Thurston ventured no denial—his dropped jaw proclaimed his consciousness of guilt.
“Nothing was too base for you,” Don Manuel proceeded. “You robbed, despoiled, destroyed my home. But now at last your hour has come. I have waited patiently for this hour. On many an occasion, Ben Thurston, I could have shot you dead from a distance. But I have waited—waited—waited for the time when you would know that it was I, the White Wolf, who was sending you to your doom just as I have already sent your ruffian son to his.”
“So it was really you—who murdered my boy?” stammered Thurston.
“Don’t call it murder—it was righteous retribution for both him and you. Oh, I can tell you something tonight, for a secret does not pass from a dead man’s lips.”
The victim so confidently doomed, shuddered. Don Manuel continued:
“Merle Farnsworth is my daughter; your vile and debauched son dared to insult her, and so he died—rightly died. Yes, at my hands—I take full responsibility. And I am glad to tell you this before you follow him out of the world. Tonight, Ben Thurston, you go over this cliff—you die the death you gave to my sister.”
As he spoke, Don Manuel cast loose his Spanish cloak, and dropped both it and his sombrero to the ground.
Thurston at last staggered to his feet.
“So get ready now to fight for your life,” Don Manuel resumed, folding his arms across his breast as he surveyed his victim.
“But I am unarmed,” cried Thurston, pointing to the revolver at the other’s belt. His outstretched hand trembled, his voice was a terrified shriek.