SUMMER had come and gone and it was now the early days of October. The mystery of Dick Willoughby’s disappearance had remained unsolved, yet it was on his plans that the new city of Tejon had been laid out, and, like the fabled palace in the Arabian Nights’ tale, had sprung into being with such rapidity that men rubbed their eyes to satisfy themselves whether the transformation scene were an actuality or the baseless fabric of a dream. Within three months of the opening day auction of lots Tejon was a thriving, hustling centre of population, with whole avenues of beautiful homes, several blocks of stores on the main street, schoolhouse and other public buildings well on the way to completion.

Electricity had helped to the accomplishment of the miracle, for it had been only necessary to tap the great power cables running across the old rancho from the Kern River canyon to secure the supplies of “juice” both for lighting and traction purposes. So there was already an interurban tramway service connecting with the county seat, Bakersfield, while at night the new town was a blaze of electricity. All around country homes were going up, and ten and twenty acre holdings were being planted to fruit trees or ploughed for alfalfa.

Ben Thurston still clung to the ranch house, although it was definitely understood now between him and the new owners that Thanksgiving Day was to be the extreme limit of his occupancy. The hue and cry after Dick Willoughby had in a measure subsided, but, if the authorities had relaxed their efforts, Thurston still sought relentlessly and indefatigably for the man accused of the slaying of his son.

One night at a lonely road-house on the outskirts of Bakersfield, the sleuth, Leach Sharkey, was in close and secret conference with a bent and bowed old man. This was none other than Pierre Luzon, although his physical condition seemed to have greatly changed and he answered now to the name of JosÉ.

The two men had met a few days before on the range; Pierre had spoken of the scant living he was making from a herd of goats he pastured on the mountains, and in the course of conversation had thrown out a hint for information as to the amount of the reward that Mr. Thurston would be willing to pay if Dick Willoughby were handed over to him. Sharkey had eagerly followed the lead thus given. Hence this midnight meeting in the road-house parlor for the discussion of terms and conditions over the bottle of whisky that helps so efficaciously to dispel distrust and unloosen tongues.

More than an hour had been spent in skirmishing preliminaries, but now Leach Sharkey was congratulating himself that he had got his man fixed just right. He was running over the final arrangements so as to make sure that everything was clearly understood.

“Then Mr. Thurston and myself are to come to Comanche Point. You will take us from there to the place where we’ll find Willoughby. That’s the understanding, JosÉ?”

Pierre nodded in acquiescence.

“And you will bring wiz you ze reward of five tousand dollars—not gold or silver, remember, but treasury bills, for I am not strong enough now to carry a very heavy weight. Zen when you have paid me ze money, I will lead you to Mr. Willoughby.”

“All right. I’m going to trust you and take my chances. But bear in mind that you don’t get away with the cash until I have actually put the handcuffs on the man I’m after.”

“Oh, I will not run away, Mr. Sharkey.”

“By God, if you try any monkey tricks on me, I’ll shoot you in your tracks. Make no mistake about that, JosÉ. And it will be hands up first to prove to me you have no gun.”

“As I have promised,” replied Pierre with some dignity, “I shall come unarmed. But remember, Mr. Thurston and you must be alone. If zere are any ozers I will not show myself—I will give no sign.”

“Don’t worry about that. We’ll be alone. I need no other protection than the two guns I always carry.” As he spoke, the sleuth slipped a hand to one of his hip pockets, and with a grim smile, laid a vicious-looking revolver on the table.

Luzon evinced no disquietude; he merely smiled.

“Mr. Sharkey he is ze famous man wiz ze two guns. I would take no risk wiz him. But I wish to win ze reward.”

“Well, then, the reward is yours if you play the game straight. Thurston and I will be there, and you will be there unarmed. The hour?”

“Four o’clock. I will watch you come to Comanche Point all alone along ze road.”

“You’re certainly a cautious old duck,” laughed Sharkey. “However, that’s all right. Four o’clock, then. And you said Tuesday next week, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Tuesday.”

Sharkey glanced at a big advertisement calendar on the wall.

“That will be the eleventh of the month. Then I think everything is understood. Now I want to be off. I can just catch the last car to Tejon. Shake. You can finish that drop of whisky by yourself, old man.”

They shook hands and Sharkey was gone.

The other waited for a few moments, cautiously and cunningly listening to the retreating footsteps. Then he sprang erect, transformed in an instant into a hale and vigorous man. Into his eyes there leapt a flash of joy, in his heart was a song of triumph.

“So the villain Ben Thurston will be there at Comanche Point on the very anniversary of the night, just thirty years ago, when he committed that foul crime—at the very spot where the poor little Senorita Rosetta and her unborn babe perished at his hands. Glory be to God! At last the hour of vengeance comes!”