It was the third chance he took.
There was a dreadful stillness in the woods. Finally came a slight
series of splashes; the crunch of heavy boots on rock.
"For why you com-a here, eh?" demanded Salzar, in a less aggressive
manner. "What'a da matt', eh?"
"Well," said Smith, "if you've got to know, there are people from
Esthonia in New York. ... If you understand that."
"Christi! When do their arrive?"
"A week ago. Sard's place is in the hands of the police. I couldn't
stop them. They've got his safe and all his papers. City, State, and
federal officers are looking for him. The Constabulary rode into Ghost
Lake yesterday. Now, don't you think you'd better lead me to Sard?"
"Christi!" exclaimed Salzar. "Sard he is a mile ahead with the others.
Damn! Damn! Me, how should I know what is to be done? Me, I have my
orders from Quintana. What do I do, eh? Christi! What to do? What do
you say I should do, eh, Abrams?"
A new fear had succeeded the old one -- that was evident -- and Salzar
came forward into the light of his own fixed torch -- a well-knit figure
in slouch hat, grey shirt, and grey breeches, and wearing a red bandanna
over the lower part of his face. He carried a heavy rifle.
He came on, sturdily, splashing through the water, and walked up to
Smith, his rifle resting on his right shoulder.
"For me," he said excitedly, "long time I have worry in this-a damn
wood! Si! Where did you say those carbiniery? Eh?"
"At Ghost lake. _Your_ signature is in the hotel ledger."
"Christi! You know where Clinch is?"
"You know too. He is on the way to Drowned Valley."
"Damn! I knew it. Quintana also. You know where is Quintana? And
Sard? I tell-a you. They march ver' fast to the Dump of Clinch. Si!
And there they would discover these-a beeg-a dimon' -- these-a
Flame-Jewel. Si! _Now,_ you tell-a me what I do?"
Smith said slowly: "If Quintana is marching on Clinch's he's marching
into a trap!"
Salzar blanched above his bandana.
"The State Troopers are there," said Smith. "They'll get him sure."
"Cristi," faltered Salzar, "-- then they are gobble -- Quintana, Sard,
everybody! Si!"
Smith considered the man: "You can save _your_ skin anyway. You can go
back and tell Harry Beck. Then both you can beat it for Drowned
Valley."
He picked up his rifle, stood a moment in troubled reflection:
"If I could overtake Quintana I'd do it," he said. "I think I'll try.
If I can't, he's done for. You tell Harry Beck that Eddie Abrams
advises him to beat it for Drowned Valley."
Suddenly Salzar tore the bandana from his face, flung it down and
stamped on it.
"What I tell Quintana!" he yelled, his features distorted with rage. "I
don't-a like! -- no, not me! -- no, I tell-a heem, stay at those Ghost-a
Lake and watch thees-a fellow Clinch. Si! Not for me thees-a wood.
No! I spit upon it! I curse like hell! I tell Quintana I don't-a
like. Now, eet is trouble that comes and we lose-a out! Damn! _Damn!_
Me, I find me Beck. You shall say to Jose Quintana how he is a damfool.
Me, I am finish -- me, Nick Salzar! You hear me, Abrams! I am through!
I go!"
He glared at Smith, started to move, came back and took his torch, made
a violent gesture with it which drenched the weeds with goblin light.
"You stop-a Quintana, maybe. You tell-a heem he is the bigg-a fool!
You tell-a heem Nick Salzar is no damn fool. No! Adios, my frien'
Abrams. I beat it. I save my skin!"
Once more Salzar turned and headed for Drowned Valley. ... Where Clinch
would not fail to kill him. ... The man was going to his death. ... And
it as Smith who sent him.
Suddenly it came to Smith that he could not do this thing; that this man
had no chance; that he was slaying a human being with perfect safety to
himself and without giving him a chance.
"Salzar!" he called sharply.
The man halted and looked around.
"Come back!"
Salzar hesitated, turned finally, slouched toward him.
Smith laid aside his pack and rifle, and, as Salzar came up, he quietly
took his weapon from him and laid it beside his own.
"What-a da matt'?" demanded Salzar, astonished. "Why you take my gun?"
Smith measured him. They were well matched.
"Set your torch in that crotch," he said.
Salzar, puzzled and impatient, demanded to know why. Smith took both
torches, set them opposite each other and drew Salzar into the white
glare.
"Now," he said, "you dirty desperado, I am going to try to kill you
clean. Look out for yourself!"
For a second Salzar stood rooted in blank astonishment.
"I'm one of Clinch's men," said Smith, "but I can't stick a knife in
your back, at that! Now, take care of yourself if you can----"
His voice died in his throat; Salzar was on him, clawing, biting,
kicking, striving to strangle him, to wrestle him off his feet. Smith
reeled, staggering under the sheer rush of the man, almost blinded by
blows, clutched, bewildered in Salzar's panther grip.
For a moment he writhed there, searching blindly for his enemy's wrist,
striving to avoid the teeth that snapped at his throat, stifled by the
hot stench of the man's breath in his face.
"I keel you! I keel you! Damn! Damn!" panted Salzar, in convulsive
fury as Smith freed his left arm and struck him in the face.
Now, on the narrow, wet and slippery strip of rock they swayed to and
fro, murderously interlocked, their heavy boots splashing, battling with
limb and body.
Twice Salzar forced Smith outward over the sink, trying to end it, but
could not free himself.
Once, too, he managed to get a hidden knife, drag it out and stab at
head and throat; but Smith caught the fist that wielded it, forced back
the arm, held it while Salzar screamed at him, lunging at his face with
bared teeth.
Suddenly the end came: Salzar's body heaved upward, sprawled for an
instant in the dazzling glare, hurtled over Smith's head and fell into
the sink with a crashing splash.
Frantically he thrashed there, spattering and floundering in darkness.
He made no outcry. Probably he had landed head first.
In a moment only a vague heaving came from the unseen ooze.
Smith, exhausted, drenched with sweat, leaned against a tamarack,
sickened.
After all sound had ceased he straightened up with an effort. Presently
he bent and recovered Salzar's red bandana and his hat, lifted his own
rifle and pack and struggled into the harness. Then, kicking Salzar's
rifle overboard, he unfastened both torches, pocketed one, and started
on in a flood of ghostly light.
He was shaking all over and the torch quivered in his hand. He had seen
men die in the Great War. He had been near death himself. But never
before had he been near death in so horrible a form. The sodden noises
in the mud, the deadened flopping of the sinking body -- mud-plastered
hands beating frantically on mud, splattering, agonising in darkness --
"My God," he breathed, "anything but that -- anything but that! ----"
* * * * *