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 go