A FULL year had passed, and the good people of Tejon had at last
ceased to speak daily about Dick Willoughby’s exciting adventures, Ben
Thurston’s inglorious death, and the romantic and now indubitable ending
of the famous outlaw, Don Manuel.
Both the victims of the desperate fight on Comanche Point had been laid
to rest—Don Manuel, in the little Mission churchyard above the hill,
side by side with the beloved sister of his youthful days, whose
betrayal and death he had at last avenged, although at the cost of his
own life; Ben Thurston, in the modern cemetery beside his son, the poor
weak youth in whom the once sturdy family of pioneers had sunk to final
decadency. Pierre Luzon, the brave and chivalrous old Frenchman, slept
near the grave of the chief he had served so loyally, and, according to
the old-time bandit code of ethics, so nobly and so well. In the God’s
acres where all feuds pass to oblivion there was perfect peace.
Sing Ling had unobtrusively departed for China, a wealthy man, as the
bank manager at Bakersfield could have told, no doubt destined to become
a leading magnate in the Flowery Land. Guadalupe was never seen again;
the aged squaw had probably died in her secret cave. The white wolf,
too, had perished; a cowboy riding the range had been attracted by some
buzzards flying and circling round and round far up on the mountain
side, and on making his way to the indicated spot, had found the
animal’s carcass picked almost to the bones. The old days were forever
gone.
But in the beautiful city of Tejon a glorious era of happiness was in
progress. Christmas-tide had come round again, and had been made gay
with a tournament of roses, and then with the dawning of the New Year
had followed a round of festivities in honor of the double wedding
of Dick Willoughby and Merle Farnsworth, Chester Munson and Grace
Darlington.
In no place was there more sincere and hilarious rejoicing than in the
back parlor of Buck Ashley’s fine new store, where the mystery keg,
sacredly reserved for this great occasion, was once more on tap and the
postmaster, assisted by Tom Baker and Jack Rover, dispensed hospitality
to a few chosen friends. But all good things come to an end, and it was
with a regretful sigh that the sheriff squeezed out the last few drops
from the tilted keg and sipped for the last time “the blessed nectar”
that had served to keep green the memory of “dear old Pierre.”
The marriage ceremonies had been performed in a fine little church that
sheltered all denominations in the new town, and amidst a shower of rice
and old shoes the happy couples had departed for the wedding breakfast
at La Siesta.
To Merle the day was one of blissful joy, but of tender regrets as well.
During the quiet afternoon hours she and Dick had conversed about their
dear old friend, Mr. Robles—the gallant and chivalrous Don Manuel—the
beloved father whose identity as such was known only to their own two
selves besides Mrs. Darlington and Tia Teresa.
And now the hour of departure on the honeymoon trail had come. The
idea of a trip to Europe had been abandoned for the present. The young
couples were going up among the Canadian Rockies, by divergent routes
which would meet a little later on, and all were full of enthusiasm at
the thought of seeing the mighty mountains in their wintry grandeur.
Mrs. Darlington accompanied the young people to the railway station,
but Tia Teresa was too deeply affected to trust herself away from home.
Merle had kissed her a tender good-bye in the apartment in the tower,
and, despite the joyful promise that they would soon meet again, had
left the old duenna in prayerful tears before her little altar.
At last they were pulling out from the depot, where the church crowd
of the morning had reassembled in full force, with fresh supplies of
good-luck munitions.
0371
Thus, like a disbanding company of players, the actors in this tale of
California, pass into history. The olden days of bandits are no more,
while the hatred of the gringo is only a tradition. The broad acres of
the San Antonio Rancho no longer lie comparatively fallow in Nature’s
pasture, but are tilled by the thrifty plowman as he labors afield with
fullest confidence of a bountiful reward. Meanwhile, the mountains
that look down upon the beauteous valley guard their secret well. But
searching eyes will yet, undoubtedly, sometime, somewhere, rediscover
the mysterious cavern with its hoarded millions of loot, stored by the
rapacious hands of Joaquin Murietta, the White Wolf, and their brigand
bands, its lake of oil from which outlaws fed their lamps, and its
subterranean river from whose shallow riffles Guadalupe, and Dick
Willoughby also, gathered a wealth of golden spoil.
THE END