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.