"
Over the beautiful hills, fanned by the breezes of sunset, the
softened shadows fall. Twilight brings the hush and rest of early
evening. The stars mirror themselves in the sparkling bosom of
Lagunitas.
Watching the wounded leader, Padre Francisco's seamed, thoughtful
face is very grave. His thin fingers tell the beads of the rosary.
Prayer after prayer passes his moving lips.
The shadow of sorrow, sin, and shame is on Lagunitas. He fears
for the future of the family. There has been foul play. There the
tiger of Sonora has made his lair in the trackless canons and rich
valleys of the foot-hills. The old Don must have known all.
Prayers for the dead and dying fall on the silence of the night.
They are roughly broken by the trampling of horses' feet. The priest
is called out by the sentinel. By the dim light of the stars, he
sees two score shadowy horsemen. Between their lines, several poor
wretches are bound and shivering in captivity.
A swarthy figure swings from the saddle. Captain Harry Love springs
across the threshold. Unmindful of the warning of the priest,
he rouses Valois. He cries exultantly, "We have him this time,
squire!" Lying on the portico, tied in the sack, in which it swung
at the ranger's saddle-horn, is the head of Joaquin Murieta.
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