A Vendetta of the Hills. Willis George Emerson

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СКАЧАТЬ I say, boys,” observed Jack Rover, “what do you suppose the White Wolf did with all the gold he took away from the people? It’s said that in one stage robbery he got over fifty thousand dollars of the yellow stuff.”

      “Hid it,” replied Buck Ashley, “with Joaquin Murietta’s hoarded gold. For it’s sure as sure can be that Don Manuel came to know the secret o’ the bandits’ cave where Murietta used to store his loot. The only thing anybody else knows is that it is around here somewheres.”

      “But they do say,” observed one of the cowboys, “whatever Sheriff Baker may think, and you, too, Buck, that Don Manuel is sure ‘nuff dead. Most folks herabouts believe that the White Wolf has gone to his long restin’ place, sort a j’ined forces with old Joaquin Murietta. The Tulare Lake affair was, I guess, his last raid.”

      “He ain’t dead,” muttered Tom, determinedly, while Buck Ashley also shook his head in repudiation of the cowboy’s theory.

      “Well, I happen to know,” observed Dick Willoughby, “that Mr. Thurston has run down the story of the White Wolf’s death in that Seattle saloon brawl pretty thoroughly, and he is of the opinion that the big-featured articles in the San Francisco and Los Angeles papers were correct—that the dead man’s identity was absolutely established.”

      “That’s how he’d wish it to be, at all events,” said Buck Ashley. “But even now, when Ben Thurston ventures to come home to the rancho, he brings with him a great big hulking bodyguard—Leach Sharkey, I’m told is the fellow’s name. That don’t look much like believin’ the White Wolf to be dead and the vendetta played out, does it? You can see it in his hang-dog face that it isn’t any real pleasure for him to be around in these parts. He ain’t once paid me a visit at the store. Guess he thinks his hide’ll last longer by stickin’ close to home. You owe your job o’ runnin’ his cattle, Dick Willoughby, to the fact that he’s still plumb scared.”

      “Oh, well, I am in his employ,” said Dick loyally, “and I’m inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt as regards these ugly rumors and idle stories. He has always been on the square with me. But perhaps he’ll stick to the rancho, now he believes the White Wolf to be dead.”

      “He may believe it, but, as Buck says, why then the bodyguard?” commented the sheriff as he relighted his pipe.

      “Yes.” replied Dick Willoughby, “but I believe he is thinking of letting Leach Sharkey go. Personally I would be willing to wager that Don Manuel, whom no one has seen since that last raid on the stage coach, is dead and sleeping with his sires.”

      “Well, dead or alive,” exclaimed Jack Rover, “I don’t care a hang for the White Wolf and his-buried treasure. But what I would like to know is the exact location of that rippling mountain stream, the identical sandbar where the old squaw Guadalupe gathers up her pocket change with which to buy groceries. That would be a heap better than any blooming cave. Them’s my sentiments.”

      As he said this he threw some silver on the bar and invited everybody to lubricate.

      “Just nominate your poison, boys, and let’s drink to my finding old Guadalupe’s gold mine.”

      They all laughed good-naturedly, and Lieutenant Munson declared that he thought he would put in the balance of his furlough days prospecting. “You know,” he explained in an aside to the storekeeper while the latter was preparing the drinks, “I am only here to visit my old college pal, Dick Willoughby, and incidentally see the place where my father was a soldier in the early California days. He was stationed several years in Fort Tejon.”

      “That was before my time,” said Buck Ashley.

      “The soldiers had abandoned the old fort when I came first into these parts.”

      Meanwhile Dick Willoughby was clinking glasses with Jack Hover.

      “There are some mighty pretty little senoritas hereabouts,” said Dick, “good American blood mixed with Spanish blood, you know, and all that. If a fellow could only find the right one—understand, I say the right one, Jack—he wouldn’t be losing any time in chasing after the old squaw’s secret gold mine or the White Wolf’s buried millions.”

      Jack Rover laughed outright.

      “I say, Dick, what are you reddening up about? Gee, if I had as fine a lead as you have staked out, I’d feel the same way. Ain’t that right, Buck?” Buck Ashley winked at Jack Rover and said: “If you mean who I think you mean, you sure are righter than right. I speak wide open and unrestrained when I give it as my opinion that Miss Merle Farnsworth is the finest specimen of young womanhood that I ever set eyes on, and I have seen some girls East as well as West. Take it from me, she is a jewel, she is a regular beauty rose. Yes,” he went on, “and too damned good for that young Thurston whelp, who hangs around tryin’ to act smart whenever she and that old duenna chaperon of hers comes here to trade. I’ll simply boot him out of the store one of these days.”

      Dick Willoughby smiled in a satisfied way as he moved toward the door.

      “Well, hold on, Dick,” called out Jack Rover, “don’t be in such a dangnation hurry. I’ll ride with you in a minute. I’ve just got this to say to you, Buck Ashley, that I like you better than ever for what you’ve said about Marshall Thurston. Even though I’m working for the Thurston outfit, I’m free to express my opinion that that young feller is about the meanest specimen of low-down humanity I’ve ever struck.”

      “It’s a case of the second decadency, I suppose,” remarked Munson. “The worthless profligate, spawn of the rich old roué, Ben Thurston.”

      “Such a drunken pup,” continued Rover, “aint’ good enough for a half-breed Indian, much less for the likes of the young ladies of La Siesta. Gee, if I thought there was one chance in a thousand for me with either of them, why goodbye to that placer gold mine ambition that’s eating my vitals, or to the planted millions of the White Wolf.”

      As he spoke the last words, he followed Dick Willoughby into the open. Dick was standing by his pony.

      “You’re superlatively in earnest, aren’t you?” he said as he laughed good-naturedly at the cowboy.

      “You bet your life I’m in earnest,” replied Jack. “And if you don’t get busy with that love affair of yours, well, take it from me, you had better look out, for somebody will be picking the peach right from under your very nose. Well, so long, Dick; I’ve changed my mind; I’ll not ride with you. I’ll see to that bit of fence repairing up on the range. And who knows but I may find a sand-bar and a riffle sparkling with yellow gold?” He laughed like a big overgrown boy as he touched the rowel to his pony and galloped away across the valley.

CHAPTER IV—Back to the Soil

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      JACK ROVER is a great boy,” said Dick Willoughby to Lieutenant Munson as the two rode off at a leisurely pace toward the group of ranch buildings peeping through a clump of trees at the edge of the foothills.

      “A type of Western character,” replied Munson, “that in a way is quite new to me. And yet, do you know, I rather like this Western atmosphere.”

      “Like СКАЧАТЬ