blin 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, lu