A Vendetta of the Hills

There was no real pity in his heart. Young Thurston had been utterly bad – not big-brained enough to belong to the social dregs, but just equally worthless scum, the more repellent because it made itself visible all the time. He would pass almost without a tear except from the father whose own record had been so foully besmeared that there could be scant sympathy even for him in the hour of his bereavement.

Dick just wondered and wondered. For the time being he had quite forgotten that old legend – the Vendetta of the Hills.

CHAPTER XIII – Accused

AROUND the horse corral at the San Antonio Rancho some half-dozen cowboys were squatted on their heels, cowboy-fashion, swapping the news of the day. They had ridden in from various points of the compass, and two or three of their horses, those of the latest comers, still stood saddled outside the enclosure, the reins dropped loosely over their heads, which for the trained cow-pony is just as effective an anchorage as any stake and rope.

Two or three cigarettes were a-light, and the “makings” were passing from hand to hand among those not yet engaged in the leisurely blowing of smoke rings. The topic of conversation was the rumored sale of the ranch, which some declared to be assuredly impending, while others dismissed the possibility of such a big deal going through as the merest moonshine.

Jack Rover was among those who had no illusions as to the future.

“Believe me, fellers,” he was remarking, “it’s no false alarm this time. The old rancho is as good as sold, the stock is a-going to be shipped out, the farmers is a-coming in, and in a few months’ time we’ll all be hunting jobs if there’s any more cow-punching jobs left in this blamed new topsy-turvy world. And that’s the straight goods – hell!”

Just as this terse and vigorous summation of the whole dispute found utterance, all eyes were turned in a particular direction. It was young Thurston’s riderless steed that had attracted attention as it swept toward its accustomed quarters in the corral.

“It’s Marshall’s horse,” observed one of the boys.

“Off again, on again, gone again, Flannigan,” laughed another – an adaptation of a popular story that evoked a general grin.

But one youth had sprung to his feet, and skilfully caught the bridle of the panting animal as it passed him.

“Whoa, beauty!”

The others had not stirred. The involuntary dismounting of the young boss was too familiar an episode to provoke anything more than a laugh tinctured with mild satisfaction —

“No Easterner can ride a Western broncho, anyhow.”

“Pass your baccy, Bob,” came a voice from the ring. But the cowboy holding the riderless horse now brought them all to instant attention.

“By God, he’s been shot! There’s blood on the horn, and here’s the rip of the bullet.”

Everyone was on their feet now, and the situation was being eagerly discussed while the saddle was undergoing confirmatory inspection.

“Something’s happened, boys,” exclaimed the big husky fellow addressed as Bob, conclusively, if somewhat obviously. “And I guess we’d better investigate.”

As he spoke he swung himself into his saddle – he had been one of the late arrivals and his horse was all ready for the road or the range.

“Up toward the hills then,” remarked another, indicating the direction whence the riderless horse had come. And a moment later he, too, was astride his broncho.

“I’ll borrow your pony, Ted,” cried out Jack Rover as he jumped astride a third mustang.

And a moment later all three riders were pelting along the road leading to La Siesta. There was no difficulty whatever in picking up the long galloping strides on the dusty highway, and the speed of the trackers depended only on the swiftness and endurance of their mounts.

Meanwhile the boy who had caught Marshall’s horse had disencumbered it of saddle and bridle, and turned it into the corral with a kindly pat on its heaving flank.

“Guess I’ll report to the boss,” he called out, as he picked up the saddle and moved away toward the ranch home.

“Look out for yourself,” shouted one of the group. “Old Thurston will be madder than hell.”

But it was terror, selfish terror, not anger nor grief, that came into Ben Thurston’s eyes when he saw the saddle horn smeared with fresh blood and scarred by a bullet.

“My God, and I believed Don Manuel was dead,” he whispered in a hoarse voice to Leach Sharkey.

The two had been, as usual, in close companionship; Sharkey reading a weekly newspaper, while the employer he was paid to protect, restlessly, as was his wont, paced the room.

“Disappeared and dead ain’t exactly the same thing,” replied the sleuth as he critically examined the saddle. “And there may be another explanation to this. What about Dick Willoughby?”

“Yes, yes, Dick Willoughby,” eagerly assented the trembling man.

“You saw them quarreling the other day – they hate each other like poison,” continued Sharkey. “Where’s Dick Willoughby now?” he enquired, with a swift glance at the cowboy.

“Good Lord, that’s just where he is – searching the canyons below the forest for mavericks,” was the reply.

Sharkey smiled blandly; the informant looked disappointed, yet confident.

“I couldn’t have believed that of Dick,” he added, regretfully.

“Well, clear out now,” said Sharkey. “Mr. Thurston and I will want to be alone. You say Jack Rover and two others have gone out to search? Well, we can’t do more till they bring us in some news. Let us know at once when they return.”

Ben Thurston had collapsed onto a chair, then raised himself, and was leaning eagerly forward now. He met Sharkey’s glance of hardly concealed contempt.

“That’s right,” he murmured, “It has been Dick Willoughby’s work. I knew Don Manuel was dead.”

“And what about your boy?” asked the sleuth curtly.

“Oh, yes, poor Marshall! I forgot about him. But perhaps he’s only wounded. We’ll send to Bakersfield for a doctor.” And he half rose from his seat.

“You’ll just wait patiently here,” replied Sharkey, as he pushed Thurston back into his chair. “All that is possible for the present is being done.”

And the rôles were now reversed – it was the bodyguard who slowly and meditatively paced the room.

Meanwhile Dick Willoughby had ceased from his ruminations, and was beginning to take practical steps for getting Marshall’s body home. He had no thought of coroner’s regulations that a corpse should be left undisturbed till the proper official investigation had been made. He had got his riata ready, and was just going to sling the body across his saddle and tie it there, when the rhythmic thud of clattering hoofs smote upon his ear. Thank God! Help was coming. There would be others to assist him in his gruesome task. So Dick patiently waited while the sound grew nearer and nearer, until at last the three cowboys dashed round the bend.

“I heard the rifle shot,” Dick explained, “and rode up from the canyon below to have a look. I found him here, huddled up just as you see him by the side of the road.”

“Who the devil did this?” asked Jack Rover, contemplating the corpse.

“God only knows,” replied Dick. “You take him on your saddle, Bob,” he added, addressing the big cowboy, whose horse was a full hand taller than the other ponies and more stalwart in proportion.

And so the cortege was formed, Jack Rover leading the way, with Bob and the body following and Dick Willoughby bringing up the rear.

The sun was low when at last they gained the rancho. They made their way quietly round to the bunk house and quite tenderly swathed the mortal remains of the young boss in a blanket, before carrying it to his father’s home.

At the sound of approaching footsteps old Ben Thurston, with Leach Sharkey close on his heels, emerged onto the verandah. There was no need to announce the death of his son – the ominous bundle told its own sad tale. The ranch owner stared at it, horrified, inarticulate from a conflict of emotions, the hunted look of terror again in his eyes. Leach Sharkey took up the work of interrogation.

“How did it happen?” He was addressing Jack Rover, who chanced to stand next to him after helping to deposit the body on a bench that stood conveniently against the wall.

“Dick Willoughby heard the shot up among the woods, and found him lying dead on the road.”