El Diablo!

The black horse reared high above the paralysed boys, its hoofs pawing wildly at the air.

The rider waved his pistol and shouted, “Viva Fiesta!” Then he slipped off his black bandanna to reveal a boyish face full of mischief.

“Come to the Fiesta!” the young man shouted again, turned his horse in mid-air, and galloped off down the highway towards Santa Carla.

The boys stared after him.

“A Fiesta costume!” Pete groaned.

They looked at each other and laughed with relief. Scared by a boy in costume!

“I’ll bet there are ten El Diablos in the Fiesta,” Bob observed.

“Well, I hope we don’t run into any of them in dark alleys,” Pete said.

The boys climbed back on their bikes and began the long descent down the winding road through the pass. Soon they came out of the mountains into the outskirts of Santa Carla. They rode past houses, a golf course, and several outlying shopping centres of the bustling holiday resort.

When they reached the downtown section, they parked their bikes in a rack at the library and walked to Union Street, the main thoroughfare of Santa Carla. The street was blocked by police barriers in preparation for the Fiesta parade. People were already lined up behind the barriers, most of them dressed in the colourful costumes of old Spanish days. A holiday atmosphere filled the air.

Bob and Pete hurried to make their purchases at a little shop selling souvenirs. They bought a dozen thick white candles and three straw sombreros. Then they rushed out to the kerb just as the first band came marching past with a blare of trumpets and banging of drums.

After the band came the floats, decked with flowers and pretty girls and men in costumes. Most depicted important moments of California history. One showed Father Junípero Serra, the Franciscan missionary who had established most of the fine old missions that stretched up the long coast of California. Another represented the day John C. Fremont had raised the American flag over Santa Carla when the city had been taken from Mexico. Another showed El Diablo in his famous escape. At least five El Diablos rode around this float. One of them was the same grinning young rider on the black horse who had startled them at the top of the pass.

“Look at all the horses!” exclaimed Bob.

“I sure wish I could ride like that.” Pete watched the horsemen with admiration.

Both boys were good riders, though not yet perfect, and they watched the horses with great interest. Ranchers in Spanish costumes, along with mounted police posses from up and down the state, went by, riding troops of golden palominos. Some of the horses performed intricate dance steps out in the street.

There were carriages and covered wagons and old stagecoaches, and then a float depicting Gold Rush days. Bob shook Pete’s arm.

“Look!” he whispered, pointing towards two men who were walking beside the Gold Rush float. They had a burro loaded with food and shovels and pickaxes, and one of them was the bearded old man from the cave — Ben Jackson.

“The other one must be his partner, Waldo Turner,” Bob said.

The two old-timers seemed to delight the crowd. They looked like real prospectors, even to the dust and dirt on their mining clothes. Old Ben was obviously the leader, his white beard flowing as he limped proudly along, leading the burro. Waldo Turner, a taller and thinner old man with a white moustache instead of a beard, followed behind.

The floats kept coming, the bands played on, and the boys might have forgotten all about their mission at the library if Pete hadn’t suddenly noticed the man.

“Bob!” he whispered urgently.

Bob looked up and there, a few feet away, was the tall, scar-faced man with the eye patch. The man didn’t seem at all interested in the parade. As the boys watched, he hurried across Union Street and vanished.

“Come on,” Bob said, and the boys quickly followed.

At the corner, they saw the tall man some twenty feet ahead and walking fast. From time to time he slowed down, as if watching something ahead.

“I think he’s following someone,” Bob observed.

“Can you see who it is?” asked Pete.

“No, you’re taller,” Bob said.

Pete stood as tall as he could, but he couldn’t tell who or what the man was following. Then he saw him turn off the pavement.

“He’s going into a building,” Pete reported.

“It’s the library!” said Bob.

The man vanished through the tall double doors, and the boys hurried after him. Inside, they stopped. The library was almost deserted on this Fiesta day, yet the boys could see no trace of the tall man with the eye patch.

The main room was large, with many bookshelves and several exits into other rooms. Quickly the boys looked up and down the aisles between the shelves. Then they explored the exits. To their dismay they found the library had two doors leading to a side street. And the tall man was nowhere in sight.

“He’s gone,” Pete said, crestfallen.

“We should have split up and one of us gone around to the back. Jupiter would have remembered that most libraries have more than one entrance,” Bob said dejectedly. He was unhappy with himself for not thinking of such an obvious point.

“Well,” Pete said. “He’s gone and we might as well get on with that research Jupe wanted.”

Bob agreed, and the two boys inquired about where they would find books on local history. A kindly librarian directed them to a small room that contained a special California history collection. Just as they were walking up to the desk in the smaller room, a heavy hand fell on Pete’s shoulder.

“Well, well, our young investigators!”

Professor Walsh stood behind them, his eyes twinkling behind his thick glasses.

“Doing some research, boys?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” replied Pete. “We want to find out all about Moaning Valley.”

“Good, good,” Professor Walsh said encouragingly. “That’s just what I’m doing myself. I haven’t had a great deal of luck, though. There doesn’t seem to be much except unreliable legends… Have you been to the Fiesta?”

“Yes, sir,” Pete replied enthusiastically. “Boy, they sure have some great horses.”

“It’s a fine celebration,” the professor agreed. “I think I’ll go take a look since I’m not having much luck here. How are you boys going to get back to the ranch?”

“We have our bikes, sir,” Bob said.

“Well, then, I’ll see you later.” Professor Walsh turned to leave.

Bob hesitated, then asked, “Did you happen to see a tall man with an eye patch while you were in the library?”

Walsh shook his head. “No, boys, I didn’t. You mean that same man you saw last night?”

“Yes, sir,” Pete said.

“Right here in town, eh?” Professor Walsh looked thoughtful. “No, I haven’t seen him.”

After the professor had gone, Bob and Pete went to work. They found three or four books that mentioned Moaning Valley, but none of them added anything to what they already knew. Then Bob discovered a small book, with yellowing, wrinkled pages, which was a complete history of Moaning Valley up to the year 1941. It was on the wrong shelf, which was probably the reason Professor Walsh hadn’t seen it.

They borrowed the book with Mrs. Dalton’s library card. Outside, the afternoon was still hot and sunny and the parade was just ending. People were streaming away from the main part of the town, many of them still in costume. The boys tied their packages on the luggage racks of their bikes and started home. Soon they began the long climb up San Mateo Pass. They rode as far up as they could with ease, then dismounted and continued on foot.

Stopping to rest a moment, they looked out over the water towards the Channel Islands, hazy in the distance.