Chapter 3

TOM BAKER, the sheriff, cleared his throat. “You fellers, I’m assoomin’,
are all boys. I have been loafin’ ‘round in this man’s land for forty
years. I was here the day Don Manuel had been buryin’ his old father
and mother from the little Mission Church, less than a quarter of a mile
from where we are settin’. He was standin’ right in front of this store
when young Ben Thurston and two of his ranch hands rode up. If ever I
saw real bravery it was that mornin’. Don’t take much bravery to do some
things heroic when you have your artillery handy, but it requires the
real stuff when you’re gunless.

“Young Thurston spoke to his companions and they drew their guns and
kept them leveled at Don Manuel as their boss dismounted.

“Don Manuel was one of the handsomest young fellers I ever laid my two
eyes on. He walked straight up to Thurston, and notwithstandin’ the two
loaded pieces of artillery was pintin’ straight at him said:

“‘Ben Thurston, you are the man who killed my sister.’

“‘You are a damned liar!’ retorted Thurston.

“‘Yes, you killed her,’ went on Don Manuel. I found this button in her
dead hand, and right there, by God! is where it came from. Look at your
coat. Your life shall pay for this dastardly murder. If I had my gun
I would settle the matter now, notwithstandin’ that today I have been
burying my beloved father and mother.’

“When young Thurston heard about there bein’ no gun, he snatched the
tell-tale button from his accuser’s hand, swung himself into his saddle,
laughed mockingly, and with his quirt struck Don Manuel across the face;
then he wheeled round his pony and rode away with his bodyguards in a
cloud of dust.

“God! I will never forget it. Don Manuel stood there, as white as a
piece of paper, and never moved for a whole minute. The quirt had drawn
the blood from his face in one long streak. At last he turned away with
a resolve in his eyes—one of them there terrible resolves that change
the life of a man, and went back to the little church to finish the
last sad rites to his people. It’s my opinion Don Manuel, from that very
hour, turned bandit in his heart and took oath to murder all the gringos
in California.

“As I said before, that was thirty years back, and mebbe a little
more, and I have never seen him since. But we all heard of him good and
plenty. He certainly left a red trail.”

A silence followed. Presently Buck Ashley in the way of explanation,
said:

“That tombstone on his sister’s grave was put up one night. Nobody saw
it done, but everyone knows, of course, it was the work of Don Manuel.
It has just one word—’Hermana’—chiseled on the cross of white marble.
That’s the Mexican for ‘sister,’ guess you all know. So the name Rosetta
is only remembered by old-stagers here, like Tom Baker and me. And we
ain’t forgotten her pretty face either. Poor little girl!”

“A doggoned shame,” muttered the sheriff, meditatively, his eyes cast
down.

“How about the law?” asked Lieutenant Munson. “The law!” exclaimed
Baker, raising his eyes and flashing a look of withering contempt.
“What kind o’ law was there in those days and in these parts? A gun
was usually both judge and jury. Besides, with the only bit of evidence
gone, how could Don Manuel prove anything agin a rich young feller like
Ben Thurston?”

“But if he was laying for him all the time, how is it that the White
Wolf never got his man all through those thirty years?”

“Because Ben Thurston lit out—he was too demed scared to live on the
rancho any longer. But that’s another story.”

“Let’s have it, sheriff.”

“Well, it’s a longish yarn, and p’raps you fellers are about tired of
hearing me.”

No one protested; there was rather a movement of settling down in
pleased expectancy of something worth listening to. So Tom Baker
continued:

“Ben Thurston had one warnin’, good and plenty, and he didn’t wait
around for a second one. After Don Manuel’s threat, he seldom left his
home, and a little later went back East again. It wasn’t till more’n a
year that he showed up agin at the rancho. This time he brought with him
his Eastern bride, a fine slap-dash young woman who could ride a horse
and handle a team in good shape. But we could all see that she wasn’t
too happy, for Ben Thurston started in to drink heavily, and she was
ashamed of him and showed it.”

“Guess it was to drown his conscience and keep from thinkin’ about
Rosetta,” interjected Buck Ashley.

“Like as not,” assented Tom. “Well, anyhow, he hadn’t been here very
long afore Don Manuel got him—yes, got him fair and square, although he
managed to save his neck at the last moment. There was card-playin’ and
drinkin’ one night at the rancho—Thurston had got a bunch o’ gay young
dogs down from San Francisco. Mrs. Thurston had left the room, and was
sittin’ out alone in the moonlight on the verandah. Suddenly she heard
a sound that made her sit up and listen—the clatter o’ twenty pairs
o’ gallopin’ hoofs a-comin’ straight for the house. She must ha’ known
something about the vendetta, for she rushed in terror to her husband
and gave him warnin’. He escaped by a back door, and a minute later the
place was surrounded. The shootin’ came first from some of the ranch
hands, who had tumbled out of the bunk house and were spyin’ around
corners. They said later that the hold-up party numbered more’n twenty,
some of them masked with handkerchiefs tied around their faces, but
others bold as brass and not carin’ a dang who saw ‘em. Among these last
was Don Manuel. But Pierre Luzon was a downy duck, for no one spotted
him, although later on we came to know that he played the principal part
that night, next to the leader of the gang.

“Well, after the shootin’-scrap became general, there was a pretty scare
in the ranch house—one of the card-players dropped, and the others
were hiding under tables, when Don Manuel appeared and asked for Ben
Thurston. His wife, mighty brave, denied that he was there—he had left
that afternoon for Visalia to buy some cattle, she boldly declared. Don
Manuel, always the true gentleman, mark ye, was for believin’ her when
Pierre, his face masked, came in from the verandah and in a low voice
passed some words to his chief. Mrs. Thurston knew in a moment that her
bluff was goin’ to be called, and, while the outlaws were confabbin’,
darted from the room.

“But Pierre was just as quick out by the verandah, and before she got to
the door o’ the woolshed beyond the horse corral, he was there to block
her passage. It was Pierre who had caught a glimpse of the fugitive
sneakin’ into this outbuilding, and now he knew for certain that
Thurston was hiding among the bags o’ wool inside. But a cornered man is
a dangerous animal, and it might mean a good few lives if the door was
opened and any attempt made to rush the place.

“The gang was soon buzzin’ all around; the woman, now almost in
hysterics, was hustled aside, and a few bundles of loose hay was being
dumped into the shed through an open window. A match did the rest.
Within three minutes the door opened and Thurston came staggerin’ out
through thick clouds of smoke. Pierre grabbed him and had a noose around
his neck in doublequick time.

“The shootin’ was over before this, and some of the ranch hands were
lookin’ on from a little distance, for now everyone knew that it was
only the boss that the night-riders were after. So more’n one was able
afterwards to tell the story—how the young wife threw herself at Don
Manuel’s feet, and with sobs and tears pleaded for mercy. And by the
living God she won out even after the rope, with her husband at the end
of it, had been swung over the limb of a near-by sycamore.

“The White Wolf stood stock-still for perhaps a minute, weighin’ things
like, his arms folded across his breast. Then he raised the weepin’
woman, and, turnin’ to Thurston, now half-dead with fear, laid hold of
him by the shoulder and shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. Then with
his other hand he flung the noose from around his neck. ‘Take your
miserable life, then, this time’—that’s what Don Manuel said. ‘Take
it, but the day will come when we shall meet again, man to man, with no
woman’s tears to save you.’ And he pushed Thurston away contemptuously,
topplin’ him over like a ninepin, and a minute later rode off at the
head of his men.”

The narrator paused, and there was a general murmur of repressed
excitement.

“My word, that’s a peach of a story,” exclaimed Jack Rover.

“He certainly was a chivalrous fellow, this oldtime Don Manuel,”
remarked the lieutenant.

“And don’t you see,” said the sheriff, “that, when a man acted like that
and spoke like that, his words must come true? Don’t tell me that Don
Manuel today is dead while Ben Thurston is still alive. But he has taken
mighty good care of himself ever since that day. He an’ his wife skipped
East the very next morning, and I’m told they never stopped till they
got to Europe. Nobody knows where exactly they lived during the time
that followed, but news came through years later that the wife had died,
somewhere in the south of England, leaving a son behind. That’s young
Marshall who has come West with his dad now—the young man’s first visit
and his father’s last one, I reckon, if he sells the ranch, as I’m told
he’s trying to do.”

“But 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.