“You will remain here,” said Pierre Luzon, “until I whistle for you—you know my signal. Zen you will lead ze ponies along zis path. When you come to me, I will put you on ze road for home, and we will say good-bye.” “I suppose I may smoke,” laughed Dick, philosophically. The day of surprises had left him dulled to any further wonderment. “Sure, smoke,” replied Pierre. “But remember ze forest regulations,” he added with a chuckle, “and do not set ze brush on fire.” “Oh, I’m no green tenderfoot,” laughed Willoughby, as he drew his briar-root from his pocket. “And it’s quite a balmy afternoon for October.” He sat down and propped his back against a moss-grown rock. “You must not stir from here,” continued Pierre. “Remember I have to find you again.” “Guess I’ve learned to obey orders. I’m quite comfortable where I am.” And Dick started contentedly smoking. Pierre, following the little path to which he had drawn Dick’s attention, pushed through the brushwood and disappeared. Just ten minutes later Pierre Luzon stood on Comanche Point and gazed down the trail leading up from the pass below. “Zey are coming, zey are coming!” he exclaimed eagerly to himself, with finger outpointed in the direction of the two climbers on foot half way up the ascent. Then he slipped back into the shadow of a clump of stunted pines that grew close to the cliff. Fifteen minutes or so passed. Then the heads of Ben Thurston and Leach Sharkey showed above the final steep ascent that led directly on to the projecting spur known as Comanche Point. Thurston was breathing hard after the difficult climb. “Here we are at last,” remarked Sharkey cheerfully, as he glanced around. Even as he spoke, a tottering figure came forth from among the pines. A few minutes before, Pierre Luzon had been erect and vigorous and nimble on his feet, but now he seemed to be indeed a frail and bowed old man. “I have come,” he said, as he approached the figures on the cliff. “Hands up, then,” cried the sleuth, half laughing. “You remember, I said I would search you for a gun.” “I have no gun,” Pierre answered, as he halted and elevated his arms. Sharkey advanced and, without taking the trouble to draw either of his own weapons, ran his fingers with the quick touch of experience over the old man’s clothes. “I knew you were on the square, José,” said the bodyguard, quickly satisfied. “Well, I’ve brought the mazuma.” He drew from his pocket the fat wallet, opening it for a moment to display the wads of greenbacks. Then he put it back again. “Now where is our man?” “He is down here, just a little distance,” replied Pierre, in a cautious whisper. “I am not strong enough to hold him. But you come. Ze boss, he can remain here for ze present.” Ben Thurston had turned away and was looking down into the valley. “We’ll be back in a short time,” called out Sharkey. But Thurston, if he had heard, made no reply. “Now show the way, old fellow,” continued the sleuth, addressing his guide.