A Vendetta of the Hills

CHAPTER XV – Behind the Bars

Dick Willoughby had been lodged in the county jail at Bakersfield, duly charged by Ben Thurston as the murderer of his son. To his surprise, and indeed to his dismay, the prisoner was informed that, the crime alleged being a capital one, no bail could be accepted. This was first of all a blow to Willoughby’s pride. Here he was under the stigma of imprisonment, but with no possibility of redress. It was not the loss of comforts, the deprivation of personal liberty, the hardships to body and to soul, inseparable from such restraint, that he resented, so much as the semiconviction of guilt implied by the durance vile to which he was to be subjected, although absolutely innocent of the deed of which he was accused.

However, after first chagrin came manly philosophy. The law might be right or wrong, wise or unwise, necessary or superfluous. But all the same it was the law of the state and had therefore to be obeyed. So, when the situation was finally reviewed, it was Lieutenant Munson who, when bidding his friend good-night, had been the angry man, fretting and fuming over such an abominable act of injustice, while the prisoner himself was tranquilly resigned to the ordeal through which he must pass and to which unkind fate was subjecting him for reasons that he was powerless to fathom.

“Good night, Ches, old man. You’ll see me again in the morning. It’s mighty kind of you to stay in town all night. But we can decide on the best lawyer to employ, and then you must hasten back to break the bad news at La Siesta.”

Such had been Dick’s quiet words when their colloquy had been broken up, and he had been ordered to the retirement of his prison cell. To enter that place was for Dick a horrible experience. But he accepted the experience calmly, bade the turnkey a cheerful good-night, and laid him down to sleep on the narrow mattress resting upon the hard bench, at peace with himself and the world, even with the bitter enemy who had all so unexpectedly appeared on his path.

Although Munson was back in the jail betimes next morning, he found Dick already conferring with a lawyer – the best and most honored in the town, as Munson knew the moment his name was mentioned.

“Let me introduce you to Mr. Bradley,” said Dick, presenting him. “Some kind friend whose name he declines to reveal for the present, sent him a special message last night retaining his services for my defence.”

“Mrs. Darlington, I bet,” interjected the lieutenant.

“No, not Mrs. Darlington, let me assure you,” rejoined the lawyer, “although undoubtedly she would be willing to do the same thing. But I am not permitted to say any more.”

“And he has carte blanche for all expenses,” smiled Dick. “Although I should not think there will be much money required to clear an innocent man,” he added.

“Wait till you see,” said the lawyer crisply. “We have to reckon with a malignant persecutor, I am already informed.”

“Well, I’ve got a bit to my bank credit,” Dick replied. “And we’ll draw on that first before I accept the generosity of an unknown friend. It will be quite a saving here,” he went on with a humorous twinkle in his eye as he glanced around. “Free board and lodging at the state’s expense for a week at all events.”

“Much longer than that, I am afraid,” gravely remarked the lawyer. “You see, Mr. Munson, just before you arrived we were discussing the decidedly unfortunate coincidence that at the time the shooting occurred, Mr. Willoughby, by his own admission, was in the little canyon below the scene of the tragedy.”

“Rounding up some cattle,” observed Dick. “Of course. But all the same, open to suspicion as being on the ground, and indeed being the first to reach the dead man’s side.”

“That should be proof of innocence,” observed Munson.

“Or may be taken as evidence of well-reasoned audacity to throw accusers off the trail,” retorted the attorney. “You see we have to look at everything, not from our own point of view, but from the other side. Now I want to learn something more about that quarrel between you and young Thurston at the cattle muster.”

“He made an insulting remark about one of the young ladies from La Siesta,” replied Dick. “I told him I would tan his hide if he ever did it again. That’s all. But the last thing I want is that these ladies’ names should be dragged into the case.”

“But his remark and your reproof were overheard by others,” commented the attorney.

“Oh, yes, by a bunch of ranch hands.”

“Whose evidence will undoubtedly be called for the prosecution, necessitating, perhaps, the evidence of the young ladies on our side.”

“By God, I won’t stand for that,” exclaimed Dick hotly. “I can defend myself without their being called to the witness stand. Think, Munson, of subjecting Merle or Grace to any such thing” – and his indignant face appealed to the lieutenant’s.

“I saw nothing of the quarrel,” observed Munson, addressing the lawyer, “although, of course, I heard something about it later on – not from Willoughby, however, for he has never once referred to the matter in conversation with me. But I say, Dick, old fellow, you know that Merle Farnsworth and Grace Darlington, too, will be only too proud and happy to stand up for you in a law court or anywhere else.”

“That may be,” replied Dick gloomily, “but I don’t propose that they shall be made the objects of vulgar curiosity in a crowded court-room, or that their ears should ever hear the vile words that fell from that miserable degenerate who has at last met the fate he properly deserved.”

“Well, it is a point that we shall have to consider carefully,” spoke the lawyer as he rose to take his departure. “I have all the main facts of the case now, Mr. Willoughby. Of course I shall apply formally to the court for bail, but I know it is bound to be refused. I’ll make all arrangements outside for your comfort here – meals, etc., and no doubt your friend, Mr. Munson, will bring you over clothing, toilet requisites, and the other little things you will require. I’ll see you again later on today.”

The lawyer was gone, and the two comrades were alone in the little room, stone-walled and bare of furniture except for a few chairs, where the consultation had been held. Beyond the open door stood a constable, just out of earshot. But he now took his stand within the room.

“Well, Munson, old chap,” said Dick with cheerful alacrity, “you get back to the rancho in double-quick time. Then go on to La Siesta and tell Merle not to worry on my account. Tell her that I’m bright and happy, and just enjoying a good rest, and will be set at liberty within a week or so. But remember, she is not to come here. Good Lord, I never want her to see me in a place like this.” And he glanced around forlornly, and in a measure ashamed.

But at the very moment there was a flutter along the corridor – the sound of voices, and women’s voices, too. A moment later the superintendent of the jail appeared, bringing with him Mrs. Darlington and Merle. At the doorway he spoke to the officer on guard; the man withdrew.

“Mr. Willoughby, here are some more friends,” said the superintendent as he ushered in the ladies. “I am going to interpret the regulations as leniently as possible – that’s a matter which can rest between ourselves. I’ll come back for you, Mrs. Darlington, in half an hour.”

Merle advanced toward Dick with outstretched hand. In her other hand was a fine bouquet of roses.

“What a shame that you should be here,” she exclaimed. “But I realize that the only thing to do is to submit as cheerfully as possible to the inevitable. Mother and I came over to give you our sympathy and proffer our help in every possible way. Grace also sends her very kindest regards, and I was bidden by Mr. Robles, whom we saw last night, to assure you of his complete belief in your innocence.”

“Oh, I’m not afraid of any real friend thinking me capable of a cowardly deed like that,” replied Willoughby. “But it is nice to have these kind messages, although I could have wished, Miss Farnsworth, that you had not seen me amid such surroundings.”

“Do you think that we would desert you in such a time of trouble as this?” replied Merle, as she sat down. “But seeing that our visit is to be restricted to half an hour, it is well that we should get to the important points without delay. I have been talking over a certain matter both with mother and Mr. Robles, and although I shrink from telling it, they have decided that you must know about the affair.”

She then proceeded, in a low voice and with lips that trembled, to tell how young Thurston had forced his attentions on her just a little time before the shooting occurred and how Tia Teresa had rescued her from his clutches.

This was the first that Dick had heard of the incident and his face flushed with anger. But Merle quieted him at once. “You need not be angry now, Mr. Willoughby. It is all over. But your lawyer will want to consider what bearing this may possibly have upon the case.”

“It can have no bearing at all,” maintained Dick. “In the first place I didn’t even know till now that Marshall had been visiting at La Siesta. And in the second place, just as I was saying to Munson a few minutes ago, I am determined that the names of you ladies shall not be dragged into this miserable affair. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Darlington?”

“In a measure. But all the same we are ready to stand by you so as to establish your innocence with the least possible delay. I heard this morning that Mr. Thurston is very bitter against you, keeps vowing vengeance, and announces that no money will be spared to bring the slayer of his son to retribution.”

“Well, I hope he’ll find him without loss of time,” smiled Dick. “That will be the quickest and easiest way to get me out of confinement. But at this moment I have not the faintest idea on whom to fasten the charge. Lots of the cowboys despised young Thurston, but none were really his enemies, and I don’t know any one among the bunch who would have shot him in that dastardly, cold-blooded manner.”

“Which makes the situation for you all the more disagreeable,” commented Munson. “You had been known to threaten him, and if there is no one else to whom suspicion can point, you may be kept here, Dick, for quite a time – for months, perhaps, until the case goes to trial.”

Dick’s face fell. “For months!” he exclaimed. “Surely that would be an outrage.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too despondent,” protested Merle. “Besides, Mr. Robles has pledged his word to me that you will be free in a very brief time.”

“Then he may know who the culprit is,” remarked Dick eagerly.

“No,” interposed Mrs. Darlington. “He is like ourselves – quite in the dark. But you may rest assured that Mr. Robles will leave no stone unturned to solve the mystery and restore you to liberty, Mr. Willoughby, for I happen to know that he holds you in highest esteem.”

“I’m glad of that,” replied Dick. “Well, I want you to tell him from me how keen I am that you ladies shall be spared from all association with this case. You know that I am exercising great self-denial, Miss Farnsworth, when I say that you are never to come here again. This is no place for you.”

“Pardon me,” laughed Merle, “but we are interested in you and will excuse the hotel you have chosen to patronize. We brought these roses for you from La Siesta” – as she spoke she presented him with the beautiful blooms – “and if Lieutenant Munson will be kind enough to come out to our automobile he will find there some books, also a box of fruit and a few delicacies which we hope will help to make your stay here just a little more tolerable.”

“You’re kind indeed,” murmured Dick gratefully. “Don’t worry about me,” he added cheerfully, “I’ll have a fine rest here, and will be able to catch up with my arrears of reading.”

And in this philosophic frame of mind the prisoner was left to begin his holiday.

CHAPTER XVI – Pierre Luzon Returns

IN the outside world the question on everybody’s lips was – who had fired the fatal shot among the pine woods? The young reprobate had been thoroughly despised, but he had no known enemies except Willoughby. So while Willoughby’s staunch friends could only reiterate the question in vain perplexity, most people were inclined to answer it with Dick’s name. The angry quarrel between the two young men was universally known and had been subjected to sundry embellishments – for example, the threatened horse-whipping had become an actual recorded event, and so on. And even there were whispers about rivalry in some love affair – that Marshall had had his eye on one of the young ladies at La Siesta where Dick for some time had been a constant caller.

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.

“You see,” explained Tom Baker, as he bustled around, “the Governor just grants paroles; he can’t grant pardons. Some sort of a board has to pass on the pardons. But I got him out all right, and that’s the main thing. Eh, Pierre, old man?”

The sheriff nodded with great friendliness to his protégé. Luzon responded with a wan smile that silently spoke his thankfulness. His face was deathly pale, but there was wonderful snap and vitality in the black bead-like eyes that roamed around the room and searched each countenance.

Buck was now standing by the rocker. He laid a hand familiarly on the Frenchman’s shoulder.

“You see, Pierre, old scout, I don’t forget you” – he pointed to the bottle on the table. “Kentucky bourbon, the best I’ve got in the house, and the very label you used to call for. Now we’ve got to drink to your speedy recovery. Fill up all round, boys. The drinks are on me tonight.”

“Hip, hip, hooray!” shouted Tom, as the glasses tinkled.

“Hush!” exclaimed Buck, warningly. “We don’t want to bring any booze fighters prowlin’ around here tonight. You see, Pierre, we four are in cahoots and understand each other. You know Tom and myself – we ain’t in need of any guarantee. And you can trust Mr. Chester Munson and Jack Rover here to the limit.”

Luzon bowed acknowledgment of the informal introduction.

“It was we who put up the cash to get you out of San Quentin,” continued Buck, as he dropped into a chair close beside Tom Baker.

“Together with Dick Willoughby,” interjected Munson.

“Oh, yes, not forgettin’ Dick,” resumed the storekeeper, “as fine a young feller as ever walked on shoe leather. But, by God, he’s in jail just now.”

“Eh?” ejaculated the ex-convict, with a look of awakening, almost fraternal, interest.

Buck turned to the sheriff.

“Of course, Tom, you’ll have read all about that terrible affair in the newspapers?”

The sheriff surreptitiously grabbed Buck’s arm. He spoke in a confidential whisper.

“Drop that subject for the present. I’ve said nothin’ about it to old Pierre in case it might upset him. I ain’t dared to mention the name Thurston to him, for he shared the White Wolf’s hatred of the breed.” Then Tom gave a little cough and glanced across the fireplace at the Frenchman. “Just a little cowboy shootin’ scrap, Pierre, in which our chum Dick Willoughby has got himself temporarily involved. But say, boys,” he went on, casting his eyes toward Munson and Rover, “I just thanked the Lord it wasn’t me as had to arrest Dick. Of course if I had still been sheriff I’d a done it – when I was a sworn-in officer, duty was duty all the time with me, as every damned horse-thief within a hundred miles knows. But to take an honest man into custody for shootin’ a miserable human coyote like that young – ”

“Well, we’re not a-goin’ to speak about him just now,” interrupted Buck, bestowing a cautioning kick on the sheriff’s shins.

Tom took the timely reminder.

“That would have gone sore against the grain,” he said emphatically, as he reached for the whisky bottle and replenished his tumbler.

“Glad to be back?” asked Buck, beaming pleasantly on old Pierre.

The Frenchman lifted one thin hand and smiled.

“Here I will become once more strong,” he murmured. “No place in ze world like ze dear old Tehachapi mountains.”

“Wal, I see you’ve begun to let your beard grow again,” continued Buck, pointing to the gray stubbled chin. “And when your hair comes along, too, you’ll just be lookin’ fine and dandy. The same old Pierre that used to sit for hours at a time in the store.”