A Vendetta of the Hills

Sharkey advanced a pace or two and confronted Dick.

“Who fired the shot?”

“How should I know?” retorted Dick, reddening slightly from the brusqueness of the enquiry.

“I reckon I can tell,” cried Sharkey. And with a swift, experienced movement he grabbed Dick by both arms and clicked a pair of handcuffs on his wrists before anyone, Dick least of all, had fathomed his intention.

Dick Willoughby was a square-shouldered, powerful fellow, but the great husky bodyguard, Leach Sharkey, towered above him. In the first flush of anger and surprise Dick struggled to break the shackles of ignominy. But the sleuth grabbed him by both shoulders with a grip that rendered its recipient absolutely powerless.

“Go easy, young man.”

Dick’s muscles relaxed, and Sharkey was content to release his hold.

“Go easy. If you have any answer to make to the charge of murdering that boy, you’ll have the chance all in good time.”

“What right have you to arrest me?” demanded Dick, somewhat recovering his poise.

“Oh, I’ve a special constable’s star all right,” replied Sharkey, throwing open his coat and displaying, close to his armpit, the badge of the office he had claimed.

“Guess that’s good enough for you and all others here. And now take my advice, Willoughby. You’ll come quietly with me to Bakersfield. I’ve no special grudge against you, but have my obvious duty to perform. You threatened young Marshall more than once in all our hearing, and it will be up to you to prove yourself guiltless of his death. You bring round Mr. Thurston’s automobile, Rover. We start right now.”

Everything had happened so rapidly that none of the cowboys, had they so desired, could have protested or interfered. Meanwhile the news had spread, for others among the ranch hands were coming up and crowding toward the verandah rails. General sympathy was obviously with Dick Several of the onlookers advanced and shook his manacled hands. “All right, Mr. Willoughby.” “You’ll be home again tomorrow,” “Buck up, it’s a ridiculous charge” – these were among their expressions of encouragement. Dick just smiled his thanks – a wan, wistful smile. He now had himself under perfect control – even his resentment toward Sharkey had been allowed to evaporate.

“Very well,” he said quietly, addressing the sleuth. “I’ll give you no trouble, Sharkey. Let us get away from here as quickly as possible.”

Just then Lieutenant Munson came hurriedly onto the scene. For a moment he looked thunderstruck when he saw the handcuffs around Dick’s wrists.

“Great Scott, Dick! What’s the meaning of this?” Then without waiting for a reply he turned to the sleuth.

“I’ve just heard about young Thurston’s death, but you’re surely not going to mix up Dick Willoughby’s name with it, Mr. Sharkey? You must know that he would have nothing to do with such a cowardly crime.”

“He can prove all that at the proper time and place,” was the cool, determined rejoinder.

“Don’t interfere, Munson,” interposed Dick. “Mr. Sharkey considers that he is doing his duty. That’s an end to all argument. I’ll have no difficulty in obtaining my release once we get to Bakersfield.”

“And the lieutenant can come along with us if he likes,” observed the sleuth, conciliated by his prisoner’s sensible view of things. “As Mr. Willoughby’s best friend, you can see that everything’s done right, Mr. Munson.”

“But why these handcuffs?”

“I know my own business,” replied the sleuth, with returning severity, as he touched the constable’s star on his breast. “And as a soldier you should know the wisdom of letting it go at that, sir.”

Munson turned to Mr. Thurston. All through the colloquy the ranch-owner had spoken not a word. He had dropped onto the bench beside the still swathed body of his son, and was sitting there with bowed head and stolidly fixed eyes.

“You are no party to this accusation, Mr. Thurston?” the lieutenant enquired. “I am sorry for the blow that has fallen on you. But you can’t seriously believe that Dick Willoughby’s the man who fired that shot.” As he spoke he pointed at the dead rigid form.

Thurston raised his eyes. There was a dull glare of fury in them, a savage snarl on his parted lips.

“Mind your own business, young man. He killed my boy, and by God he’ll hang for it.” While speaking he rose to his feet, holding forth a denouncing arm toward Willoughby, “Yes, he’ll hang for it,” he growled again with savage determination, turning round to the open door.

With a gesture to the cowboys standing nearest, he bade them carry the body within. He stood aside to let them pass with their burden, then followed and slammed the door behind him with an angry bang.

Despite the tragedy of it all, a little smile went round the group of onlookers. It meant to say that that was just Ben Thurston all over – irascible and vindictive. But some faces looked grave.

“May go mighty hard with Willoughby,” murmured one voice, that of the old grey-headed man, the blacksmith at the rancho for twenty years or more. “I wouldn’t like to feel the weight of the old devil’s hand.”

But just then the automobile came round the house, piloted by Jack Rover. Sharkey began to make his dispositions for the journey.

“Do you want to take anything with you, Willoughby?” he asked in a considerate manner.

“Nothing,” was the prompt reply.

“Well then, you’ll ride with me on the front seat. Lieutenant, you can share the tonneau with Mr. Thurston.” There was a slight grin on the sleuth’s face as he signified the arrangement.

“Mr. Thurston?” queried Munson, taken somewhat aback. “Does he come, too?”

“Sure,” replied Sharkey. “Who’s going to make the charge, I’d like to know? Willoughby, I just need your promise that you won’t move from this verandah till I return.”

Dick nodded assent. “You have my word,” he said with quiet dignity.

“Then I’ll be back in a minute,” added the sleuth, his hand on the door knob.

Ben Thurston was standing alone in the centre of the living room, the body with its bearers having passed to an inner apartment. His arms were folded across his breast in an attitude of deep dejection. But it was with the scared look of a hunted beast that he started away at the touch of Leach Sharkey’s hand upon his shoulder.

The sleuth smiled understandingly.

“You don’t want to be left here all alone, do you?”

“No, no. For God’s sake, no. I had forgotten that.”

“Then you’ve got to come with me to Bakersfield. In any case you will be wanted to swear the information. And you can also make arrangements for the funeral. So get your hat and overcoat. We are all ready outside.”

“Yes, yes, I’m coming,” faltered Thurston. “Wait for me, Sharkey,” he added, as with nervous fingers he detached his overcoat from a rack on the wall.

And a few minutes later the automobile, with Sharkey at the wheel, the handcuffed prisoner by his side, and Thurston and the lieutenant seated frigidly apart in opposite comers of the tonneau, was spinning through the gathering dusk of evening on its way to the county town of Bakersfield.

CHAPTER XIV – Entanglements

FROM the observatory high up among the hills, Mr. Robles had witnessed the arrest and the departure of the prisoner. He had understood every move just as if he had been present on the verandah down below and had heard each spoken word.

As he stood erect, his hand still rested on the telescope. For a few moments he pondered, then murmured to himself as he turned to leave the room: “A bad complication! I must break the news tonight to Merle. Poor little girl!”

But it was two hours later before he wended his way down through the moonlit forest in the direction of La Siesta.

There dinner was over. No word of untoward happenings had as yet come from the outside world to disturb the tranquillity of the little household. In the drawing room Merle was at the piano, while Grace, close by, was curled on a sofa reading the latest novel. At some distance from the young girls was Mrs. Darlington, occupied intermittently over a piece of embroidery.

She was seated in semi-darkness, only her hands and her work illumed by the soft pink radiance of a shaded lamp resting on a little table by her side. In the evening costume of the chatelaine of La Siesta was the suggestion of old lace and old-time lavender – the old lace at her bosom and around her neck, the subtle fragrance of lavender exhaled from her garments that gave to her a sort of personal atmosphere. And as she sat musingly, with the skeins of silk passing through her fingers, she might have formed a picture of some Penelope seated at the loom of pensive memory.

The music from the piano was in harmony with both her mood and her attitude – the soft dreamy melodies of Mendelssohn’s “Songs without Words” to which she was vaguely listening while busy with her thoughts and her stitches.