Quintana, on a fox-trot along the rock-trail into Drowned Valley, now
thoroughly understood that it was the only sanctuary left him for the
moment. Egress to the southward was closed; to the eastward, also; and
he was too wary to venture westward toward Ghost Lake.
No, the only temporary safety lay in the swamps of Drowned Valley.
And there, he decided as he jogged along, if worse came to worst and
starvation drove him out, he'd settle matters with Mike Clinch and break
through to the north.
He meant to settle matters with Mike Clinch anyway. He was not afraid of
Clinch; not really afraid of anybody. It had been the dogs that
demoralised Quintana. He'd had no experience with hunting hounds,--did
not know what to expect,--how to manoeuvre. If only he could have
_seen_ these beasts that filled the forest with their hob-goblin
outcries--if he could have had a good look at the creatures who gave
forth that weird, crazed, melancholy volume of sound!----
"Bon!" he said coolly to himself. "It was a crisis of nerves which I
experience. Yes.... I should have shot him, that fat Sard. Yes....
Only those damn dog---- And now he shall die an' rot--that fat Sard--all
by himse'f, parbleu!--like one big dead thing all alone in the wood....
A puddle of guts full of diamonds! Ah!--mon dieu!--a million francs in
gems that shine like festering stars in this damn wood till the world
end. Ah, bah--nome de dieu de----"
"Halte la!" came a sharp voice from the cedar fringe in front. A pause,
then recognition; and Henri Picquet walked out on the hard ridge beyond
and stood leaning on his rifle and looking sullenly at his leader.
Quintana came forward, carelessly, a disagreeable expression in his
eyes and on his narrow lips, and continued on past Picquet.
The latter slouched after his leader, who had walked over to the lean-to
before which a pile of charred logs lay in cold ashes.
As Picquet came up, Quintana turned on him, with a gesture toward the
extinguished fire: "It is cold like hell," he said. "Why do you not have
some fire?"
"Not for me, non," growled Picquet, and jerked a dirty thumb in the
direction of the lean-to.
And there Quintana saw a pair of muddy boots protruding from a blanket.
"It is Harry Beck, yes?" he inquired. Then _something_ about the boots
and the blanket silenced him. He kept his eyes on them for a full
minute, then walked into the lean-to. The blanket also covered Harry
Beck's features and there was a stain on it where it outlined the
prostrate man's features, making a ridge over the bony nose.
After a moment Quintana looked around at Picquet:
"So. He is dead. Yes?"