And Clinch's mind was on her. All else--his watchfulness, his stealthy
advance--all the alertness of eye and ear, all the subtlety, the
cunning, the infinite caution--were purely instinctive mechanics.
Somewhere in this flooded twilight of gigantic trees was Jose Quintana.
Knowing that, he dismissed that fact from his mind and turned his
thoughts to Eve.
Sometimes his lips moved. They usually did when he was arguing with God
or calling his Creator's attention to the justice of his case. His _two_
cases--each, to him, a cause celebre; the matter of Harrod; the affair
of Quintana.
Many a time he had pleaded these two causes before the Most High.
But now his thoughts were chiefly concerned with Eve--with the problem
of her future--his master passion--this daughter of the dead wife he had
loved.
He sighed unconsciously; halted.
"Well, Lord," he concluded, in his wordless way, "my girlie has gotta
have a chance if I gotta go to hell for it. That's sure as shootin'....
Amen."
At that instant he saw Quintana.
Recognition was instant and mutual. Neither man stirred. Quintana was
standing beside a giant hemlock. His pack lay at his feet.
Clinch had halted--always the mechanics!--close to a great ironwood
tree.
Probably both men knew that they could cover themselves before the other
moved a muscle. Clinch's small, light eyes were blazing; Quintana's
black eyes had become two slits.
Finally: "You--dirty--skunk," drawled Clinch in his agreeably misleading
voice, "by Jesus Christ I got you now."
"Ah--h," said Quintana, "thees has happen ver' nice like I expec'....
Always I say myse'f, yet a little patience, Jose, an' one day you shall
meet thees fellow Clinch, who has rob you.... I am ver' thankful to the
good God----"
He had made the slightest of movements: instantly both men were behind
their trees. Clinch, in the ferocious pride of woodcraft, laughed
exultingly--filled the dim and spectral forest with his roar of
laughter.
"Quintana," he called out, "you're a-going to cash in. Savvy? You're
a-going to hop off. An' first you gotta hear why. 'Tain't for the stuff.
Naw! I hooked it off'n you; you hooked it off'n me; now I got it again.
_That's_ all square.... No, 'tain't _that_ grudge, you green-livered
whelp of a cross-bred, still-born slut! No! It's becuz you laid the heft
o' your dirty little finger onto my girlie. 'N' now you gotta hop!"
Quintana's sinister laughter was his retort. Then: "You damfool Clinch,"
he said, "I got in my pocket what you rob of me. Now I kill you, and
then I feel ver' well. I go home, live like some kings; yes. But you,"
he sneered, "you shall not go home never no more. No. You shall remain
in thees damn wood like ver' dead old rat that is all wormy.... He! I
got a million dollaire--five million franc in my pocket. You shall learn
what it cost to rob Jose Quintana! Unnerstan'?"
"You liar," said Clinch contemptuously, "I got them jools in my pants
pocket----"
Quintana's derisive laugh cut him short: "I give you thee Flaming Jewel
if you show me you got my gems in you pants pocket!"
"I'll show you. Lay down your rifle so's I see the stock."
"First you, my frien' Mike," said Quintana cautiously.
Clinch took his rifle by the muzzle and shoved the stock into view so
that Quintana could see it without moving.
To his surprise, Quintana did the same, then coolly stepped a pace
outside the shelter of his hemlock stump.
"You show me now!" he called across the swamp.
Clinch stepped into view, dug into his pocket, and, cupping both hands,
displayed a glittering heap of gems.
"I wanted you should know who's gottem," he said, "before you hop. It'll
give you something to think over in hell."
Quintana's eyes had become slits again. Neither man stirred. Then:
"So you are buzzard, eh, Clinch? You feed on dead man's pockets, eh? You
find Sard somewhere an' you feed." He held up the morocco case,
emblazoned with the arms of the Grand Duchess of Esthonia, and shook it
at Clinch.
"In there is my share.... Not all. Ver' quick, now, I take yours,
too----"
Clinch vanished and so did his rifle; and Quintana's first bullet struck
the moss where the stock had rested.
"You black crow!" jeered Clinch, laughing, "--I need that empty case of
yours. And I'm going after it.... But it's because your filthy claw
touched my girlie that you gotta hop!"
* * * * *
Twilight lay over the phantom wood, touching with pallid tints the
flooded forest.
So far only that one shot had been fired. Both men were still
manoeuvring, always creeping in circles and always lining some great
tree for shelter.
Now, the gathering dusk was making them bolder and swifter; and twice,
already, Clinch caught the shadow of a fading edge of something that
vanished against the shadows too swiftly for a shot.
Now Quintana, keeping a tree in line, brushed with his lithe back a
leafless moose-bush that stood swaying as he avoided it.
Instantly a stealthy hope seized him: he slipped out of his coat, spread
it on the bush, set the naked branches swaying, and darted to his tree.
Waiting, he saw that the grey blot his coat made in the dusk was still
moving a little--just vibrating a little bit in the twilight. He touched
the bush with his rifle barrel, then crouched almost flat.
Suddenly the red crash of a rifle lit up Clinch's visage for a fraction
of a second. And Quintana's bullet smashed Clinch between the eyes.
* * * * *
After a long while Quintana ventured to rise and creep forward.
Night, too, came creeping like an assassin amid the ghostly trees.
So twilight died in the stillness of Drowned Valley and the pall of
night lay over all things,--living and dead alike.