“The White Wolf!” gasped Thurston, in a faint whisper.
“Yes, Don Manuel de Valencia—the White Wolf, as you choose to call him. And now at last, Ben Thurston, we meet face to face, and alone—after thirty long years, and without a woman’s tears this time to save you!”
Ben Thurston sank to the ground, a huddled heap, trembling in every limb.
CHAPTER XXXVI—-Outwitted
PIERRE LUZON led Leach Sharkey along the trail. Beyond Comanche Point it dipped again owing to the contour of the mountain, then at a distance of about fifty yards, took a sharp turn round an abrupt face of rock.
“Where the hell are you taking me?” asked the sleuth, as they approached this bend.
“Only a little further,” replied the guide, in a feeble quavering voice as he glanced over his shoulder.
The men were only a few paces apart. In the shadow cast by the cliff, Pierre’s pallid face with its stubbly white beard looked like that of a veritable ancient, and his bent form and tottering steps completed the picture. The sleuth smiled at his momentary discomposure.