A Vendetta of the Hills

“Guess two can play at the hammering game,” remarked one.

“He don’t come any of his rough-house business over you, Marshall, while I’m around,” affirmed another, pugnaciously.

But the young man, still without uttering a word, turned gloomily away and started his pony in the direction of home.

“Guess he feels like another drink,” grinned an irreverent youth.

“Hell,” exclaimed an elderly man, the blacksmith at the rancho, “if the Thurston family don’t beat the band for quarrels and bloody feuds!”

But just then a bunch of cattle broke from the main herd and the group of cowboys dispersed in a galloping scamper.

Munson and the young ladies, engrossed in their light conversation, knew nothing of this unpleasant episode. They were now discussing the date of the projected visit to the home of Mr. Ricardo Robles among the oaks above La Siesta. It was decided to fix it for the first Sunday after the cattle muster was completed, when Dick Willoughby would be free to make one of the party.

“But hold a moment,” exclaimed the lieutenant suddenly, “unless I’m to be court-martialled for absence without leave, I must take the train East next Saturday, or – or – ”

His eyes fixed on Grace, he hesitated to complete the alternative.

“Or what?” she inquired.

“Follow Dick’s advice and send in my resignation.” As he spoke he thrust a hand into his breast pocket and drew forth a letter, sealed, addressed and stamped, all ready for the mail. “I really can’t quite make up my mind,” he added, dubiously.

“Let me help you,” said Grace with a gay smile as she extended her hand for the letter.

“How?” he asked.

“I’ll mail your resignation for you. We shall be riding home by La Siesta postoffice.”

“Oh, Grace!” murmured Merle in timid protest. “Think of the responsibility you are taking.”

“A woman’s mission in life is to encourage men to do the proper thing,” replied Grace with roguish defiance. “Our friend here is enamored of the West, and the West is the very best place for him. I’ll post your letter, lieutenant.”

He placed it between her fingers, doffed his hat, and bowed gallantly.

“Be it so. Let the gods – or should I say, a fair goddess? – decide.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” cried Grace, with a pretty flush on her face. “Good-bye, then, for the present. Get ready for Sunday’s picnic among the oaks. Come along, Merle, my dear.”

And with a touch of the quirt she started her pony into a canter.

“Great guns, but she’s worth while,” exclaimed Munson as he gazed after the retreating figures.

CHAPTER VII – Old Bandit Days

ON the evening of the day that followed the big round-up of cattle, Dick Willoughby and Chester Munson rode over to the store. As they cantered along, both men were pre-occupied with their thoughts.

Dick was not worrying over his sharp passage of words with his employer’s son, for he knew that his services at the present time were quite indispensable, more especially if the rancho was to be sold to the best advantage. The owner had spoken lightly of the negotiations, and had chuckled in a sinister way about the money he had frequently made over unexercised options. But this time it was a Los Angeles syndicate that was seeking the property, composed of men whose financial reputation and keen business ability Willoughby knew well. For he had learned their names after his interview with Ben Thurston, and he felt certain that this particular group of capitalists would have entered into no serious negotiations without having both the cash and the intention to put the deal through. Therefore he scented a change of ownership in the rancho, and consequently, perhaps, the necessity for his looking around to find employment elsewhere. He hated to think of leaving a place that he had come to look on as home and parting from all the friends he had made throughout the countryside. Unconsciously to himself, the greatest tie of all was proximity to La Siesta and to Merle Farnsworth. But Dick was not thinking of Merle just then – he was merely turning things over generally in his mind as he rode across the valley.

Munson also was cogitating the change in his own outlook that had been brought about by the mailing of the letter of resignation to army headquarters. He was recalling the many years he had striven to reach the lieutenancy now voluntarily surrendered – of his youthful zeal and ambition for an army career which had been powerless to withstand the witching call of the West. And although Grace Darlington’s act of putting the letter in the post had been only the last feather to tip an evenly balanced scale, he could not but feel that thereby this beautiful girl of the West had entered into his life and into all his future plans, hopes, and aspirations. The thought gave him joy; he was more pleased than ever that the decisive step had at last been taken.

Arriving at the store, they found old Tom Baker seated on a dry goods box, while Buck Ashley leaned against the counter, waiting for the stage coach and the mails. Already two or three others were beginning to congregate under the trees, in readiness for the distribution of letters and newspapers.

“Hello, Dick,” called out the sheriff, “I heard of your scrap yesterday morning with that young ne’er-do-well, Marshall Thurston. My God, I’m glad you gave him hell.”

“Please don’t speak about it,” replied Willoughby quietly. “That was my affair and mine alone. I guess we can find some more agreeable topic.”

“Wal,” drawled Buck Ashley, “Tom here was just a-tellin’ me a yarn that’ll interest both you boys a heap, or the lieutenant at all events, for he’s new to these parts and don’t know the local hist’ry yet. Of course I’ve heard the story before, but not all the pertic’lars the way Tom can tell ‘em. And its a dangnation good story. So start from the beginnin’ again, Tom.”

Thus addressed, the sheriff, after taking a bite from his tobacco plug, began:

“The yarn has to do with the old-time bandit Joaquin Murietta, about whom we were speakin’ the other morn in’. Well, the way it all happened was this: On a neighboring ranch, over Ventura way, beyond the Lagunita Rancho, owned at that time by Senor Olivas, a rich cattle dealer comes down from ‘Frisco to buy a bunch of beeves. The stock had all been driven up on a mesa near the Olivas ranch house, and for several days the herders had been cuttin’ out the cows and the young calves from the steers, ‘cause this feller was only goin’ to buy the steers.

“The great herd was bellerin’ and pawin’ in a big cloud of dust, through which the vaqueros – cowboys, you know, lieutenant – could be seen ridin’ round and round. Of course roundin’ up cattle is always more or less excitin’ work, but this rich chap had come down from ‘Frisco with his saddle bags bulgin’ out with gold, and this sorta added a mighty sight to the interest of the doin’s. Part of the bargain was that the deal was to be for spot cash, all in gold, too, mind you, and it was arranged that the buyer and Senor Olivas were to take their stations at one side of the narrow gate, and every time a steer was driven through that gate a twenty-dollar gold piece was to be tossed into a big bag which Senor Olivas was holdin’.

“They do say as how the work continued all day, from early mornin’ until dark, afore the last blamed steer passed that ‘ere gate, and they claim that there was eighty thousand dollars in the Senor’s bag as pay for the day’s drive. They say, too, that Joaquin Murietta, disguised, was one of the vaqueros doin’ the drivin’. Anyway that very night old Olivas was waked up mighty abruptly by feelin’ the cold nose of a revolver shoved against his own nose.

“Well, the long and short of it all was that Senor Olivas and his wife were both gagged and bound hand and foot, while Murietta ransacked the house, found the strong box and carried away every blamed gold coin that Olivas had received for the sale of his steers. The outlaw succeeded in makin’ his escape into the Tehachapi mountains with his cut-throat gang, and they found a hidin’ place in the robbers’ cave that is somewhere hereabouts on the San Antonio Rancho. It sure was as slick a piece of rascality as was ever pulled off in the old lawless days.”

“Well,” observed Buck Ashley, as he shook his head reflectively, “I’m assoomin’ some of the cowboy fellers around here will find that cave one of these days. I’ve put in a good many Sundays huntin’ for it myself.”

Just then there was the sound of horses’ hoofs outside, and a moment later Jack Rover strolled into the store. Over his shoulder was slung the big leather bag for the rancho mails.

“Hallo, everybody,” was his greeting. “I’m ahead of time Buck, but the stage will be here in five minutes. I saw its dust above the ridge. I hear, lieutenant,” he went on, “you’re going to stick to the West and be one of us.”

“Quit the army?” exclaimed Tom Baker in surprise.

“That is so,” replied Munson. “California has fairly got hold of me, and I intend to make my home in the West.”

“Then you just stick here, young man,” said the sheriff, rising to his feet and extending his hand. “California is the pick of the States, and our valley the pick of California. Don’t you forget it. We’re proud to welcome you as a new resident.”

“That’s what I say, too,” concurred Buck Ashley, cordially.

Munson smiled. “Well, I don’t know if you can put me in the resident class all at once,” he observed, diffidently. “Guess I’ve got to join the cowboy brigade first, if Dick and Jack here will break me in.”

“Sure thing,” assented Jack Hover. “You’re a good rider now – for an army man.”

“An ex-army man,” corrected Willoughby, laughing.

“It strikes me we should put you in as postmaster, Munson,” suggested the sheriff, a sly gleam of mischief in his eye. “Buck Ashley here is growin’ old.”

“Yes, but not too old to hold down his job till your tombstone’s in the cemetery, Tom Baker,” retorted the storekeeper, with a grin. “No man takes the Tejon postmastership while I’m alive,” he added defiantly.

“I’m forewarned and won’t apply for your job, Buck,” laughed Munson. “But here comes the stage, so show your spryness, old fellow, by getting us our mail.”

CHAPTER VIII – A Letter from San Quentin

BUCK ASHLEY had retired into the partitioned-off section of the store that formed the postoffice, and was busy stamping and sorting out the mail. The scattered loiterers outside crowded into the building expectantly, and the local parliament was in session. Amid the buzz of conversation Willoughby could not but hear his own name mentioned, coupled with that of Marshall Thurston. He understood quite well that all manner of gossip was flying around in regard to the quarrel at the round-up. But he remained stoically indifferent, shut his ears, and leaning against the counter busied himself with an old Saturday Evening Post that had been lying there.

At last the wicket was shoved up with a bang, and those present began to move toward the little aperture through which Buck Ashley proceeded to hand out correspondence and newspapers. One by one the throng melted away. Jack Rover was examining the big bunch of mail for San Antonio Rancho as he stowed it into the letter bag. Munson was opening and gleaning the contents of two or three letters that had come to him from New York. Dick Willoughby continued his reading, unconcerned; Jack would pass over any correspondence for him. Old Tom Baker had not risen from his accustomed seat on an empty box; he had few correspondents, and the mail did not worry him, although he invariably assisted with his presence at its distribution.