The milling and wrestling had gradually grown weaker, and it was clear now that the final test of endurance could not be much longer delayed. Yet again Don Manuel renewed the attack, and had forced Thurston to his knees, when the latter by a supreme effort raised himself again, and then by sheer weight pressed his opponent back a pace or two. But just at this moment Thurston’s strength seemed to give out, for he dropped down sideways, dragging his enemy after him. Then Pierre Luzon saw the object of the manoeuvre. Thurston had gained the spot where Don Manuel’s discarded pistol belt was lying, and now he was reaching out with a disengaged hand to grab the gun. The Frenchman darted forward. “Keep out of this,” cried Don Manuel, peremptorily, although he was breathing hard. “Look out! Your gun!” screamed Pierre, as he seized Thurston’s wrist in a vice-like grip. Just an instant too late, however, for Thurston’s fingers had already closed round the weapon and it went off with a bang. Pierre dropped to his knees. It was he who had received the bullet—through one of his lungs. But he had wrested the pistol from the treacherous villain’s grasp and now it fell, still smoking, to the ground. The wounded man coughed a great mouthful of crimson blood on to the slab of rock. Then he recovered himself and raised his head. Thurston and Don Manuel, even in their weakened state, were fighting more desperately than ever, blinded by hate to every sense of danger, and Pierre was just in time to see them slip on some loosened stones and then, still locked in the death clench, go rolling over the edge of the precipice. “Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” murmured the Frenchman. He staggered to his feet and without waiting turned and started down the steep trail, stumbling like a drunken man. At the foot of the zig-zag pathway he gazed helplessly around. He would have pushed his way through the brushwood to seek his beloved chief. Dead! He must be dead. No one could have dropped that sheer three hundred feet onto the cruel jagged rocks below and live. Yet, who knows? A tree might have broken the fall—Don Manuel might still be alive. Pierre, however, was incapable of further effort. His limbs trembled beneath him, and again he was spitting blood. All of a sudden he spied the two horses tethered under the manzanita tree. He tottered toward them, untied the first one he reached, and with difficulty pulled himself up into the saddle. To reach Dick Willoughby and get help—that was the thought in the reeling brain of Pierre Luzon as with a final effort, leaning forward over the saddle, he turned his steed in the direction of Buck Ashley’s old store, and urged it to a canter. CHAPTER XL—Revelation MERLE paused at the foot of the stairway leading up to one of the towers where Tia Teresa had her room. She deliberated for a moment, consulted the tiny watch on her wrist, then turned to retrace her footsteps.