“Yes, I would like to hear more about him,” Jupiter agreed.

Professor Walsh leaned back in his chair and began to tell the story of El Diablo and his famous last adventure.

In the early days of California the land that now made up The Crooked-Y ranch had been part of the Delgado Rancho. The estate of the Delgado family had been one of the largest grants of land given to the Spanish settlers by the King of Spain. The Spaniards did not come to California in large numbers, as the English did in the eastern part of America. So the Delgado Rancho remained a vast private domain for many generations.

Then settlers began to come to California from the East, and slowly the land of the Delgados was given away, lost, or stolen.After the Mexican War, California became part of the United States, and more and more Americans arrived to settle the land,especially after the great Gold Rush of 1849. By 1880 almost all the great domain of the Delgados was gone, except a small area about the size of The Crooked-Y that included Moaning Valley.

The last of the Delgados, Gaspar Ortéga Jesus de Delgado y Cabrillo, was a brave and fiery young man who grew up hating the American settlers. He thought of them as thieves who had stolen his family’s land. Young Gaspar had little money and no power, but he longed to avenge his family and regain his land. He decided to become the champion of all the old Spanish-Spanish-Mexican families who had been in California for so long. Hiding out in the hills, he became an outlaw. To the Spanish people he was anew Robin Hood. To the Americans he was nothing more than a band it.

The Americans named Gaspar Delgado, El Diablo — The Devil — after the mountain where he had his cave headquarters.But for two years they could not catch him. He stole tax money,scared away tax collectors, raided American government office sand stole their funds, and generally helped the Spanish-Spanish-speaking Californian sand terrorized the Americans.

But in 1888 El Diablo was finally captured by the sheriff of Santa Carla County. In a famous trial, which the Spanish-speaking people said was a fake, he was sentenced to hang. Then, two days before he was to be executed, some friends helped him in a daring daylight escape. El Diablo climbed over the roof of the courthouse,jumped several feet to another roof, and finally leaped on to the back of his waiting black horse.

Wounded in his escape, and closely pursued by the sheriff and his posse, El Diablo rode to his hide-out in the cave in Moaning Valley. The sheriff and his men blocked all known exits, but they did not go inside. They thought that El Diablo would have to come out when he became hungry, or when his wound became too painful to endure.

Though they stood watch for several days, there was no sign of El Diablo. But all the time they waited, they heard a strange moaning coming from somewhere inside the cave. Naturally they assumed that the moans came from the wounded bandit. Finally the sheriff ordered his men inside. They searched every passage and cavern for four days, but found nothing. They searched the whole countryside, too. But they never uncovered a trace of El Diablo — not him, or his body, or his clothes, or his pistol, or his horse, or his money. Nothing.

El Diablo was never seen again. Some said that his faithful sweetheart,Dolores de Castillo, had gone into the cave through a secret entrance and helped him escape, and that they had fled far away to a new life in South America. Others said that friends spirited him out and then hid him in rancho after rancho for many years.

But most people said that El Diablo never left the cave, that he simply remained hidden where the Americans could not find him,and that he was still there! For many years, every time there was an unsolved robbery or act of violence, it was said to have been El Diablo, still riding through the night on his great black horse.The moaning continued somewhere inside the cave, which became known as El Diablo’s Cave.

“Then,” Professor Walsh concluded, “the moaning suddenly stopped. The Spanish-speaking people said that El Diablo had grown weary and given up his raids — but that he was still in the cave waiting for a time when he would be really needed!”

“Gosh,” Pete exclaimed. “You mean some people think he’s still there in the cave?”

“How could he be?” Bob asked.

“Well, boys,” the professor said, “I’ve done a great deal of research on El Diablo. For example, all his old pictures show him wearing his pistol on the right hip, but I am certain he was left-handed!”

Jupiter nodded thoughtfully. “The stories about such a legendary figure are often false.”

“Exactly,” Professor Walsh said. “Now the official story has always been that he died of his wound that night in the cave. But I have studied the record closely, and I am convinced that his wound could not have been fatal. Since he was only eighteen years old in 1888, it is entirely possible that El Diablo is still alive!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Walsh!” Mr. Dalton exploded. “Why, that would make him almost a hundred years old. A man that old isn’t likely to be running around the countryside!”

“I think you’d be surprised how spry a man of a hundred can be,” Professor Walsh said quietly. “There are reports of men in the Caucasus Mountains of southern Russia who still ride and fight when they are a hundred or more. Anyway, our phantom isn’t doing much more than moan from a cave.”

“That’s true, sir,” Jupiter said.

“Also,” Professor Walsh pointed out, “it is entirely possible that El Diablo might have descendants. Perhaps a son or even a grandson is carrying on his career.”

Mr. Dalton began to look a little less sceptical. “That sounds more likely. The people who had the ranch before us never used Moaning Valley, but we are planning to build a range corral out there. Perhaps some descendant doesn’t want El Diablo’s legend interfered with.”

“Jess, that could be the answer!” Mrs. Dalton cried. “Don’t you remember? Some of our older Mexican ranch hands were against our plan to use Moaning Valley even before the moaning began.”“And they were among the first to leave us,” Mr. Dalton exclaimed. “Tomorrow I’m going to talk to the sheriff and see if he knows of any descendants of El Diablo.”

“Perhaps you’d all like to see a picture of El Diablo,” Professor Walsh said. He took a small picture from his pocket and passed it around. It showed a slim young man with burning, dark eyes and a proud face. The picture, which was obviously a photograph of a painting, seemed to prove that El Diablo had been little more than a boy. He wore a wide-brimmed, high-crowned black vaquero sombrero, a short black jacket, a black shirt with a high neck, and tight black trousers that flared at the bottom above shiny black pointed boots.

“Did he always wear black?” Bob asked.

“Always,” Walsh replied. “He said that he was in mourning for his people and his country.”

“He was a bandit and nothing more, and tomorrow I’ll talk to the sheriff to see if any fools are trying to continue his legend,” Mr. Dalton said firmly. Then the lean rancher smiled. “And interesting as I admit El Diablo is, a ranch doesn’t run itself. I have work to do to-night, and you boys must be tired from your trip. I expect I’ll be working you hard tomorrow. Pete’s Dad said you wanted to learn all about how a ranch operates, and the only way to learn is to do the work.”

“We’re really not at all tired, Mr. Dalton,” Jupiter said briskly. “Are we, fellows?”

“Not at all,” Bob agreed.

“Gosh, no,” Pete echoed.

“It’s still early and a clear night,” Jupe went on, “and we’d like to look around the ranch as much as we can. The beach is especially interesting at night. There’s some remarkable flora and fauna up here along the sea-shore that only appears at night.”