Already San Antonio Rancho was in possession of the syndicate; their foreman was in charge, the stock under their control, and it was only out of consideration that the former owner was being permitted to linger a little longer in residence. But for the gloomy and morose man there seemed to be gloating satisfaction in the grim thought that before shaking off forever the dust of his old home he would first of all ensure the hanging of his son’s murderer.
Among the most regular visitors at the jail were the ladies of La Siesta, and rumor now began to run around that Miss Merle Farnsworth, despite Willoughby’s pleading that she should not mix her name up in the case, would offer some surprising evidence in favor of the accused man—evidence that might not exonerate Willoughby from responsibility for the deed, but perhaps would fully justify his act to the minds of the jurymen.
It was now only three days from the trial, and the whole county was agog with expectation.
That night in the small hours five masked men rode very quietly through the streets to the vicinity of the jail. All were heavily armed, and one of them was leading an extra saddle horse. The party dismounted under the shadow of some trees. One man held the horses, while his four companions, with drawn revolvers, advanced to the gateway. Whether it was a simple case of cowardly yielding to threats, or whether there had been preliminary financial greasing of locks and bolts, aided perhaps by sympathy for the prisoner, the fact remains that within a very few minutes Dick Willoughby had been brought from his cell.
“You are a free man, Mr. Willoughby,” said the leader of the masked band in a low voice. “You will come with us.”
“Who are you?” asked Dick.
“We are friends—that is enough.”
“I have no wish to go,” protested Dick in the hearing of the jailers. “The jury must acquit me—I am ready to remain here until they do acquit me.”
“Take care. The man with the money can put the rope round your neck.”
“I am not afraid.”