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 Sharkey obeyed in silence, and in a trice both his guns were withdrawn from their holsters and flung among the brushwood.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