A Vendetta of the Hills

“No excuse needed, my friend. You were better engaged” – this with a humorous side-glance at the young ladies. “But I am glad to see you looking so well.”

“Where have you been, Mr. Willoughby?” asked Grace.

“That I cannot tell you,” replied Dick gravely. “I have pledged my solemn word. I must leave you at eleven o’clock, returning whence I came. And meanwhile nobody must ask me a single question about my place of hiding. There now – that’s all. What shall it be first, Miss Merle, a piano solo or a duet with the violin?”

“Supper, I should say,” exclaimed Mrs. Darlington, as she left the room.

CHAPTER XXIV – In a Tight Corner

DICK’S after-dark visit to La Siesta was only the first of several that followed at intervals of a few days. He came and departed mysteriously, and during his brief stay every precaution was taken that no one except his few trusted friends should know of his presence. But by some means or other a whisper had reached the ear of the sleuth, Leach Sharkey, that the fugitive had been seen at the home of Mrs. Darlington.

When the news was imparted to Ben Thurston, the old man quivered from excitement.

“At La Siesta, do you tell me? Let us ride over there at once, and search the place from basement to attic.”

“No, no,” replied Sharkey. “I’ve got my scouts out. Don’t you worry. We must wait till the night bird comes back. Then we’ll trap him like a fat quail.”

“All right. Have my automobile ready, and a bunch of well-armed fellows right here, so that we can make a rush over at a moment’s notice. By God, I’ve been disappointed in everything else – lost my son, lost my ranch, lost my home. But I’m not going to lose that man. I’m going to get him, even if we shoot him down on sight as an outlawed fugitive from justice with a price on his head.”

“We’ll get him,” answered Sharkey, with a grim smile. “You may count him a dead bird. I guessed he wouldn’t keep away from his girl very long.”

“His girl! Curse her – it was she who lured my son to his death. But I’ll be avenged. If she has been harboring an outlaw, she, too, has broken the law and shall go to jail.”

“Well, she no doubt thinks him innocent,” suggested the sleuth.

“Innocent! All women are alike – treacherous devils at heart. I would give them the vote – yes, but the rope at the same time,” he went on, growling in savage incoherence.

And Sharkey, knowing that discussion or contradiction only added fresh fuel to his vile temper, left him alone.

At last, a few nights later, a rider dashed up to Ben Thurston’s house with the news that Dick Willoughby had been seen entering La Siesta, and that, following Sharkey’s instructions, every avenue of escape was now guarded.

“Hurry, hurry! I’ve got to be in at the death,” fairly screamed the old man.

Five minutes later the big seven-passenger automobile, carrying three or four armed men besides its owner and his personal guard, Leach Sharkey, was devouring the twenty miles of road that lay between the two ranch homes.

That evening the four young people were quietly chatting in the cosy corner on the interior verandah – the comfortable little nook fixed up with rugs and tapestries and oriental divans. It was summer now, and after a sultry day the night air was sweet and balmy. Willoughby was smoking a cigar in languid contentment with his surroundings, when all at once he sprang to his feet.

Tia Teresa had rushed in, frantic with excitement.

“A great big automobile is coming along the road,” she cried, “and there are men watching outside the portico. Come with me,” she went on, addressing Dick. “I know where your horses are hid. I can take you by a secret path through the oleanders.”

Dick vaguely wondered why the duenna should know anything about his mode of coming. But there was no time to question, for just then there came the sound of voices outside.

Mrs. Darlington, pale and agitated, emerged from the drawing room.

“What has happened?” she asked breathlessly.

“I guess I’m trapped,” replied Dick quietly. “No doubt it’s old Thurston. There will be shooting if I resist. So there is nothing for it but to surrender.”

“No, no,” exclaimed Merle. “I dread that vindictive man. He must never get you in his power again. We must gain time to smuggle you out of the house. I have it. Tia Teresa – give me your mantilla and your cloak. Quick, quick!”

A first loud knocking had come on the door at the head of the portico steps. The duenna in a moment had divested herself of her loose black robe and heavy lace veil.

“Get something else to wear and meet us at the oleanders,” continued Merle, taking the garments from Tia Teresa. “Put these on, Dick, and sit right there in that corner. Mr. Munson, turn off two or three of the lights. Mother, dear, control yourself. Take this book and be reading. Now, that will do. They will be here in a moment.”

A second knock had been heard, and now they knew that the door was being opened without further ceremony, for at placid La Siesta there were no bolts or bars against unwelcome visitors.

In that brief minute a wonderful transformation scene had taken place in the cosy corner. Tia Teresa had disappeared. Munson was stretched on a sofa, puffing his cigar. Merle and Grace had been playing patience during the afternoon and had left the cards in scattered confusion. Mrs. Darlington, beneath the single incandescent aglow, was quietly reading. From the darksome corner the pretended duenna surveyed this peaceful scene of domesticity.

It was Ben Thurston himself who led the way for his swarm of myrmidons.

He began without formality; his tone was coarse and rude.

“We want the outlaw, Dick Willoughby. We know he is here. So make no fuss. Deliver him over.”

Mrs. Darlington had risen to her feet, and Munson, too, had sprung erect.

“What do you mean?” asked the lady with quiet dignity.

“You know darned well what I mean.”

Munson stepped forward, but he played the game best by keeping himself under perfect control.

“You will speak civilly, Mr. Thurston, or leave this house. What is wanted?” he added, turning to Leach Sharkey.

“We want Dick Willoughby, of course,” the sleuth replied, politely enough. “We have reason to believe he is here.”

“Well, you can see for yourself whether he is here or not,” said Munson, glancing around. “But if you wish to look through the house, I don’t suppose Mrs. Darlington will refuse you permission.”

The lady bowed her acquiescence.

“With your consent, Mrs. Darlington,” Munson went on, “I’ll show these gentlemen round and save you the annoyance. Come along then.”

Ben Thurston had been fairly silenced by the army man’s suave courtesy. He was glowering at him, dully conscious of having been suppressed.

Munson turned from the sleuth.

“Perhaps Mr. Thurston would prefer to remain with the ladies?” he asked, with a touch of smiling irony.

“I don’t leave my man Sharkey,” replied Thurston gruffly. “Sharkey, keep close watch on me. We’ll search the place, but you stay near me all the time.” Once again there was the old hunted look in his eyes as he glanced apprehensively into the courtyard.

“Then follow me,” said Munson quietly.

“You have left a guard at the door of course?” asked Thurston of Sharkey.

“Oh, you just allow me to know my business,” replied the detective sharply. He bowed to Mrs. Darlington and her daughters. “I am really sorry to disturb you, ladies.”

“Then get the business over as soon as possible,” said Munson. “Come along.”

The moment the coast was clear, Merle jumped up.

“Quick! Mr. Willoughby. Follow me downstairs. I’ll take you through the kitchen to the rose gardens.”

It was a strange looking duenna that stalked after Merle, with a robe reaching only to the knees. But at the head of the kitchen stairway Dick discarded the now useless garments, flinging them across the balustrade.

“We must trust to our good luck now, Merle,” he said.

“Never fear. It won’t desert us. Hurry on.”

At the clump of oleanders they found Tia Teresa, provided with another shawl. Not a moment was to be wasted in words. Merle just pressed Dick’s hand by way of farewell. As he hastened away down the dark path, she, too, sped from the spot.

Perhaps fifteen minutes later Ben Thurston, going the round of the house, came to the head of the kitchen stairs. He saw the black cloak and mantilla on the balustrade.

“By God!” he cried with swift inspiration of what had happened. “We’ve been properly fooled! Where is that old hag of a duenna?”

Gathering the vestments in his hands he rushed through the house to the verandah. Merle was quietly seated with her mother and Grace. But there was no sign now of Tia Teresa.

Sharkey had followed close on his employer’s heels. Munson came a few paces behind.

Ben Thurston glared for a moment at the vacant place where the black-robed figure had been seated. Then he turned round and, addressing Mrs. Darlington, fairly shouted:

“Where is Dick Willoughby? It was he who was wearing these damned clothes.” And he flung the garments on the rug before her.

“No swearing, please,” said Munson, tapping him on the shoulder.

“To hell! Who wouldn’t swear? Where is the man I’m after?”

“An innocent man,” exclaimed Merle, rising to her feet and proudly folding her arms.

“Looks like it – breaking jail and hiding in the hills,” sneered Thurston. “He is nothing but a murderer and an outlaw. And I’m going to get him, dead or alive.”

“Then catch him if you can,” cried Merle, pointing toward the door that opened on the portico.

Under the girl’s fearless gaze Ben Thurston wilted. Baffled, humiliated, speechless in his impotent rage, he allowed the sleuth to take him by the arm and hustle him from the scene.

CHAPTER XXV – Love and Revenge

BEYOND the oleanders a tall thick hedge of cypress favored the flight of the fugitive. At the end of the gardens Tia Teresa took a little path that dipped into the river bed, and when they ascended again out of the hollow, Dick found himself quite close to the grove where Pierre was in hiding with the ponies.

By this time the young fellow was angry with himself for having fled so precipitately. He was full of solicitude for Merle. Why had not he remained to defend her from the brutality of that ruffian, Ben Thurston? This was the question that was now making him both ashamed and anxious.

“Hush!”

The caution came from Pierre, and showed that the Frenchman was alive to what had happened.

“I saw ze automobile rush by,” he whispered. “We will ride across country, so zat it cannot follow us.” He pointed in the direction he would go.

“Not yet,” replied Dick, determinedly. “I’m off back to the house to see that they are all safe there.”

“No, no, Mr. Willoughby,” protested the duenna earnestly. “You heard what Miss Merle said – she is afraid of that raging old man. Besides I know. He has vowed that he and his hired gunmen will shoot you on sight. For my little girl’s sake you must not go back,” she implored.

“Besides your word of honor is pledged to me,” added Luzon. “You must return wiz me. I have your parole.”

“Parole be hanged,” muttered Dick between his teeth.

The old Frenchman laid a kindly hand on the young man’s shoulder.

“No, no. Monsieur is a man of honor. And honor comes before love – always.”

“If you love her,” insisted Tia Teresa, “you will save yourself tonight. We will look after her. You need not worry on her account.”

Dick for the moment was silenced, but unconvinced.

“Well, at all events we’ll wait a bit. I don’t leave this spot till I’m sure that Ben Thurston himself has cleared.”

“All right,” assented Pierre. “Stay where you are, Tia Teresa. You must not be seen. Zey may be searching in ze gardens.”

Even as he spoke there was the flash of a lantern among the rose bushes.

In tense silence they waited and watched. The leaden-winged minutes stole on. For a time lights flitted about, then vanished. At last came the “honk-honk” of the automobile, and a minute later the great machine with its flaring headlights swept down the roadway. They could just see that it was crowded with men. Then in a few seconds it had disappeared around the bend.

“Now we go,” said Pierre.

“Just a minute longer, please,” replied Dick in a firm tone. “Tia Teresa, you slip back to the house. I will stay here till you bring me word from Merle that she is safe and that all is well.”

“I will soon return,” said the duenna as she hurried away on her mission.

Again an interval of high-tensioned waiting. Neither Dick nor Pierre spoke a word. At last there came a rustle of the bushes from the direction of the river bed, and a moment later Tia Teresa was again by their side.

“Mr. Willoughby,” she said, breathless from the speed she had made, “Miss Merle begs you to make good your escape. She is well, and happy because you are safe. She sends this rose and” – the old lady hesitated a moment – “her love.”

“She said that?” murmured Dick, tremblingly, as he took the white blossom and breathed its fragrance.

“Well, does not the flower speak her love?” replied the duenna. “Now go, go.”

“Come,” said Pierre, as he raised himself into the saddle. “We shall fix the blindfold later on.” Dick furtively kissed the rose before he placed it in the breast pocket of his coat. Then he mounted, and, bringing his pony alongside of Pierre’s, started off at a canter across the starlit plain.

Ben Thurston did not feel inclined to sleep that night. He paced his sitting room like an angry bear, and kept Leach Sharkey out of bed to listen to his growls and threatenings.

“By God, I’ll have that girl shoved into jail. Harboring an outlaw! It’s a criminal offence.”

“You can’t do it,” objected the sleuth.

“Can’t do it?” shouted Thurston, halting and glowering down upon the man who had dared to contradict him. “You’ll see damned quick if I can’t.”

“Not one of us could swear that Willoughby was there. Neither you nor I could. We never saw him.”

“He wore that disguise,” thundered Thurston. “So you think. But thinking ain’t proof – not by a long chalk.”

Thurston was now almost speechless from rage. Half articulate words of blasphemy were upon his stuttering lips. But Sharkey went coolly on.

“Besides the sympathy of everyone would be with the girl. You can’t succeed that way. You yourself would be covered with ridicule.”

At last the torrent of curses broke forth. “Damn you, Leach Sharkey! That’s what I pay you for, is it? To let that scoundrel slip through our very fingers? And you had the nerve to ask me for another big check this evening. It’s all a confounded plot. You’re bleeding me. Leach is your name, and leech is your nature.” Leach Sharkey rose to his feet. His white teeth gleamed as his short upper lip curled in a contemptuous smile. He raised a threatening finger. It was his turn now to give free vent to profanity.

“Stop right there, you doggoned old fool. I bleed you, do I? Well, take my resignation. All your pay ain’t worth another five minutes of your infernal temper. No man ever dared to browbeat me and insult me as you have done. And now you may go to hell – where you belong.”

The sleuth turned on his heel, and strode to the doorway. But Thurston was after him in an instant, penitent, trembling, ashen pale. He grabbed Sharkey by the coat sleeve.

“No, no, don’t go, I beg of you,” he whined, “I was wrong. I spoke in anger. I apologize. Good God, some one or other will get me within an hour if you leave me unprotected. I haven’t a single friend – no one to stand by me.” There was craven fear in his eyes as he looked timidly around. “I hear the prowling footsteps of my enemies in the night. You alone can save me, Mr. Sharkey.”

“Your damned civility comes too late,” replied the sleuth, as he shook the clutching hands from his shoulder.

“No, no. Don’t say that. Sit down again. See, here is my check book. I’ll pay you that money now – I’ll double the amount – I’ll never haggle with you again. Stay with me till we go East together.”

Sharkey showed himself somewhat mollified. He had played his game well, for after all, cash with him was the main consideration. So smiling over the success of his bluff, he watched the unnerved coward as he tottered to his desk, dropped into a chair and drew the check with slow and painful effort, and then returned with it between his still trembling fingers.

“You’ll stand by me, Mr. Sharkey, won’t you?”

“Well, no more of that nonsense,” was the curt reply, as the sleuth glanced at the slip of paper, then thrust it in his waistcoat pocket.

To Thurston the reconciliation brought instant relief. He drew himself up; he rubbed his hands; he even attempted a smile.

“That’s a good fellow, Sharkey. You know I’ve always held you in high esteem. And we’ll get that man yet” – the glare of vindictiveness was again in his eyes, the rasp of accustomed irritability was returning to his voice. “We’ll get him, I say, even if it costs double the money I’ve already spent. And that devil of a girl, too – I hate her more than ever now. She’ll pay for her insults tonight with her lover’s life. Remember, Sharkey, no more chances. When you get the scoundrel within gunshot, it’s up to you to shoot. That will be best in any case. It will save the cost of a judge and jury. You understand me?”

“I understand,” nodded Sharkey. “Then, as you’re speaking about doubling. Mr. Thurston, I suppose that ten-thousand-dollar reward coming to me goes up to twenty thousand.”

“Yes; twenty thousand if you shoot him like a dog, and let me get away from this damned place. I have come to loathe the very name of it. Well, spread your cot now across my door. I’ll try to get an hour’s sleep. Good night.”

And Ben Thurston disappeared into the inner room.

CHAPTER XXVI – A Date is Fixed

ON the morning after the exciting episode at La Siesta, Chester Munson was in the library of Mr. Robles’ home ready for his day’s duties. But he was in no mood for the routine work of cataloging and classifying the volumes on the bookshelves. Up to now the task had been one of absorbing interest, for Munson, although not a scholar, had always been fond of reading, and it was a treat to dip at times into the contents of the rare and curious works which wealth and the educated taste of a true bibliophile had accumulated.

But today the amateur librarian was thinking of other things. He was feverishly awaiting the usual morning visit of his employer, so that he might tell him the story of the previous night’s happenings. At last Mr. Robles made his appearance, and gave his usual quiet greetings.

“I see you are making great progress with your work,” he remarked, glancing at the pile of classified volumes resting temporarily on the library table.

“Oh, I’m getting along,” replied Munson. “But I have most surprising news for you, Mr. Robles.”

“Indeed?” The recluse arched his eyebrows in expectant curiosity as he took a chair beside the desk at which Munson had been seated. “Sit down, please. Let me hear the story.”

“You know that I was at La Siesta yesterday evening?”

“I know that you are very often there,” replied Mr. Robles, smiling. “I understand the attraction and congratulate you on your good fortune. Grace Darlington is certainly a charming young lady.”

Munson flushed and bowed his acquiescence in the compliment as he said:

“It was not of her, however, that I was going to speak. I want to say to you, Mr. Robles, that Miss Farnsworth did one of the bravest and cleverest things imaginable last evening.”

“Tell me about it. I am all attention.” Munson then proceeded to relate in full detail the events of the preceding evening – the surprise visit of Ben Thurston, the brutality of the man, the quick wit of Merle, the escape of Dick Willoughby, and his final message by Tia Teresa that he was safe and, in obedience to Merle’s injunction, was returning to his place of hiding. During the narrative only once did the listener betray emotion; when Thurston’s rude insults were repeated there came a flash into Robles’ eyes, and he clenched his hands to restrain his indignation. But he interrupted with no word, and at the end spoke no comment.

Munson was a little taken aback at this silence and impassivity.

“My story does not seem to surprise you?” he remarked, with a note of interrogation.

“No,” was the quiet reply, “I already knew it.”

“How?” exclaimed Munson, wonderingly.

“You have forgotten, young man, that there is a private telephone between my home here and La Siesta. Mrs. Darlington has already told me about the matter. But I am pleased to have your version, and delighted more than I can tell to know that Merle proved equal to the emergency – that it was she who may be truly said to have saved Dick Willoughby.” There was a ring of pride and admiration in his voice as he spoke the words.

“She’s the real stuff,” cried Munson, enthusiastically.

“It was well done,” continued Mr. Robles, his tone taking a graver note. “For I want to warn you, Munson, as Willoughby’s closest friend, that Ben Thurston or one of his hired assassins will certainly shoot on sight the instant they get the chance to do so. But by the Lord, if anything like that happens, I will hang that villain Thurston to the highest tree in Tejon for the buzzards to pick his bones.” And the upraised hand, the voice vibrating with passionate determination, showed that Ricardo Robles meant just what he said.

Mr. Robles had risen to his feet. For a moment he turned his face away. Then he again spoke, but now in his customary, sedate manner.

“This morning, Mr. Munson, I leave home for a few days. Go on with your work, of course, but remember that it is quite a minor consideration. During my absence I shall rely on you to see that Ben Thurston, on any pretence of searching for Willoughby, does not cross my door.”

“He shall never do that, so long as I’m here,” declared the young army man, with quiet confidence.

“I don’t think he will, either,” replied Robles. “I have given orders for him to be shot down,” he added grimly, “if he should dare to approach my gates. But I’ll count on you all the same as a second guard to the sanctity of my home.”

“You may count on me to the death,” responded Munson, extending his hand.

“I know it, and therefore I go away on a necessary duty with an easy mind. But I have good news for you, Munson. I have instructed Sing Ling to prepare luncheon for the ladies of La Siesta every day they choose to come. So, while I prefer you to remain here on guard while I am gone, you need not be lonely. Perhaps you’ll hardly wish me to come back again,” he added with a smile.

“Oh, don’t say that. But you’re mighty kind thinking of such things at all.”

“Well, you may expect our friends today about one o’clock. Now, goodbye – but not for long.”

The library work proceeded but slowly during the hours that followed. Munson was all impatience now for Grace and Merle to arrive. Books were of little account, for there was none ever printed that could rival for him the charm of a certain pair of laughing blue eyes. And it was a self-confessed pseudo man-of-letters who at last rushed to the gateway to greet the fair visitors.

“Mother couldn’t come,” cried Grace, as she jumped from her horse and flung the bridle to a Mexican groom. “She’s putting up fruit with Tia Teresa, and I think she really believes everything would go wrong if she didn’t superintend.”

Munson, as he led the girls through the arched gateway, was inclined to bless both the fruit and the fallacy.

Sing Ling came across the patio with a welcoming smile.

“Dinnel all leady,” he announced in tinkling syllables.

“And we’re all ready, too, Sing Ling,” laughed Merle, as she went up and shook the Chinaman’s hand.

“Me vely glad to see you again, missie.”

“I didn’t know you were old friends,” exclaimed Munson, in some surprise.

“Oh, didn’t you? Sing Ling has been Mr. Robles’ cook off and on for nearly twenty years. When Mr. Robles is abroad of course he works elsewhere. That’s why you found him at San Antonio Rancho.”

“But Dick told me he was his cook – had been for several years.”

“With Mr. Robles’ tacit consent, then,” replied Merle.

The Chinaman was grinning in a vacuous sort of way, as if all the conversation was so much Greek to him.