Valois
struggles to his feet. Surrounded by the victors, by the light of
a torch, he gazes on the awful token of victory. As the timid priest
sees the fearful object, he cries, "Joaquin Carrillo!"
It is indeed he. The disgraced scion of an old and proud line. The
good priest shudders as Harry Love, leaning on the rifle which sent
its ball into Joaquin's heart, calmly says, "That thing is worth
ten thousand dollars to me to-night, Valois!"
Already, swift riders are bringing up the forces of the sheriff. In
the morning the history is known. The converging columns struck
the bandits, who scattered. The work of vengeance was quick.
"Three-fingered Jack," the murderous ancient of the bandit king,
is killed in the camp. Several fugitives are captured. Several more
hung. Joaquin Murieta, exhausted in the flight of the morning, his
horse tired and wounded, drops from the charger, at a snap shot of
the intrepid ranger, Love. The robber has finished his last ride.
Valois recovers rapidly. He has much to do to stem the resentment
of the pursuers. The head of Joaquin and the hand of Three-fingered
Jack are poor, scanty booty. Not as ghastly as the half-dozen
corpses swinging on Lagunitas' oaks, and ghastly trophies of a
chase of months.
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