bodies. That of Ben
Thurston she flung from her as if it had been carrion for the buzzards
and coyotes. Then she knelt down and stroked with loving hand the brow
of Don Manuel. On the dead face was a look of ineffable calm.
“Manuel, my Manuel, the little child I nursed! My beautiful, brave
Manuel!”
Thus lamenting, she awaited the coming of Munson and his friends.