Willis Emerson - A Vendetta of the Hills

“Great Heavens, old man,” exclaimed Munson, when Dick had finished, “you are severe, to say the least.”

Willoughby laughed good-naturedly as he passed the match box to his friend.

“Not severe, only truthful,” he said. “You see, in New York no man dares think for himself. Everything is controlled by a machine-appointed chairman, secretary and committee, and you must hear the resolutions read before you know the doctrine you are perforce to advocate.”

Then he lit his pipe and rose from the table.

“Now, I have a lot of things to attend to, old fellow,” he resumed. “Make yourself comfortable. Here’s a bunch of Eastern newspapers – oh, I read them regularly, haven’t got rid of that bad habit yet. I’ll tell Sing Ling to have lunch ready on the stroke of noon. Then we’ll be in good time to start out for the Rancho La Siesta. So long!”

SOON after one o’clock Dick Willoughby and Chester Munson were again in the saddle. They galloped along the foothills for some time in silence. But coming to the boulder-strewn wash of a mountain stream, they had perforce to rein their horses to a walk. Conversation was now possible.

“Dick, will you give me a job as a cowboy if I quit the army?” asked Munson abruptly.

“Surest thing you know,” replied Dick. “But why try to kid me like that?”

“Oh,” laughed the other, “I am not jesting.”

“Well, by gad, if you feel that way already, the chances are you will write out your resignation when you get back to the shack tonight.”

“You mean by that – ”

“I mean,” said Dick, smiling benignly at his friend, “that when you have once seen Grace Darlington you will feel like browsing on the California range until you have learned to throw a riata.”

“Oh, it is not the thought of any mere girl that will influence my decision. I feel like getting back to Nature – back to the soil – back to a life of untrammeled freedom.”

“Back to unspoiled womanhood,” added Dick sententiously.

“Well, you’ve certainly got my curiosity aroused over these young ladies at La Siesta. How much farther do we have to go?”

“Within an hour, sir, within the hour, my lord, shall you see the lady fair. But remember,” Dick went on banteringly, “that you are not to practise any riata-throwing on Miss Merle Farnsworth.”

“I understand. But we won’t fall out over her. You may have your beautiful brunette. I have always been partial to blondes.”

“In the plural number,” grinned Dick. “But Grace Darlington will dim the light of all your previous flames. She is the most perfect blonde you have ever yet encountered.”

“You are certainly enthusiastic – for a disinterested party.”

“Well, you’ll say the same thing, Ches, my boy, when you see her.”

It was not yet four o’clock when they approached the Rancho La Siesta. The house was of a style quite unusual in California – a miniature castle that might have been planned by some European architect of renown. It stood amid noble oak trees, old and gnarled and of gigantic size, but not too numerous to hide the architectural features of the building. To the rear the trees grew more thickly till they finally merged into one great forest that covered the lower ridge of the mountain beyond. Far up, just within the timber line, could be seen the red-tiled roof of a house which Dick told his friend was the home of a Mr. Ricardo Robles. Beneath the forest, the gently undulating lands sloped away to a considerable stream that dashed down from one of the mountain canyons and debouched into the great valley.

“Whew!” exclaimed Munson admiringly, as they rode up and turned their horses over to an attendant. “Some swell architecture around here! Is this your work, Dick?”

“Oh, no!” replied Willoughby. “I had nothing to do with it. But I do like the architectural lines of Mrs. Darlington’s home. She’s English and has English tastes, and transplanted ideas are not always successful in a new country. But in this case the building just seems to fit the scenery. It has always delighted me.”

“It is certainly beautiful,” concurred Munson as they walked along a winding graveled pathway that climbed the gentle slope and led to the portico of the mansion.

Around them were gay beds of flowers dotting the greensward. Almost hiding the columns of the portico were climbing roses, one bush of the purest white, the other of deep crimson.

As they passed under the porch roof, a handsome and well-preserved lady of middle age appeared at the top of the steps with a welcoming smile. She descended to give them gracious greeting.

“How glad I am to see you, Mr. Willoughby. No one could be more welcome at La Siesta.”

“Thank you,” said Dick with marked chivalry.

“Mrs. Darlington, permit me to present my friend, Lieutenant Munson.”

The introduction over, they ascended the steps together, and passed into a spacious courtyard, with broad verandahs running all around and a fountain playing in the centre. The hostess conducted her visitors to a cosy corner, screened by glass panels from the open air and furnished with rich Persian rugs, divans, cushions, tapestries, carved ebony tabarets, all in oriental fashion. When they were comfortably settled, she opened the conversation.

“Lieutenant, the young ladies of La Siesta are most impatient to meet you. Mr. Willoughby has told us so much about you and yet has been so very dilatory – yes, really you have, Mr. Willoughby – in bringing you over, that we have put down several black marks against his name.”

“Oh, thank you,” stammered the young officer, reddening. “I quite agree with you about Willoughby, for I have been pleading with him to present me from the very first day of my arrival.” Turning to Mrs. Darlington, Dick laughingly protested: “My dear Mrs. Darlington, that is the first whopper you have heard from my esteemed friend. You have yet to learn that he always speaks in the superlative degree.”

At this moment Grace Darlington stepped through one of the French windows. As she stood hesitating for a moment, Chester Munson there and then agreed with all the preliminary praise Dick Willoughby had bestowed. She was certainly a vision of loveliness, with a wealth of golden hair and eyes of sapphire blue; petite, her figure plump but beautifully molded, her cheeks aglow with the red roses of health and youth and happiness.

“My daughter Grace,” announced Mrs. Darlington, rising and formally introducing the lieutenant to her as she joined the group.

Again Munson blushed and stammered. Dick was chuckling; he saw that the gallant son of battle, with a penchant for blonde beauties, had succumbed to the first glance from Grace Darlington’s eyes.

“Delighted to meet you, Lieutenant Munson,” she declared with frank friendliness as they shook hands.

“Where’s Merle?” asked Dick almost before Grace had time to turn to him.

“There now, Mr. Impatience,” she replied, shaking her finger teasingly at, him, “Merle will be here in her own good time. She’s busy with Bob just now.”

“Who the dickens is Bob?” asked Dick, visibly disconcerted.

“Oh, her new Irish terrier,” laughed Grace, her voice ringing with mischievous merriment. “And such a beauty!”

Dick breathed again. The lieutenant had recovered his composure; it was his turn now to bestow a sardonic smile upon his comrade.

“We’ll have afternoon tea,” suggested Mrs. Darlington. “And of course you two young men will stay for dinner.”

Both uttered a simultaneous protest – they were only in riding clothes. But Mrs. Darlington made short work of the argument, and touched a pushbutton by her side. A maid responded, the extra covers for dinner were ordered, and meanwhile tea was to be sent on to the verandah. Pleasant small talk succeeded, the lieutenant being called upon for his first impressions of California.