Before midnight he struck the hard forest. Here there was no trail at
all, only spreading outcrop of rock under dying leaves.
He could see a few stars. Cautiously he ventured to shine his compass
close to the ground. He was still headed right. The ghastly sink country
lay behind him.
Ahead of him, somewhere in darkness--but how far he did not
know--Quintana and his people were moving swiftly on Clinch's Dump.
It may have been an hour later--two hours, perhaps--when from far ahead
in the forest came a sound--the faint clink of a shod heel on rock.
Now, Smith unslung his pack, placed it between two rocks where laurel
grew.
Salzar's red bandanna was still wet, but he tied it across his face,
leaving his eyes exposed. The dead man's hat fitted him. His own hat and
the extra torch he dropped into his basket-pack.
Ready, now, he moved swiftly forward, trailing his rifle. And very soon
it became plain to him that the people ahead were moving without much
caution, evidently fearing no unfriendly ear or eye in that section of
the wilderness.
Smith could hear their tread on rock and root and rotten branch, or
swishing through frosted fern and brake, or louder on newly fallen
leaves.
At times he could even see the round white glare of a torch on the
ground--see it shift ahead, lighting up tree trunks, spread out,
fanlike, into a wide, misty glory, then vanish as darkness rushed in
from the vast ocean of the night.
Once they halted at a brook. Their torches flashed it; he heard them
sounding its depths with their gun-butts.
Smith knew that brook. It was the east branch of Star Brook, the inlet
to Star Pond.
Far ahead above the trees the sky seemed luminous. It was star lustre
over the pond, turning the mist to a silvery splendour.
Now the people ahead of him moved with more caution, crossing the brook
without splashing, and their boots made less noise in the woods.
To keep in touch with them Smith hastened his pace until he drew near
enough to hear the low murmur of their voices.
They were travelling in single file; he had a glimpse of them against
the ghostly radiance ahead. Indeed, so near had he approached that he
could hear the heavy, laboured breathing of the last man in the
file--some laggard who dragged his feet, plodding on doggedly, panting,
muttering. Probably the man was Sard.
Already the forest in front was invaded by the misty radiance from the
clearing. Through the trees starlight glimmered on water. The perfume of
the open land grew in the night air,--the scent of dew-wet grass, the
smell of still water and of sedgy shores.
Lying flat behind a rotting log, Smith could see them all now,--spectral
shapes against the light. There were five of them at the forest's edge.
They seemed to know what was to be done and how to do it. Two went down
among the ferns and stunted willows toward the west shore of the pond;
two sheered off to the southwest, shoulder deep in blackberry and sumac.
The fifth man waited for a while, then ran down across the open pasture.
Scarcely had he started when Smith glided to the wood's edge, crouched,
and looked down.
Below stood Clinch's Dump, plain in the starlight, every window dark. To
the west the barn loomed, huge with its ramshackle outbuildings
straggling toward the lake.
Straight down the slope toward the barn ran the fifth man of Quintana's
gang, and disappeared among the out-buildings.
Smith crept after him through the sumacs; and, at the foot of the slope,
squatted low in a clump of rag-weed.
So close to the house was he now that he could hear the dew rattling on
the veranda roof. He saw shadowy figures appear, one after another, and
take stations at the four corners of the house. The fifth man was
somewhere near the out-buildings, very silent about whatever he had on
hand.
The stillness was absolute save for the drumming dew and a faint ripple
from the water's edge.
Smith crouched, listened, searched the starlight with intent eyes, and
waited.
Until something happened he could not solve the problem before him. He
could be of no use to Eve Strayer and to Stormont until he found out
what Quintana was going to do.
He could be of little use anyway unless he got into the house, where two
rifles might hold out against five.
There was no use in trying to get to Ghost Lake for assistance. He felt
that whatever was about to happen would come with a rush. It would be
all over before he had gone five minutes. No; the only thing to do was
to stay where he was.
As for his pledge to the little Grand Duchess, that was always in his
mind. Sooner or later, somehow, he was going to make good his pledge.
He knew that Quintana and his gang were here to find the Flaming Jewel.
Had he not encountered Quintana, his own errand had been the same. For
Smith had started for Clinch's prepared to reveal himself to Stormont,
and then, masked to the eyes--and to save Eve from a broken heart, and
Clinch from States Prison--he had meant to rob the girl at
pistol-point.
It was the only way to save Clinch; the only way to save the pride of
this blindly loyal girl. For the arrest of Clinch meant ruin to both,
and Smith realised it thoroughly.
* * * * *
A slight sound from one of the out-houses--a sort of
wagon-shed--attracted his attention. Through the frost-blighted
rag-weeds he peered intently, listening.
After a few moments a faint glow appeared in the shed. There was a
crackling noise. The glow grew pinker.