A Vendetta of the Hills

by Willis George Emerson

So among the cowboys on the ranch, the oil drillers who frequented the Bakersfield saloons and had often enough stood around while young Thurston had set up the drinks, the newspaper reading public generally for whom all the facts had been set forth in elaborate detail—the universal concensus of opinion seemed to be that Dick Willoughby was the man. Not that this verdict of popular opinion carried with it any real reprobation. Everyone agreed that the worthless degenerate had met even a kindlier fate than he merited. Had he lived, not all his father’s millions could have long saved him either from the penitentiary or an asylum for the insane.

A week passed. Thurston brooded in solitude, but at his bidding Leach Sharkey kept up active investigations with a view to nose out every bit of evidence that could tell against the accused man. Sharkey worked, not from any special animosity against Willoughby, but from keen professional pride.

Dick accepted his confinement with manly fortitude. It. was one of those untoward happenings that come into some people’s lives for no obvious reason, but he was calm in the confidence that everything would be made clear in a very short time.

Moreover he was clear to his own conscience, which was the main thing. Next in importance was that Merle, Grace and Mrs. Darlington, Robles and Munson, all the friends whom he held in highest esteem, had never for one moment doubted him. In their unshaken friendship was sufficient reward for all the tribulations through which he was passing.

Meanwhile word had reached Buck Ashley that old Tom Baker was on his way home in company with Pierre Luzon, to whom the Governor of the State had at last granted parole. In view of Dick’s imprisonment Munson had well-nigh lost all interest in the romance of the buried treasure. But it had been Dick himself who had insisted that his friend must attend to their joint interests during his period of enforced sequestration.

Thus it had come about that Munson found himself one evening at the store, awaiting with Jack Rover and Buck Ashley the arrival of the automobile in which the sheriff was bringing the liberated convict from San Quentin. In a brief letter Tom Baker had explained that he had decided on this manner of transportation both because of its ensuring privacy and also because Pierre Luzon was so enfeebled by age, sickness and prolonged confinement that he could not travel by train. “I’ve rigged up a stretcher,” wrote Tom, “but the poor old Frenchie is as weak as a kitten, and we’ll have to run slow.”

Nine o’clock that night was the scheduled hour around which the automobile might be expected. Buck Ashley had the extra cot for the invalid all ready in his own bedroom at the rear of the store.

It was close on ten o’clock, however, before the headlight of the automobile showed across the valley on the high-road. Buck piled another big log on the fire in the sitting room. He saw that the doors were all carefully closed and the shades pulled down. Then he brought in from the bar a tray with glasses and a bottle of whisky.

“Kentucky bourbon—that was old Pierre Luzon’s favorite lotion,” he said as he set down the tray. “And I guess he’ll be glad of a good stiff drink on a cold night like this.”

At last the automobile entered the yard, and the invalid was carried in on the stretcher and propped up comfortably in a rocking chair near the cheerful blaze. His teeth were chattering from cold, and he gratefully gulped down the stiff glass of bourbon which Buck lost no time in proffering him.