Exhausted, Pierre sank back on the pillow. His eyes closed. The death rattle was in his throat. “Where is he—where shall I find Don Manuel?” Dick uttered the words close to Pierre’s ear. He alone caught the faint answer. Pierre Luzon was dead. “He’s gone, Chester,” said Dick, standing erect. Munson stooped, put his ear to Pierre’s breast, then pressed apart one pair of the eyelids. “Yes, it’s all over,” he said solemnly, as he folded the coverlet over the already marble-like face. In stricken silence the three men passed to the outer room, shutting the door softly behind them. “What’s happened?” asked Jack Rover, “I couldn’t catch his bloomin’ lingo.” “Something terrible. There has evidently been a fight to the death on Comanche Point between Ben Thurston and Don Manuel. Looks as if both of them had gone over the cliff in the struggle.” “Gee!” muttered the cowboy. Dick remained just a moment in deep thought. His plan of action was promptly decided on. “Munson, old man, you saddle my pony, and ride to Tejon for help. Jack, you remain here with the body.” “And with the nuggets,” remarked the cowboy drily. Dick paid no heed to the interruption. He continued: “I’ll take the horse outside, and ride back to Comanche Point. That’s the best we can do, and the main thing is to do it quickly. Pass me that flask of whisky—it may come in handy. I’m off now, boys. You’ll find me at the cliff. Bring a doctor, Ches. So long!” The moon had now risen, and while Dick was galloping toward Comanche Point from the one direction, the runabout, with Merle at the wheel and Tia Teresa by her side, was speeding from the other end of the valley toward the same destination. The horseman was the first to arrive. Willoughby had no need to search long beneath the precipice. A loud, continuous cry of lamentation guided him to the spot. There, wailing over the corpse of Don Manuel, was the old Indian squaw, Guadalupe. Even in death the two bodies were locked in each other’s embrace, and Dick noted with horror that Ben Thurston’s teeth were buried in the flesh of his enemy’s shoulder. Guadalupe was in the act of trying to separate the dead men when Dick intervened. Great heavens, what a withered, aged face was raised toward his own! It was the first time he had ever seen Guadalupe unveiled and at close quarters. Her cheeks were wrinkled into a hundred folds; her eyes were sunken in deep cavernous hollows. When he touched her, she rose and, jabbering furiously for all the world like an angry ape, reviled him with curses, her meaning unmistakable, although she spoke in some strange Indian tongue. Just then Dick caught the distant chug-chug of the automobile. He looked up the valley, wondering who might be passing at that hour of night. This was not the main highway; nobody ever came to Comanche Point after dark. Some intervening spur of the foothills dulled the sound; all was still and silent.