WILLOUGHBY had found his friends Munson and Jack Rover at Buck Ashley’s old store, eagerly awaiting his coming, with a fine supper sizzling on the cook stove, prepared in Jack’s finest professional cowboy style.

“We’ve got to feed you up a bit, I reckon,” grinned Jack, as he slipped the Gargantuan slab of beef-steak from the griller on to the big hot dish waiting for its reception.

“And some potatoes, too,” he went on, “not forgetting the fried onions that beat all your newfangled sauces to a frazzle.”

Dick was nothing loth to fall to. He had been too excited to do more than taste the midday meal that Pierre Luzon had prepared for him in the cavern. It had been a long hard day, and now he was hungry as a wolf. In ordinary circumstances he had no objection to fried onions, but, with delicate regard for possible contingencies, he left to the others a monopoly over this item in the bill-of-fare.

There were so many things to talk about that it was a difficult matter to know where to begin. But at the close of the meal Jack Rover solved the question by sweeping the supper things from the table, and emptying thereon the contents of one of the bags of gold.

“Good old Guadalupe!” exclaimed the delighted cowboy, as he patted the nuggets with a loving hand. “I always told you that the ancient squaw had a real gold mine. I guess we’ll be able to stake out our claims tomorrow, eh, Dick, my boy?”

“I’m afraid not,” smiled Willoughby. “The fact is that, although I helped to wash out that gold, I have not the faintest idea where the riffle is up among the hills.”

Jack’s face fell. There was a moment of disappointed silence, and just then there came the sound of a faint tapping at the outer door.

“What’s that?” asked Munson. The faces of all three showed that they had heard simultaneously.

Dick rose, crossed over, and threw the door wide open.

“My God, who’s this?” he asked, as he stooped over the figure lying prone across the steps. “Pierre, Pierre!” he added, as he turned over the face. “It’s Pierre Luzon, boys, and desperately wounded!”

The others were pressed together in the doorway.

“Looks as if he had crawled here on his hands and knees,” remarked Munson.

“There’s his horse out among the chaparral,” exclaimed Jack, pointing to the shadowy form of the animal from which the wounded man had obviously tumbled.

“Stand clear,” cried Dick, gathering up Pierre in his arms. “He has fainted, but is still alive.”

And Dick, carrying the senseless form, passed into the bedroom beyond the living room, and there laid poor old Pierre on the very cot which he had occupied once before—on the eventful night when Tom Baker had brought the paroled convict from San Quentin.

A few drops of whisky brought the wounded man back to consciousness. Dick leaned over him and caught the faintly whispered words. PiÉrre was speaking in the French of his childhood days.

“He is dead—he is dead! At last Rosetta is avenged!”

Dick motioned his companions to silence. He bent down close to the dying bandit.

“Who is dead, Pierre? Ben Thurston?”

“Yes, yes. Ben Thurston. Glory be to God! Don Manuel is avenged!”

“And how did you come to be shot, Pierre? Where is Don Manuel?”

“Dead—dead, too!” The wounded man this time cried out the words and struggled to sit up. His eyes opened wide, and fastened themselves on Dick. His voice again dropped to a whisper; he was speaking lucidly now. “But perhaps he lives. Who knows? Go and save him, Dick—Don Manuel—go, go.”

Exhausted, Pierre sank back on the pillow. His eyes closed. The death rattle was in his throat. “Where is he—where shall I find Don Manuel?” Dick uttered the words close to Pierre’s ear. He alone caught the faint answer. Pierre Luzon was dead.

“He’s gone, Chester,” said Dick, standing erect. Munson stooped, put his ear to Pierre’s breast, then pressed apart one pair of the eyelids.

“Yes, it’s all over,” he said solemnly, as he folded the coverlet over the already marble-like face.

In stricken silence the three men passed to the outer room, shutting the door softly behind them.

“What’s happened?” asked Jack Rover, “I couldn’t catch his bloomin’ lingo.”

“Something terrible. There has evidently been a fight to the death on Comanche Point between Ben Thurston and Don Manuel. Looks as if both of them had gone over the cliff in the struggle.”

“Gee!” muttered the cowboy.

Dick remained just a moment in deep thought. His plan of action was promptly decided on.

“Munson, old man, you saddle my pony, and ride to Tejon for help. Jack, you remain here with the body.”

“And with the nuggets,” remarked the cowboy drily.

Dick paid no heed to the interruption. He continued:

“I’ll take the horse outside, and ride back to Comanche Point. That’s the best we can do, and the main thing is to do it quickly. Pass me that flask of whisky—it may come in handy. I’m off now, boys. You’ll find me at the cliff. Bring a doctor, Ches. So long!”

The moon had now risen, and while Dick was galloping toward Comanche Point from the one direction, the runabout, with Merle at the wheel and Tia Teresa by her side, was speeding from the other end of the valley toward the same destination. The horseman was the first to arrive.

Willoughby had no need to search long beneath the precipice. A loud, continuous cry of lamentation guided him to the spot. There, wailing over the corpse of Don Manuel, was the old Indian squaw, Guadalupe. Even in death the two bodies were locked in each other’s embrace, and Dick noted with horror that Ben Thurston’s teeth were buried in the flesh of his enemy’s shoulder. Guadalupe was in the act of trying to separate the dead men when Dick intervened.

Great heavens, what a withered, aged face was raised toward his own! It was the first time he had ever seen Guadalupe unveiled and at close quarters. Her cheeks were wrinkled into a hundred folds; her eyes were sunken in deep cavernous hollows. When he touched her, she rose and, jabbering furiously for all the world like an angry ape, reviled him with curses, her meaning unmistakable, although she spoke in some strange Indian tongue.

Just then Dick caught the distant chug-chug of the automobile. He looked up the valley, wondering who might be passing at that hour of night. This was not the main highway; nobody ever came to Comanche Point after dark. Some intervening spur of the foothills dulled the sound; all was still and silent.

He became conscious that Guadalupe’s fury had spent itself, and turned round. The squaw was gone. His eyes searched the scrub; at one place he saw the twigs bending, and he even fancied he could detect the outline of the white wolf gliding away through the brushwood. But that was all.

Again the sound of the automobile smote his ears; louder now, and only a few hundred yards away he beheld the headlights sweeping toward the spot where he stood. He resolved to intercept the vehicle and stepped across the belt of chaparral that intervened between him and the roadway. Gaining the thoroughfare, he called aloud and the machine slowed down.

But what was his utter amazement when Merle jumped’ from the runabout. To her there could be no more surprises on this night of surprises.

“Dick,” she exclaimed, as she accepted his embrace almost as a matter of course.

“How do you come to be here, Merle, my darling?” he asked, holding her in his arms.

“Something terrible is going to happen. I have come to try to prevent it. Have you seen Don Manuel?”

“Don Manuel!” He repeated the name in great surprise.

“Mr. Robles is Don Manuel,” she gasped by way of explanation.

“I am aware. He told me so today.”

“Well, where is he now? And his enemy, Mr. Thurston?”

Dick still had an arm on her shoulder. She was gazing up into his face, her voice trembling with emotion as she breathlessly plied him with her questions.

“You have come too late, dearest,” Willoughby gently replied.

“Dead!” she exclaimed.

“Both are dead. They fought and rolled over the precipice. I have just found their bodies lying in the chaparral back there.”

Merle leaned forward, sobbing on his breast.

“Take me to him, take me to him,” she cried.

“No, Merle, my dear. It is better not. You must go home. Tia Teresa,” he added, addressing the duenna who had drawn near, “she must go home. Munson has gone to Tejon for help. There will be people arriving here very soon now.”

“He is really dead—Don Manuel?” asked Tia Teresa in a voice of awed sadness.

“There can be nothing but the one answer,” replied Dick. “Don Manuel has passed on.”

“Take me to him,” moaned Merle.

“No, no, Merle. This is no sight for you.”

“But, Dick, Dick, don’t you know one other thing?” she pleaded, raising her tearful eyes.

“What other thing?”

“Don Manuel—was my father—my dear, dear father.”

Again Willoughby was overwhelmed with amazement.

“Your father?” he murmured.

“Yes, I only came to know it today. So, Dick, dear, even though he is dead, let me kiss him now, let me kneel by his side and tell him that I loved him, and will always love and revere his memory. Let me watch by him until the others come.”

Dick drew the sobbing girl close to him. His eyes sought those of Tia Teresa. He shook his head, telling the duenna in an unmistakable way that Merle must be taken home—that she must not be shocked by the gruesome spectacle hidden in the chaparral.

Even as their eyes met, the faint throb of an automobile was heard, and glancing across the plain Dick saw the far-away headlights twinkling like twin stars. With a gesture he directed Tia Teresa’s attention to the coming help.

“I shall watch by our beloved dead one,” said the duenna. “My place is by his side. Come, dearie,” she went on, placing an arm around Merle’s waist. “Mr. Willoughby will drive you back to La Siesta, and I shall see that your father’s body is taken to his home. There we shall pay all honor to the dead.”

Together they led Merle, unresisting now, to the runabout. Dick got in beside her, and took the wheel.

“They will be here very soon now,” he said to Tia Teresa. “Mr. Munson will give you all the help you require. I’ll look after Merle.” He backed the machine, turned, and the little red light swept up the roadway into the distance. From across the valley the headlights of a big automobile were now glaring like flashing suns in the soft moonlight.

It was the hands of Tia Teresa that separated the bodies. That of Ben Thurston she flung from her as if it had been carrion for the buzzards and coyotes. Then she knelt down and stroked with loving hand the brow of Don Manuel. On the dead face was a look of ineffable calm.

“Manuel, my Manuel, the little child I nursed! My beautiful, brave Manuel!”

Thus lamenting, she awaited the coming of Munson and his friends.