A Vendetta of the Hills

“Who the dickens is Bob?” asked Dick, visibly disconcerted.

“Oh, her new Irish terrier,” laughed Grace, her voice ringing with mischievous merriment. “And such a beauty!”

Dick breathed again. The lieutenant had recovered his composure; it was his turn now to bestow a sardonic smile upon his comrade.

“We’ll have afternoon tea,” suggested Mrs. Darlington. “And of course you two young men will stay for dinner.”

Both uttered a simultaneous protest – they were only in riding clothes. But Mrs. Darlington made short work of the argument, and touched a pushbutton by her side. A maid responded, the extra covers for dinner were ordered, and meanwhile tea was to be sent on to the verandah. Pleasant small talk succeeded, the lieutenant being called upon for his first impressions of California.

Of a sudden Grace exclaimed in a voice, half of joy, half of surprise:

“Why, here comes Mr. Robles!”

Advancing along the verandah, hat in hand, was a man of striking presence and dignity, perhaps fifty years of age. His jet black hair was streaked with gray, the full beard almost verging on whiteness. Olive complexion and brown eyes, together with the courtly manner of his salutation, indicated the thoroughbred Castilian.

He bowed and raised to his lips the hand of his hostess. To Grace he paid the same deference. Next he turned to Dick Willoughby and extended his hand.

“I have met Mr. Willoughby. I am pleased, sir, to see you again.”

Then his eyes rested on Lieutenant Munson, and Mrs. Darlington presented the young army officer.

“And where, I pray, is Miss Merle?” Mr. Robles finally asked, glancing around.

“That’s what I want to know,” blurted out Dick. Then he reddened just a little.

The older man looked kindly at Dick, and smilingly said: “The audacity of youth.”

“Yes,” put in Grace, “the audacity and the impatience as well.”

But just at that moment there floated from the recesses of the home the fragment of a song: “I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls, with vassals and serfs at my side.”

“Ah, here comes the recreant now,” exclaimed Mrs. Darlington.

The song stopped abruptly, and a moment later Merle Farnsworth appeared. She went first of all to Mr. Robles and greeted him warmly, giving him both her hands, which he kissed in his princely fashion. For Willoughby she had a pleasant smile, and for his friend, the lieutenant, a kindly welcome to California.

The tea tray had meanwhile arrived, and soon both the young ladies were busy attending to their guests. While he sipped his tea, Munson completed his inspection of Merle Farnsworth – dispassionately, for the brunette type of beauty had never yet made his pulses beat faster. But he could none the less admire. She was a stately girl, taller than Grace Darlington, with fine, regular features and brown eyes that matched the dark heavy braids of her hair. Her manner was alert and vivacious, yet there was the quiet dignity of gentle breeding even in her smile.

After half an hour of general conversation, Mr. Robles arose to take his leave, notwithstanding Mrs. Darlington’s pressing invitation that he should remain and join the dinner party.

“My home is not far away,” he said when shaking hands with Munson, “up in the woods yonder. Perhaps you may have seen it as you came along the road.”

“Yes,” observed Dick, “I pointed it out to the lieutenant.”

“Well, both you gentlemen are cordially invited to pay me a visit any time you are riding through this part of the country. Although I live far away from the busy world, and am a recluse by choice, I have some things that may interest you – pictures, old manuscripts and books of the Spanish days.”

“Pictures?” interposed Dick, inquiringly.

“Yes, a few that I picked up during several visits to Europe.”

“If people only knew it,” remarked Mrs. Darlington, “Mr. Robles has perhaps one of the finest private picture galleries in America.”

“Then I’m certainly coming to see you,” said Dick, eagerly.

“Me or my pictures?” asked Mr. Robles with a quizzical smile.

“Both,” and the young fellow showed he meant it by a cordial hand grip.

“You will pass our door, Mr. Willoughby?” exclaimed Merle in half-laughing reproachfulness. “You will dare to give the go-by to La Siesta?”

“Well, art is art,” replied Dick sturdily, although he did not trust himself to look at Merle while he answered.

“But perhaps the young ladies will show you the way through the oak forest,” suggested Mr. Robles.

“That would be great,” said Lieutenant Munson, with his eyes fixed on Grace Darlington.

“Delightful,” she blushingly assented.

“Well, arrange it among yourselves. For the present, adios.” And with a sweeping bow the senor took his departure.

A stroll through the gardens and orchards, dinner and sprightly conversation, an hour of piano-playing and singing to follow – altogether a delightful evening was spent. The nearly full moon had risen before the young men found themselves on the homeward trail.

As side by side they rode down into the valley, Munson said:

“Dick, boy, there’s no use talking. You have introduced me to some perfectly charming people today – they’re wonderful.”

“What did I tell you?” asked Dick.

“You surely did not tell me the half,” replied the other. “I think Grace Darlington is the prettiest girl I have ever seen.”

“Guess you’ll be writing out your resignation and sending it to army headquarters,” laughed Dick. “Quien sabe?”

The lieutenant made no reply, and quickening their pace, they pushed on in silence.

At last they were nearing home – passing round the last spur of the mountain. The moon was now riding high overhead, bathing the whole landscape in bright effulgence. Willoughby brought his pony to a walk, and Munson, coming up behind, soon joined him.

“How do you like riding by the light of the California moon?” asked Willoughby.

“Really, Dick, you call even the moon a California moon, as if the same moon didn’t shine in New York City or in Paris.”

“Not in the same way,” said Dick soberly. “The truth is, the moon really looks larger and brighter here, and the stars, too, are more brilliant. Haven’t you noticed it?”

“I have noticed that the atmosphere is exceedingly clear,” replied Munson, and, as if to verify his observation, he cast a glance up to the rock-ribbed flank of the mountain above the belt of timber.

“Good God, what’s that?” he added breathlessly grasping the arm of his friend.

Instinctively both halted their horses as they continued to gaze.

The bent form of the old Indian squaw Guadalupe was unmistakable as she toiled slowly along a narrow ledge on the face of the precipice. But following close behind her was a vague, shadowy figure – the figure of some four-footed beast, bigger than a big dog.