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 ca¤ons 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. 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. The prisoners are lynched. Far and wide, cowardly avengers butcher suspected Mexicans. California breathes freely now. Joaquin Murieta Carrillo will weave no more guerilla plots. The padre and Valois commune with the frightened lady of the hacienda. Donna Juanita implores protection. Shy Dolores puts her slender hand in his, and begs him to protect her beloved father.