* * * * *
I
When Mike Clinch bade Hal Smith return to the Dump and take care of Eve,
Smith already had decided to go there.
Somewhere in Clinch's Dump was hidden the Flaming Jewel. Now was his
time to search for it.
There were two other reasons why he should go back. One of them was
that Leverett was loose. If anything had called Trooper Stormont away,
Eve would be alone in the house. And nobody on earth could forecast
what a coward like Leverett might attempt.
But there was another and more serious reason for returning to Clinch's.
Clinch, blood-mad, was headed for Drowned Valley with his men, to stop
both ends of that vast morass before Quintana and his gang could get
out.
It was evident that neither Clinch nor any of his men -- although their
very lives depended upon familiarity with the wilderness -- knew that a
third exit from Drowned Valley existed.
But the nephew of the late Henry Harrod knew.
When Jake Kloon was a young man and Darragh was a boy, Kloon had shown
him the rocky, submerged game trail into Drowned Valley. Doubtless
Kloon had used it in hootch running since. If ever he had told anybody
else about it, probably he had revealed the trail to Quintana.
And that was why Darragh, or Hal Smith, finally decided to return to
Star Pond; -- because if Quintana had been told or had discovered that
circuitous way out of Drowned Valley, he might go straight to Clinch's
Dump. ... And, supposing Stormont was still there, how long could one
State Trooper stand off Quintana's gang?
* * * * *
No sooner had Clinch and his motley followers disappeared in the dusk
than Smith unslung his basket-pack, fished out a big electric torch,
flashed it tentatively, and then, reslinging the pack and taking his
rifle in his left hand, he set off at an easy swinging stride.
His course was not toward Star Pond; it was at right angles with that
trail. For he was taking no chances. Quintana might already have left
Drowned Valley by that third exit unknown to Clinch.
Smith's course would now cut this unmarked trail, trodden, only by game
that left no sign in the shallow mountain rivulet which was the path.
The trail lay a long way off through the night. But if Quintana had
discovered and taken that trail, it would be longer still for him --
twice as long as the regular trail out.
For a mile or two the forest was first growth pine, and sufficiently
open so that Smith might economise on his torch.
He knew every foot of it. As a boy he had carried a jacob-staff in the
Geological Survey. Who better than the forest-roaming nephew of Henry
Harrod should know this blind wilderness?
The great pines towered on every side, lofty and smooth to the feathery
canopy that crowned them under the high stars.
There was no game here, no water, nothing to attract anybody except the
devastating lumberman. But this was a five thousand acre patch of State
land. The ugly whine of the stream-saw would never be heard here.
On he walked at an easy, swinging stride, flashing his torch rarely,
feeling no concern about discovery by Quintana's people.
It was only when he came into the hardwoods that the combined necessity
for caution and torch perplexed and worried him.
Somewhere in here began an outcrop of rock running east for miles. Only
stunted cedar and berry bushes found shallow nourishment on this ridge.
When at last he found it he travelled upon it, more slowly, constantly
obliged to employ the torch.
After an hour, perhaps, his feet splashed in shallow water. _That_ was
what he was expecting. The water was only an inch or two deep; it was
ice cold and running north.
Now, he must advance with every caution. For here trickled the thin
flow of that rocky rivulet which was the other entrance and exit
penetrating that immense horror of marsh and bog and depthless sink-hole
known as Drowned Valley.
* * * * *
For a long while he did not dare to use his torch; but now he was
obliged to.
He shined the ground at his feet, elevated the torch with infinite
precaution, throwing a fan-shaped light over the stretch of sink he had
suspected and feared. It flanked the flat, wet path of rock on either
side. Here Death spread its slimy trap at his very feet.
Then, as he stood taking his bearings with burning torch, far ahead in
the darkness a light flashed, went out, flashed twice more, and was
extinguished.
Quintana!
Smith's wits were working like lightning, but instinct guided him before
his brain took command. He levelled his torch and repeated the three
signal flashes. Then, in darkness, he came to swift conclusion.
There were no other signals from the unknown. The stony bottom of the
rivulet was his only aid.
In his right hand the torch hung almost touching the water. At times he
ventured sufficient pressure for a feeble glimmer, then again trusted to
his sense of contact.
For three hundred yards, counting his strides, he continued on. Then,
in total darkness, he pocketed the torch, slid a cartridge into the
breech of is rifle, slung the weapon, pulled out a handkerchief, and
tied it across his face under the eyes.
Now, he drew the torch from his pocket, levelled it, sent three quick
flashes, out into the darkness.
Instantly, close ahead, three blinding flashes broke out.
For Hal Smith it had all become a question of seconds.
Death lay depthless on either hand; ahead death blocked the trail in
silence.
Out of the dark some unseen rifle might vomit death in his very face at
any moment.
He continued to move forward. After a little while his ear caught a
slight splash ahead. Suddenly a glare of light enveloped him.
"Is that you, Harry Beck?"
Instinct leg again while wits worked madly: "Harry Beck is two miles
back on guard. Where is Sard?"
The silence became terrible. Once the glaring light in front moved,
then become fixed. There was a light splashing. Instantly Smith
realised that the man in front had set his torch in a tree-crotch and
was now cowering somewhere behind a levelled weapon. His voice came
presently:
"He! Drap-a that-a gun damn quick!"
Smith bent, leisurely, and laid his rifle on a mossy rock.
"Now! You there! Why you want Sard! Eh?"
"I'll tell Sard, not you," retorted Smith coolly. "You listen to me,
whoever you are. I'm from Sard's office in New York. I'm Abrams. The
police are on their way here to find Quintana."
"How do I know? Eh? Why shall I believe that? You tell-a me queeck or
I blow-a your damn head off!"
"Quintana will blow-a _your_ head off unless you take me to Sard,"
drawled Smith.
A moment might have meant death, but he calmly rummaged for a cigarette,
lighted it, blew a cloud insolently toward the white glare ahead. Then
he took another chance:
"I guess you're Nick Salzar, aren't you?"
"Si! I am Salzar. Who the dev' are you?"
"I'm Eddie Abrams, Sard's lawyer. My business is to find my client. If
you stop me you'll go to prison -- the whole gang of you -- Sard,
Quintana, Picquet, Sanchez, Georgiades and Harry Beck, -- and _you!_"