“Not the slightest necessity,” assented the sleuth. “I’ve always got my brace of bulldogs ready;” and the professional gunman, touching the broad leather belt to which his holsters were attached, grinned complacently. “And no danger to be feared from Willoughby himself, you said?” “None whatever. In fact, he don’t have a gun, José declares. So he only sneaks out after dark for a constitutional. The old fellow will take us to the spot where we can grab him by the neck.” “That sounds like business,” replied Thurston, rubbing his hands. “And shoot him down, Sharkey, if he runs.” “He won’t give us the slip this time—you can bet dollars to doughnuts on that. But of course he’s got to have the chance of hands-up before I fire. Killing is killing, and I prefer the handcuffs. There is really less trouble in the long run.” “Well, perhaps I, too, would prefer to see him hanged,” murmured Thurston, with gloating satisfaction. “But don’t forget that we must get him this afternoon, dead or alive. I’m sick of this life of watching and waiting.” “The end’s in sight at last.” “Then we’ll go back East—after I have had my revenge. It will be sweeter to me after all the trouble we’ve encountered. And by God, we’ll drag that Farnsworth girl, too, through the mire. Hell to all of them! I’ve never had anyone but enemies around me here.” While speaking, Thurston reached for his overcoat thrown across the back of a chair. “All right, we’ll start,” said Sharkey. “I’ll go and get the horses ready.” It was about half past three o’clock when the riders reached the base of the mountain barrier not far from the entrance to Tejon Pass. “We’ve got to make it on foot now,” remarked Sharkey, as he swung himself from the saddle. “I’ll tether the horses to this manzanita.” Thurston dismounted, and while his companion led the animals under the trees, he gazed aloft at the precipice beetling in front of them. “Damn it, I wish you had chosen any other place than Comanche Point,” he exclaimed irritably. “We had to come to the spot where we can find our man,” replied Sharkey complacently. “It is on the ridge above that Willoughby has his place of hiding. Come along, we have a good stiff climb before us.” He led the way up the first slope of the winding trail and Ben Thurston followed, reluctantly now, half doubting the wisdom of his having left his home for such an adventure. Meanwhile there had been two other riders on the range that afternoon, mounted on little hill ponies. The one man was blindfolded; the other rode in advance and guided the second pony by a leading rein. It had been the usual experience to which Dick Willoughby had now become accustomed—hour after hour along winding, maze-like trails. At last the call had come to dismount, and the bandage had been removed from Dick’s eyes. He saw that he was in a little box-like nook in the mountains.