“You contemptible hound!” exclaimed Dick, as he tossed the loose end of the lariat from him. “By God, I’ve seen a few low-down things done in my lifetime, but this is certainly the limit. I suppose you would have betrayed me for the sake of the reward, even though you know now for certain that I was wrongfully arrested at the start. You damned Judas! You deserve to be hanged like a horse-thief, Leach Sharkey—that’s about your proper finish.” And Dick in his righteous indignation glanced around as if in search of a convenient tree for the operation. “I’ll give no further trouble,” mumbled Sharkey. “It will be my particular care that you don’t,” replied Dick. “Get up, you hulking brute.” And grabbing the coils of the riata, he fairly lifted Sharkey to his feet. “Now, I wouldn’t shame the pony by putting you on his back again. Follow me.” Picking up the free end of the rope, and gathering the leading rein of Sharkey’s horse into the same hand, Willoughby vaulted into his saddle. “Come along,” he called out, turning round as the riata came taut. And thus, a dozen paces behind, the sleuth, discomfited again a second time that day, and humiliated worse than ever, followed perforce in his victor’s trail. Perhaps half a mile of the open road was thus traversed, Dick speaking not another word, but looking round occasionally and giving an energetic yank at the rope whenever there was evidence of laggard steps. Sharkey stumbled along, his chin buried in his breast, his eyes half-closed to conceal their dumb, vicious glare of concentrated but impotent fury. They had now reached a gate; Dick dismounted and threw it open, pointing the way for Sharkey to take. “It’s about five miles to the rancho,” he said. “I don’t know how you’ll get through the other gates, but I reckon you can crawl under them, like the snake you’ve proved yourself to be. Now, off you go,” and with the words he looped the loose end of the riata around the victim’s shoulders. “That’s a better necktie than you deserve, Leach Sharkey. If it was any one but myself, you would be helped to a start by a few vigorous kicks behind.” The sleuth shambled through the gateway, with shamed, averted face. With a click the gate was closed. For just a few minutes Dick watched the figure moving away through the now gathering dusk. Then he laid a hand on his saddle-horn. “I hope it’s the last I’ll see of that animal,” he murmured to himself, as he sprang lightly into the saddle. And at a canter he started along the road, the led pony, after a few heel-kicks as if in joy at being relieved of its burden, soon dropping into the swinging stride. CHAPTER XXXIX—The Fight on the Cliff FOR a few moments Don Manuel contemplated the cowering figure of Ben Thurston in contemptuous silence. His end was accomplished; his enemy was in his power; like the cat with the mouse just a few inches from its paw, he could strike at any moment. He spoke now with measured calm.