“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.