A Vendetta of the Hills

“Then I, too, shall be unarmed,” replied Don Manuel, as he unbuckled his belt and tossed it lightly from him. “Come along, then – it is man to man with naked hands.” His tone now was one of concentrated passion and hate, and he advanced with arms extended for an enfolding embrace.

Now did Ben Thurston realize that his only chance for life lay in his superior weight, possibly his superior strength. At the thought, craven fear changed of a sudden to the courage of desperation, and like a wild cat he leaped at the throat of his adversary.

Then began a terrible struggle – two strong men writhing in each other’s grip like savage beasts. Soon their clothes were torn, their bodies begrimed with sweat and mud, their faces and naked arms bespattered with blood, for Ben Thurston’s nose had been broken in one of the first falls. Thurston, besides his extra pounds, had also the advantage of being younger by a few years. But Don Manuel was in better physical condition and his muscles were like bands of steel. So it was pretty much of a level match in this grim fight to the death.

As they tugged at each other, as each attempted to bear the other down or trip and throw him, as at times, each tried in their locked embrace to crush in his adversary’s ribs and squeeze the last breath out of his body, as they milled round and round, swayed and fell and rolled over and then for a moment regained a kneeling or an upright position – both men realized that it was the one who could last the longest with whom the mastery would rest.

Pierre Luzon, running up the trail, came to the edge of the open space where the desperate contest was in progress. But the onlooker did not attempt to interfere – he had had his orders; he just crouched and watched the swaying, writhing figures.

For an hour or more the fight proceeded, at times fast and furious, with breathing spells to follow, during which grips were tenaciously maintained. Points of advantage alternated now to the one side, now to the other, but after each succeeding tussle both combatants were exhausted without victory being pronounced for either. Every vestige of clothing above the belt line had long since been torn away, and they were sweating like lathered horses.

The milling and wrestling had gradually grown weaker, and it was clear now that the final test of endurance could not be much longer delayed. Yet again Don Manuel renewed the attack, and had forced Thurston to his knees, when the latter by a supreme effort raised himself again, and then by sheer weight pressed his opponent back a pace or two. But just at this moment Thurston’s strength seemed to give out, for he dropped down sideways, dragging his enemy after him.

Then Pierre Luzon saw the object of the manoeuvre. Thurston had gained the spot where Don Manuel’s discarded pistol belt was lying, and now he was reaching out with a disengaged hand to grab the gun.

The Frenchman darted forward.

“Keep out of this,” cried Don Manuel, peremptorily, although he was breathing hard.

“Look out! Your gun!” screamed Pierre, as he seized Thurston’s wrist in a vice-like grip.

Just an instant too late, however, for Thurston’s fingers had already closed round the weapon and it went off with a bang.

Pierre dropped to his knees. It was he who had received the bullet – through one of his lungs. But he had wrested the pistol from the treacherous villain’s grasp and now it fell, still smoking, to the ground.

The wounded man coughed a great mouthful of crimson blood on to the slab of rock. Then he recovered himself and raised his head. Thurston and Don Manuel, even in their weakened state, were fighting more desperately than ever, blinded by hate to every sense of danger, and Pierre was just in time to see them slip on some loosened stones and then, still locked in the death clench, go rolling over the edge of the precipice.

“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” murmured the Frenchman. He staggered to his feet and without waiting turned and started down the steep trail, stumbling like a drunken man.

At the foot of the zig-zag pathway he gazed helplessly around. He would have pushed his way through the brushwood to seek his beloved chief. Dead! He must be dead. No one could have dropped that sheer three hundred feet onto the cruel jagged rocks below and live. Yet, who knows? A tree might have broken the fall – Don Manuel might still be alive.

Pierre, however, was incapable of further effort. His limbs trembled beneath him, and again he was spitting blood.

All of a sudden he spied the two horses tethered under the manzanita tree. He tottered toward them, untied the first one he reached, and with difficulty pulled himself up into the saddle.

To reach Dick Willoughby and get help – that was the thought in the reeling brain of Pierre Luzon as with a final effort, leaning forward over the saddle, he turned his steed in the direction of Buck Ashley’s old store, and urged it to a canter.

CHAPTER XL – Revelation

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.

CHAPTER XLI – Beneath the Precipice

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.