PIERRE LUZON led Leach Sharkey along the trail. Beyond Comanche Point it dipped again owing to the contour of the mountain, then at a distance of about fifty yards, took a sharp turn round an abrupt face of rock.

“Where the hell are you taking me?” asked the sleuth, as they approached this bend.

“Only a little further,” replied the guide, in a feeble quavering voice as he glanced over his shoulder.

The men were only a few paces apart. In the shadow cast by the cliff, Pierre’s pallid face with its stubbly white beard looked like that of a veritable ancient, and his bent form and tottering steps completed the picture. The sleuth smiled at his momentary discomposure.

Around the turn, however, Pierre grabbed at a revolver lying ready to his hand on a ledge of rock, and when Sharkey followed, it was to find a hale and stalwart man, erect, alert, with the flash of conscious power in his eyes.

“Hands up!” cried Pierre, in a voice of stern command. Leach Sharkey was standing three short steps away and was looking now into the muzzle of a big automatic pistol. Over his countenance there stole a sickly smile. But he knew the rules of the game too well to attempt any resistance. His hands went slowly above his head until both arms were fully extended.

“You’ve got the drop on me all right, JosÉ,” he murmured, in self-apology.

“Face the rock,” came the next curt order—the very tone was reminiscent of old bandit days.

Sharkey obeyed in silence, and in a trice both his guns were withdrawn from their holsters and flung among the brushwood.

“You go ahead now,” said Pierre, stepping aside to let the other pass. “You can drop your hands, but if you cry out or attempt to run, zen you are one dead man.”

The discomfited sleuth meekly complied, although there was now a black scowl on his face as he stepped on ahead. In all his professional career, Leach Sharkey had never before fallen so ignominiously into a trap like this.

Not a word was spoken while a distance of some two hundred yards was being traversed. Then Pierre called out the one word: “Halt!”

Sharkey did not dare even to look round. He stood still as a piece of statuary.

“You sit on zat stone over zere,” continued Pierre, “and do not rise until I give you permission. Now we will proceed to business.”

Sharkey sat down as ordered.

“Hell, you can have your five thousand dollars right enough,” he said, pulling the wallet from his pocket.

“No, my friend. I did not bring you here to rob you. I am out on parole, and I never break my word. I am Pierre Luzon!” He spoke the name with triumphant pride.

“Good God!” exclaimed Sharkey, in dumfounded surprise. “You belonged to the White Wolf’s gang?”

“I belong now to ze gang. Ze White Wolf is alive!”

Leach Sharkey had looked sick before, but a ghastly grey pallor came into his face now.

“Then he has got hold of Ben Thurston—at last?” he faltered.

“Yes, at last,” replied Pierre, with a grim smile of joy. “Don Manuel and Ben Thurston are alone on Comanche Point just now. Zey will settle old scores—zat is zeir affair. Now, I attend to my affair.”

Sharkey looked up enquiringly, but said no more.

“Leach Sharkey,” continued the old Frenchman, “you are one strong man. You will now take ze handcuffs from your pocket—I know you carry zem—and drop zem over your shoulder. Zere, zat is right. I am glad you obey wizout giving me any further trouble. Now, you will hold out your hands, behind your back—you know exactly how.”

Yes, Leach Sharkey knew exactly how. And he also knew what the business end of a big revolver meant, with the forefinger of a daring bandit like Pierre Luzon on the trigger. He was handcuffed and helpless right enough in very short order. For the first time in his life the man who had so often slipped the bracelets on others, found the bracelets around his own wrists.

“Next I want ze key of ze handcuffs,” Pierre resumed. “Which pocket, please?”

Sharkey, with a downward thrust of his chin, indicated the waistcoat pocket.

“Zank you,” said Pierre, as he thrust in his fingers and produced the key. “Now, we will throw zis zing away”—as he spoke it went whizzing through the air—“and when you get home to ze rancho, ze blacksmith zere will set you free.”

“Oh, I’m going home, am I?” said the sleuth, considerably reassured.

“Yes, Pierre Luzon no longer rob or kill or break ze law. He keep his word of honor always. And I promised to bring Dick Willoughby to you tonight. Now I shall be true to zat promise, too.”

And through his teeth he blew a shrill whistle.

At the sound Dick Willoughby started up, and shook the ashes from his pipe. Following Pierre’s instructions, he led the two ponies along the little trail through the chaparral. Within five minutes he emerged on a broader trail, right at the spot where the Frenchman was standing.

“Hello, Pierre!” Then Dick’s eyes fell on Leach Sharkey, and at the very first glance he saw the shackled hands. “But what’s the meaning of all this?” he asked in bewildered surprise.

“It means zat you will take zis man down ze mountains. He came to arrest you, but you can tell him now zat you are one free man. You can show him ze paper which proves it was not you, but Don Manuel, who is responsible for ze death of young Thurston.”

“Great Caesar!” muttered the sleuth, “I thought that from the first, but the old fool would not listen to me.”

“Mr. Sharkey,” said Dick, “you and I have no quarrel. What Pierre says is true—I have a sworn affidavit in my pocket, fixing the responsibility for that unhappy affair where it belongs.”

“I believe you, Mr. Willoughby,” replied the sleuth. “I’m glad you are innocent, but I was only doing my duty in trying to arrest the man charged with the crime.”

“I understand all that. I bear you no ill will.”

“And I’d shake hands if it were not for these damned bracelets,” continued Sharkey.

“Pierre, there is no need of handcuffs,” said Dick, turning to the Frenchman. “Set him free. We will go peaceably home together.”

“No, no,” replied Pierre, determinedly. “Leach Sharkey, he is one giant in strength. He will go home as he is. Besides, I have trown ze key away.” And he laughed aloud.

Sharkey nodded in helpless admission of his sorry plight.

“Too bad,” murmured Dick.

“And now,” continued Pierre, “zere is no time to be lost. We will help zis man onto your pony, and you will ride my pony and hold ze leading rein.”

“But he can’t ride with his hands behind his back like that,” objected Dick.

“Oh, yes, he can,” grinned Pierre. “Ze good horseman ride wid his knees, and most of ze road you can be by his side and hold him on. And it is ze only way, for ze key, as I have said, is gone.”

“I suppose we’ve got to accept the situation,” said Dick, with a glance at Sharkey’s lugubrious countenance. The man of strength was obviously crestfallen at his almost ridiculous plight of powerlessness.

Pierre resumed his instructions. “You will not go back to Comanche Point, but will take ze mule trail down into ze valley. You know it, Mr. Willoughby—it is about one mile furzer on.”

“I know it,” replied Dick.

“You will leave Mr. Sharkey at the rancho and zen ride to ze place where your friends are waiting for you. Now, zat is all. I must go. We have already said our adios, my dear young friend.” Dick grasped the proffered hand and warmly pressed it.

“Good-bye, Pierre. I can never thank you enough for all you have done for me. Good-bye.” Leach Sharkey was assisted into the saddle, and the horsemen started on their way.

“Good-bye,” shouted back Dick Willoughby, yet once again.

“Adios!”

And as the two figures disappeared around a bend, the Frenchman uttered a deep sigh. “A splendid young fellow! I wonder shall we ever meet again!”—this was the thought in his mind as for just a moment he stood in an attitude of deep dejection.

Then swinging around, he started back at a run for Comanche Point.