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.