“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.