Guided by Quintana's directions, the three had made a wide detour to the east, steering by compass for the cross-roads beyond Star Pond.
In a dense growth of cedars, on a little ridge traversing wet land, Quintana halted to listen.
Sard and Sanchez, supposing him to be at their heels, continued on, pushing their way blindly through the cedars, clinging to the hard ridge in terror of sink-holes. But their progress was very slow; and they were still in sight, fighting a painful path amid the evergreens, when Quintana suddenly squatted close to the moist earth behind a juniper bush.
At first, except for the threshing of Sard and Sanchez through the massed obstructions ahead, there was not a sound in the woods.
After a little while therewasa sound—very, very slight. No dry stick cracked; no dry leaves rustled; no swish of foliage; no whipping sound of branches disturbed the intense silence.
But, presently, came a soft, swift rhythm like the pace of a forest creature in haste—a discreetly hurrying tread which was more a series of light earth-shocks than sound.
Quintana, kneeling on one knee, lifted his pistol. He already felt the slight vibration of the ground on the hard ridge. The cedars were moving just beyond him now. He waited until, through the parted foliage, a face appeared.
The loud report of his pistol struck Sard with the horror of paralysis. Sanchez faced about with one spring, snarling, a weapon in either hand.
In the terrible silence they could hear something heavy floundering in the bushes, choking, moaning, thudding on the ground.
Sanchez began to creep back; Sard, more dead than alive, crawled at his heels. Presently they saw Quintana, waist deep in juniper, looking down at something.
And when they drew closer they saw Georgiades lying on his back under a cedar, the whole front of his shirt from chest to belly a sopping mess of blood.
There seemed no need of explanation. The dead Greek lay there where he had not been expected, and his two pistols lay beside him where they had fallen.
Sanchez looked stealthily at Quintana, who said softly:
"Bien sure.... In his left side pocket, I believe."
Sanchez laid a cool hand on the dead man's heart; then, satisfied, rummaged until he found Georgiades' share of the loot.
Sard, hurriedly displaying a pair of clean but shaky hands, made the division.
When the three men had silently pocketed what was allotted to each, Quintana pushed curiously at the dead man with the toe of his shoe.
"Peste!" he remarked. "I had place, for security, a ver' large diamon' in my pistol barrel. Now it is within the interior of this gentleman...." He turned to Sanchez: "I sell him to you. One sapphire. Yes?"
Sanchez shook his head with a slight sneer: "We wait—if you want your diamond, mon capitaine."
Quintana hesitated, then made a grimace and shook his head.
"No," he said, "he has swallow. Let him digest. Allons! March!"
But after they had gone on—two hundred yards, perhaps—Sanchez stopped.
"Well?" inquired Quintana. Then, with a sneer: "I now recollec' that once you have been a butcher in Madrid.... Suit your tas'e, l'ami Sanchez."
Sard gazed at Sanchez out of sickened eyes.
"You keep away from me until you've washed yourself," he burst out, revolted. "Don't you come near me till you're clean!"
Quintana laughed and seated himself. Sanchez, with a hang-dog glance at him, turned and sneaked back on the trail they had traversed. Before he was out of sight Sard saw him fish out a Spanish knife from his hip pocket and unclasp it.
Almost nauseated, he turned on Quintana in a sort of frightened fury:
"Come on!" he said hoarsely. "I don't want to travel with that man! I won't associate with a ghoul! My God, I'm a respectable business man——"
"Yaas," drawled Quintana, "tha's what I saw always myse'f; my frien' Sard he is ver' respec'able, an' I trus' him like I trus' myse'f."
However, after a moment, Quintana got up from the fallen tree where he had been seated.
As he passed Sard he looked curiously into the man's frightened eyes. There was not the slightest doubt that Sard was a coward.
"You shall walk behin' me," remarked Quintana carelessly."If Sanchez fin' us, it is well; if he shall not, that also is ver' well.... We go, now."
Sanchez made no effort to find them. They had been gone half an hour before he had finished the business that had turned him back.
After that he wandered about hunting for water—a rivulet, a puddle, anything. But the wet ground proved wet only on the surface moss. Sanchez needed more than damp moss for his toilet. Casting about him, hither and thither, for some depression that might indicate a stream, he came to a heavily wooded slope, and descended it.
There was a bog at the foot. With his fouled hands he dug out a basin which filled up full of reddish water, discoloured by alders.
But the water was redder still when his toilet ended.
As he stood there, examining his clothing, and washing what he could of the ominous stains from sleeve and shoe, very far away to the north he heard a curious noise—a far, faint sound such as he never before had heard.
If it were a voice of any sort there was nothing human about it.... Probably some sort of unknown bird.... Perhaps a bird of prey.... That was natural, considering the attraction that Georgiades would have for such creatures.... If it were a bird it must be a large one, he thought.... Because there was a certain volume to the cry.... Perhaps it was a beast, after all.... Some unknown beast of the forest....
Sanchez was suddenly afraid. Scarcely knowing what he was doing he began to run along the edge of the bog.
First growth timber skirted it; running was unobstructed by underbrush.
With his startled ears full of the alarming and unknown sound, he ran through the woods under gigantic pines which spread a soft green twilight around him.
He was tired, or thought he was, but the alarming sounds were filling his ears now; the entire forest seemed full of them, echoing in all directions, coming in upon him from everywhere, so that he knew not in which direction to run.
But he could not stop. Demoralised, he darted this way and that; terror winged his feet; the air vibrated above and around him with the dreadful, unearthly sounds.
The next instant he fell headlong over a ledge, struck water, felt himself whirled around in the icy, rushing current, rolled over, tumbled through rapids, blinded, deafened, choked, swept helplessly in a vast green wall of water toward something that thundered in his brain an instant, then dashed it into roaring chaos.
Half a mile down the turbulent outlet of Star Pond,—where a great sheet of green water pours thirty feet into the tossing foam below,—and spinning, dipping, diving, bobbing up like a lost log after the drive, the body of Señor Sanchez danced all alone in the wilderness, spilling from soggy pockets diamonds, sapphires, rubies, emeralds, into crystal caves where only the shadows of slim trout stirred.
Very far away to the eastward Quintana stood listening, clutching Sard by one sleeve to silence him.
Presently he said: "My frien', somebody is hunting with houn's in this fores'.
"Maybe they are not huntingus....Maybe.... But, for me, I shall seek running water. Go you your own way! Houp! Vamose!"
He turned westward; but he had taken scarcely a dozen strides when Sard came panting after him:
"Don't leave me!" gasped the terrified diamond broker. "I don't know where to go——"
Quintana faced him abruptly—with a terrifying smile and glimmer of white teeth—and shoved a pistol into the fold of fat beneath Sard's double chin.
"You hear those dogs? Yes? Ver' well; I also. Run, now. I say to you run ver' damn quick. Hé! Houp! Allez vous en! Beat eet!"
He struck Sard a stinging blow on his fleshy ear with the pistol barrel, and Sard gave a muffled shriek which was more like the squeak of a frightened animal.
"My God, Quintana——"he sobbed. Then Quintana's eyes blazed murder: and Sard turned and ran lumbering through the thicket like a stampeded ox, crashing on amid withered brake, white birch scrub and brier, not knowing whither he was headed, crazed with terror.
Quintana watched his flight for a moment, then, pistol swinging, he ran in the opposite direction, eastward, speeding lithely as a cat down a long, wooded slope which promised running water at the foot.
Sard could not run very far. He could scarcely stand when he pulled up and clung to the trunk of a tree.
More dead than alive he embraced the tree, gulping horribly for air, every fat-incrusted organ labouring, his senses swimming.
As he sagged there, gripping his support on shaking knees, by degrees his senses began to return.
He could hear the dogs, now, vaguely as in a nightmare. But after a little while he began to believe that their hysterical yelping was really growing more distant.
Then this man whose every breath was an outrage on God, prayed.
He prayed that the hounds would follow Quintana, come up with him, drag him down, worry him, tear him to shreds of flesh and clothing.
He listened and prayed alternately. After a while he no longer prayed but concentrated on his ears.
Surely, surely, the diabolical sound was growing less distinct.... It was changing direction too. But whether in Quintana's direction or not Sard could not tell. He was no woodsman. He was completely turned around.
He looked upward through a dense yellow foliage, but all was grey in the sky—very grey and still;—and there seemed to be no traces of the sun that had been shining.
He looked fearfully around: trees, trees, and more trees. No break, no glimmer, nothing to guide him, teach him. He could see, perhaps, fifty feet; no further.
In panic he started to move on. That is what fright invariably does to those ignorant of the forest. Terror starts them moving.
Sobbing, frightened almost witless, he had been floundering forward for over an hour, and had made circle after circle without knowing, when, by chance, he set foot in a perfectly plain trail.
Emotion overpowered him. He was too overcome tostir for a while. At length, however, he tottered off down the trail, oblivious as to what direction he was taking, animated only by a sort of madness—horror of trees—an insane necessity to see open ground, get into it, and lie down on it.
And now, directly ahead, he saw clear grey sky low through the trees. The wood's edge!
He began to run.
As he emerged from the edge of the woods, waist-deep in brush and weeds, wide before his blood-shot eyes spread Star Pond.
Even in his half-stupefied brain there was memory enough left for recognition.
He remembered the lake. His gaze travelled to the westward; and he saw Clinch's Dump standing below, stark, silent, the doors swinging open in the wind.
When terror had subsided in a measure and some of his trembling strength returned, he got up out of the clump of rag-weeds where he had lain down, and earnestly nosed the unpainted house, listening with all his ears.
There was not a sound save the soughing of autumn winds and the delicate rattle of falling leaves in the woods behind him.
He needed food and rest. He gazed earnestly at the house. Nothing stirred there save the open doors swinging idly in every vagrant wind.
He ventured down a little way—near enough to see the black cinders of the burned barn, and close enough to hear the lake waters slapping the sandy shore.
If he dared——
And after a long while he ventured to waddle nearer,slinking through brush and frosted weed, creeping behind boulders, edging always closer and closer to that silent house where nothing moved except the wind-blown door.
And now, at last, he set a furtive foot upon the threshold, stood listening, tip-toed in, peered here and there, sidled to the dining-room, peered in.
When, at length, Emanuel Sard discovered that Clinch's Dump was tenantless, he made straight for the pantry. Here was cheese, crackers, an apple pie, half a dozen bottles of home-brewed beer.
He loaded his arms with all they could carry, stole through the dance-hall out to the veranda, which overlooked the lake.
Here, hidden in the doorway, he could watch the road from Ghost Lake and survey the hillside down which an intruder must come from the forest.
And here Sard slaked his raging thirst and satiated the gnawing appetite of the obese, than which there is no crueller torment to an inert liver and distended paunch.
Munching, guzzling, watching, Sard squatted just within the veranda doorway, anxiously considering his chances.
He knew where he was. At the foot of the lake, and eastward, he had been robbed by a highwayman on the forest road branching from the main highway. Southwest lay Ghost Lake and the Inn.
Somewhere between these two points he must try to cross the State Road.... After that, comparative safety. For the miles that still would lie between him and distant civilisation seemed as nothing to the horror of that hell of trees.
He looked up now at the shaggy fringing woods, shuddered, opened another bottle of beer.
In all that panorama of forest, swale, and water the only thing that had alarmed him at all by moving was something in the water. When first he noticed it he almost swooned, for he took it to be a swimming dog.
In his agitation he had risen to his feet; and then the swimming creature almost frightened Sard out of his senses, for it tilted suddenly and went down with a report like the crack of a pistol.
However, when Sard regained control of his wits he realised that a swimming dog doesn't dive and doesn't whack the water with its tail.
He dimly remembered hearing that beavers behaved that way.
Watching the water he saw the thing out there in the lake again,swimmingin erratic circles, its big, dog-like head well out of the water.
It certainly was no dog. A beaver, maybe. Whatever it was, Sard didn't care any longer.
Idly he watched it. Sometimes, when it swam very near, he made a sudden motion with his fat arm; and crack!—with a pistol-shot report down it dived. But always it reappeared.
What had a creature like that to do with him? Sard watched it with failing interest, thinking of other things—of Quintana and the chances that the dogs had caught him,—of Sanchez, the Ghoul, hoping that dire misfortune might overtake him, too;—of the dead man sprawling under the cedar-tree, all sopping crimson——Faugh!
Shivering, Sard filled his mouth with apple-pie and cheeseand pulled the cork from another bottle of home-brewed beer.
About that time, a mile and a half to the southward, James Darragh came out on the rocky and rushing outlet to Star Pond.
Over his shoulder was a rifle, and all around him ran dogs,—big, powerful dogs, built like foxhounds but with the rough, wiry coats of Airedales, even rougher of ear and features.
The dogs,—half a dozen or so in number,—seemed very tired. All ran down eagerly to the water and drank and slobbered and panted, lolling their tongues, and slaking their thirst again and again along the swirling edge of a deep trout pool.
Darragh's rifle lay in the hollow of his left arm; his khaki waistcoat was set with loops full of cartridges. From his left wrist hung a raw-hide whip.
Now he laid aside his rifle and whip, took from the pocket of his shooting coat three or four leather dog-leashes, went down among the dogs and coupled them up.
They followed him back to the bank above. Here he sat down on a rock and inspected his watch.
He had been seated there for ten minutes, possibly, with his tired dogs lying around him, when just above him he saw a State Trooper emerge from the woods on foot, carrying a rifle over one shoulder.
"Jack!" he called in a guarded voice.
Trooper Stormont turned, caught sight of Darragh, made a signal of recognition, and came toward him.
Darragh said: "Your mate, Trooper Lannis, is down stream. I've two of my own game wardens at the cross-roads, two more on the Ghost Lake Road, and two foresters and an inspector out toward Owl Marsh."
Stormont nodded, looked down at the dogs.
"This isn't the State Forest," said Darragh, smiling. Then his face grew grave: "How is Eve?" he asked.
"She's feeling better," replied Stormont. "I telephoned to Ghost Lake Inn for the hotel physician.... I was afraid of pneumonia, Jim. Eve had chills last night.... But Dr. Claybourn thinks she's all right.... So I left her in care of your housekeeper."
"Mrs. Ray will look out for her.... You haven't told Eve who I am, have you?"
"No."
"I'll tell her myself to-night. I don't know how she'll take it when she learns I'm the heir to the mortal enemy of Mike Clinch."
"I don't know either," said Stormont.
There was a silence; the State Trooper looked down at the dogs:
"What are they, Jim?"
"Otter-hounds," said Darragh, "—a breed of my own.... But that'sallthey are capable of hunting, I guess," he added grimly.
Stormont's gaze questioned him.
Darragh said: "After I telephoned you this morning that a guest of mine at Harrod Place, and I, had been stuck up and robbed by Quintana's outfit, what did you do, Jack?"
"I called up Bill Lannis first," said Stormont, "—thenthe doctor. After he came, Mrs. Ray arrived with a maid. Then I went in and spoke to Eve. Then I did what you suggested—I crossed the forest diagonally toward The Scaur, zig-zagged north, turned by the rock hog-back south of Drowned Valley, came southeast, circled west, and came out here as you asked me to."
"Almost on the minute," nodded Darragh.... "You saw no signs of Quintana's gang?"
"None."
"Well," said Darragh, "I left my two guests at Harrod Place to amuse each other, got out three couple of my otter-hounds and started them,—as I hoped and supposed,—on Quintana's trail."
"What happened?" inquired Stormont curiously.
"Well—I don't know. I think they were following some of Quintana's gang—for a while, anyway. After that, God knows,—deer, hare, cotton-tail,—Idon't know. They yelled their bally heads off—I on the run—they're slow dogs, you know—and whatever they were after either fooled them or there were too many trails.... I made a mistake, that's all. These poor beasts don't know anything except an otter. I justhopedthey might take Quintana's trail if I put them on it."
"Well," said Stormont, "it can't be helped now.... I told Bill Lannis that we'd rendezvous at Clinch's Dump."
"All right," nodded Darragh. "Let's keep to the open; my dogs are leashed couples."
They had been walking for twenty minutes, possibly, exchanging scarcely a word, and they were now nearing the hilly basin where Star Pond lay, when Darragh said abruptly:
"I'm going to tell you about things, Jack. You've taken my word so far that it's all right——"
"Naturally," said Stormont simply.
The two men, who had been brother officers in the Great War, glanced at each other, slightly smiling.
"Here it is then," said Darragh. "When I was on duty in Riga for the Intelligence Department, I met two ladies in dire distress, whose mansion had been burned and looted, supposedly by the Bolsheviki.
"They were actually hungry and penniless; the only clothing they possessed they were wearing. These ladies were the Countess Orloff-Strelwitz, and a young girl, Theodorica, Grand Duchess of Esthonia.... I did what I could for them. After a while, in the course of other duty, I found out that the Bolsheviki had had nothing to do with the arson and robbery, but that the crime had been perpetrated by José Quintana's gang of international crooks masquerading as Bolsheviki."
Stormont nodded: "I also came across similar cases," he remarked.
"Well, this was a flagrant example. Quintana had burnt the château and had made off with over two million dollars worth of the little Grand Duchess's jewels—among them the famous Erosite gem known as The Flaming Jewel."
"I've heard of it."
"There are only two others known.... Well, I did what I could with the Esthonian police, who didn't believe me.
"But a short time ago the Countess Orloff sent me word that Quintana really was the guilty one, and that he had started for America.
"I've been after him ever since.... But, Jack, until this morning Quintana did not possess these stolen jewels.Clinch did!"
"What!"
"Clinch served over-seas in a Forestry Regiment. In Paris he robbed Quintana of these jewels. That's why I've been hanging around Clinch."
Stormont's face was flushed and incredulous. Then it lost colour as he thought of the jewels that Eve had concealed—the gems for which she had risked her life.
He said: "But you tell me Quintana robbed you this morning."
"He did. The little Grand Duchess and the Countess Orloff-Strelwitz are my guests at Harrod Place.
"Last night I snatched the case containing these gems from Quintana's fingers. This morning, as I offered them to the Grand Duchess, Quintana coolly stepped between us——"
His voice became bitter and his features reddened with rage poorly controlled:
"By God, Jack, I should have shot Quintana when the opportunity offered. Twice I've had the chance. The next time I shall kill him any way I can.... Legitimately."
"Of course," said Stormont gravely. But his mind was full of the jewels which Eve had. What and whose were they,—if Quintana again had the Esthonian gems in his possession?
"Had you recovered all the jewels for the Grand Duchess?" he asked Darragh.
"Every one, Jack.... Quintana has done me a terribleinjury. I shan't let it go. I mean to hunt that man to the end."
Stormont, terribly perplexed, nodded.
A few minutes later, as they came out among the willows and alders on the northeast side of Star Pond, Stormont touched his comrade's arm.
"Look at that enormous dog-otter out there in the lake!"
"Grab those dogs! They'll strangle each other," cried Darragh quickly. "That's it—unleash them, Jack, and let them go!"—he was struggling with the other two couples while speaking.
And now the hounds, unleashed, lifted frantic voices. The very sky seemed full of the discordant tumult; wood and shore reverberated with the volume of convulsive and dissonant baying.
"Damn it," said Darragh, disgusted, "—that's what they've been trailing all the while across-woods,—that devilish dog-otter yonder.... And I had hoped they were on Quintana's trail——"
A mass rush and scurry of crazed dogs nearly swept him off his feet, and both men caught a glimpse of a large bitch-otter taking to the lake from a ledge of rock just beyond.
Now the sky vibrated with the deafening outcry of the dogs, some taking to water, others racing madly along shore.
Crack! The echo of the dog-otter's blow on the water came across to them as the beast dived.
"Well, I'm in for it now," muttered Darragh, starting along the bank toward Clinch's Dump, to keep an eye on his dogs.
Stormont followed more leisurely.
A few minutes before Darragh and Stormont had come out on the farther edge of Star Pond, Sard, who had heard from Quintana about the big drain pipe which led from Clinch's pantry into the lake, decided to go in and take a look at it.
He had been told all about its uses,—how Clinch,—in the event of a raid by State Troopers or Government enforcement agents,—could empty his contraband hootch into the lake if necessary,—and even could slide a barrel of ale or a keg of rum, intact, into the great tile tunnel and recover the liquor at his leisure.
Also, and grimly, Quintana had admitted that through this drain Eve Strayer and the State Trooper, Stormont, had escaped from Clinch's Dump.
So now Sard, full of curiosity, went back into the pantry to look at it for himself.
Almost instantly the idea occurred to him to make use of the drain for his own safety and comfort.
Why shouldn't he sleep in the pantry, lock the door, and, in case of intrusion,—other exits being unavailable,—why shouldn't he feel entirely safe with such an avenue of escape open?
For swimming was Sard's single accomplishment. He wasn't afraid of the water; he simply couldn't sink. Swimming was the only sport he ever had indulged in. He adored it.
Also, the mere idea of sleeping alone amid that hell of trees terrified Sard. Never had he known such horror as when Quintana abandoned him in the woods. Never againcould he gaze upon a tree without malignant hatred. Never again did he desire to lay eyes upon even a bush. The very sight, now, of the dusky forest filled him with loathing. Why should he not risk one night in this deserted house,—sleep well and warmly, feed well, drink his bellyfull of Clinch's beer, before attempting the dead-line southward, where he was only too sure that patrols were riding and hiding on the lookout for the fancy gentlemen of José Quintana's selected company of malefactors?
Well, here in the snug pantry were pies, crullers, bread, cheeses, various dried meats, tinned vegetables, ham, bacon, fuel and range to prepare what he desired.
Here was beer, too; and doubtless ardent spirits if he could nose out the hidden demijohns and bottles.
He peered out of the pantry window at the forest, shuddered, cursed it and every separate tree in it; cursed Quintana, too, wishing him black mischance. No; it was settled. He'd take his chance here in the pantry.... And there must be a mattress somewhere upstairs.
He climbed the staircase, cautiously, discovered Clinch's bedroom, took the mattress and blankets from the bed, dragged them to the pantry.
Could any honest man be more tight and snug in this perilous world of the desperate and undeserving? Sard thought not. But one matter troubled him: the lock of the pantry door had been shattered. To remedy this he moused around until he discovered some long nails and a claw-hammer. When he was ready to go to sleep he'd nail himself in. And in the morning he'd pry the door loose. That was simple. Sard chuckled for the first time since he had set eyes upon the accursed region.
And now the sun came out from behind a low bank of solid grey cloud, and fell upon the countenance of Emanuel Sard. It warmed his parrot-nose agreeably; it cheered and enlivened him.
Not for him a night of terrors in that horrible forest which he could see through the pantry window.
A sense of security and of well-being pervaded Sard to his muddy shoes. He even curled his fat toes in them with animal contentment.
A little snack before cooking a heavily satisfactory dinner? Certainly.
So he tucked a couple of bottles of beer under one arm, a loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese under the other, and waddled out to the veranda door.
And at that instant the very heavens echoed with that awful tumult which had first paralysed, then crazed him in the woods.
Bottles, bread, cheese fell from his grasp and his knees nearly collapsed under him. In the bushes on the lake shore he saw animals leaping and racing, but, in his terror, he did not recognise them for dogs.
Then, suddenly, he saw a man, close to the house, running: and another man not far behind.Thathe understood, and it electrified him into action.
It was too late to escape from the house now. He understood that instantly.
He ran back through the dance-hall and dining-room to the pantry; but he dared not let these intruders hear the noise of hammering.
In an agony of indecision he stood trembling, listeningto the infernal racket of the dogs, and waiting for the first footstep within the house.
No step came. But, chancing to look over his shoulder, he saw a man peering through the pantry window at him.
Ungovernable terror seized Sard. Scarcely aware what he was about, he seized the edges of the big drain-pipe and crowded his obese body into it head first. He was so fat and heavy that he filled the tile. To start himself down he pulled with both hands and kicked himself forward, tortoise-like, down the slanting tunnel, sticking now and then, dragging himself on and downward.
Now he began to gain momentum; he felt himself sliding, not fast but steadily.
There came a hitch somewhere; his heavy body stuck on the steep incline.
Then, as he lifted his bewildered head and strove to peer into the blackness in front, he saw four balls of green fire close to him in darkness.
He began to slide at the same instant, and flung out both hands to check himself. But his palms slid in the slime and his body slid after.
He shrieked once as his face struck a furry obstruction where four balls of green fire flamed horribly and a fury of murderous teeth tore his face and throat to bloody tatters as he slid lower, lower, settling through crimson-dyed waters into the icy depths of Star Pond.
Stormont, down by the lake, called to Darragh, who appeared on the veranda:
"Oh, Jim! Both otters crawled into the drain! I thinkyour dogs must have killed one of them under water. There's a big patch of blood spreading off shore."
"Yes," said Darragh, "something has just been killed, somewhere ... Jack!"
"Yes?"
"Pull both your guns and come up here, quick!"
WHEN Quintana turned like an enraged snake on Sard and drove him to his destruction, he would have killed and robbed the frightened diamond broker had he dared risk the shot. He had intended to do this anyway, sooner or later. But with the noise of the hunting dogs filling the forest, Quintana was afraid to fire. Yet, even then he followed Sard stealthily for a few minutes, afraid yet murderously desirous of the gems, confused by the tumult of the hounds, timid and ferocious at the same time, and loath to leave his fat, perspiring, and demoralised victim.
But the racket of the dogs proved too much for Quintana. He sheered away toward the South, leaving Sard floundering on ahead, unconscious of the treachery that had followed furtively in his panic-stricken tracks.
About an hour later Quintana was seen, challenged, chased and shot at by State Trooper Lannis.
Quintana ran. And what with the dense growth of seedling beech and oak and the heavily falling birch and poplar leaves, Lannis first lost Quintana and then his trail.
The State Trooper had left his horse at the cross-roads near the scene of Darragh's masked exploit, where he had stopped and robbed Sard—and now Lannis hastened backto find and mount his horse, and gallop straight into the first growth timber.
Through dim aisles of giant pine he spurred to a dead run on the chance of cutting Quintana from the eastward edge of the forest and forcing him back toward the north or west, where patrols were more than likely to hold him.
The State Trooper rode with all the reckless indifference and grace of the Western cavalryman, and he seemed to be part of the superb animal he rode—part of its bone and muscle, its litheness, its supple power—part of its vertebræ and ribs and limbs, so perfect was their bodily co-ordination.
Rifle and eyes intently alert, the rider scarce noticed his rushing mount; and if he guided with wrist and knee it was instinctive and as though the horse were guiding them both.
And now, far ahead through this primeval stand of pine, sunshine glimmered, warning of a clearing. And here Trooper Lannis pulled in his horse at the edge of what seemed to be a broad, flat meadow, vividly green.
But it was the intense, arsenical green of hair-fine grass that covers with its false velvet those quaking bogs where only a thin, crust-like skin of root-fibre and vegetation cover infinite depths of silt.
The silt had no more substance than a drop of ink colouring the water in a tumbler.
Sitting his fast-breathing mount, Lannis searched this wide, flat expanse of brilliant green. Nothing moved on it save a great heron picking its deliberate way on stilt-like legs. It was well for Quintana that he had not attempted it.
Very cautiously Lannis walked his horse along the hardground which edged this marsh on the west. Nowhere was there any sign that Quintana had come down to the edge among the shrubs and swale grasses.
Beyond the marsh another trooper patrolled; and when at length he and Lannis perceived each other and exchanged signals, the latter wheeled his horse and retraced his route at an easy canter, satisfied that Quintana had not yet broken cover.
Back through the first growth he cantered, his rifle at a ready, carefully scanning the more open woodlands, and so came again to the cross-roads.
And here stood a State Game Inspector, with a report that some sort of beagle-pack was hunting in the forest to the northwest; and very curious to investigate.
So it was arranged that the Inspector should turn road-patrol and the Trooper become the rover.
There was no sound of dogs when Lannis rode in on the narrow, spotted trail whence he had flushed Quintana into the dense growth of saplings that bordered it.
His horse made little noise on the moist layer of leaves and forest mould; he listened hard for the sound of hounds as he rode; heard nothing save the chirr of red squirrels, the shriek of a watching jay, or the startling noise of falling acorns rapping and knocking on great limbs in their descent to the forest floor.
Once, very, very far away westward in the direction of Star Pond he fancied he heard a faint vibration in the air that might have been hounds baying.
He was right. And at that very moment Sard was dying, horribly, among two trapped otters as big and fierce as the dogs that had driven them into the drain.
But Lannis knew nothing of that as he moved on, mounted, along the spotted trail, now all a yellow glory of birch and poplar which made the woodland brilliant as though lighted by yellow lanterns.
Somewhere among the birches, between him and Star Pond, was Harrod Place. And the idea occurred to him that Quintana might have ventured to ask food and shelter there. Yet, that was not likely because Trooper Stormont had called him that morning on the telephone from the Hatchery Lodge.
No; the only logical retreat for Quintana was northward to the mountains, where patrols were plenty and fire-wardens on duty in every watch-tower. Or, the fugitive could make for Drowned Valley by a blind trail which, Stormont informed him, existed but which Lannis never had heard of.
However, to reassure himself, Lannis rode as far as Harrod Place, and found game wardens on duty along the line.
Then he turned west and trotted his mount down to the hatchery, where he saw Ralph Wier, the Superintendent, standing outside the lodge talking to his assistant, George Fry.
When Lannis rode up on the opposite side of the brook, he called across to Wier:
"You haven't seen anything of any crooked outfit around here, have you, Ralph? I'm looking for that kind."
"See here," said the Superintendent, "I don't know but George Fry may have seen one of your guys. Come over and he'll tell you what happened an hour ago."
Trooper Lannis pivotted his horse and put him to the brook with scarcely any take-off; and the splendid animalcleared the water like a deer and came cantering up to the door of the lodge.
Fry's boyish face seemed agitated; he looked up at the State Trooper with the flush of tears in his gaze and pointed at the rifle Lannis carried:
"If I'd hadthat," he said excitedly, "I'd have brought in a crook, you bet!"
"Where did you see him?" inquired Lannis.
"Jest west of the Scaur, about an hour and a half ago. Wier and me was stockin' the head of Scaur Brook with fingerlings. There's more good water—two miles of it—to the east, and all it needed was a fish-ladder around Scaur Falls.
"So I toted in cement and sand and grub last week, and I built me a shanty on the Scaur, and I been laying up a fish-way around the falls. So that's how I come there——"He clicked his teeth and darted a furious glance at the woods. "By God," he said, "I was such a fool I didn't take no rifle. All I had was an axe and a few traps.... I wasn't going to let the mink get our trout whatever you fellows say," he added defiantly, "—and law or no law——"
"Get along with your story, young man," interrupted Lannis; "—you can spill the rest out to the Commissioner."
"All right, then. This is the way it happened down to the Scaur. I was eating lunch by the fish-stairs, looking up at 'em and kind of planning how to save cement, and not thinking about anybody being near me, whensomethingmade me turn my head.... You know how it is in the woods.... I kindafeltsomebody near. And, by cracky!—there stood a man with a big, black automatic pistol, and he had a bead on my belly.
"'Well,' said I, 'what's troublingyouand your gun, my friend?'—I was that astonished.
"He was a slim-built, powerful guy with a foreign face and voice and way. He wanted to know if he had the honour—as he put it—to introduce himself to a detective or game constable, or a friend of Mike Clinch.
"I told him I wasn't any of these, and that I worked in a private hatchery; and he called me a liar."
Young Fry's face flushed and his voice began to quiver:
"That's the way he misused me: and he backed me into the shanty and I had to sit down with both hands up. Then he filled my pack-basket with grub, and took my axe, and strapped my kit onto his back.... And talking all the time in his mean, sneery, foreign way—and I guess he thought he was funny, for he laughed at his own jokes.
"He told me his name was Quintana, and that he ought to shoot me for a rat, but wouldn't because of the stink. Then he said he was going to do a quick job that the police were too cowardly to do;—that he was a-going to find Mike Clinch down to Drowned Valley and kill him; and if he could catch Mike's daughter, too, he'd spoil her face for life——"
The boy was breathing so hard and his rage made him so incoherent that Lannis took him by the shoulder and shook him:
"What next?" demanded the Trooper impatiently. "Tell your story and quit thinking how you were misused!"
"He told me to stay in the shanty for an hour or he'd do for me good," cried Fry.... "Once I got up and went to the door; and there he stood by the brook, wolfing my lunch with both hands. I tell you he cursed and drove me,like a dog, inside with his big pistol—my God—like a dog....
"Then, the next time I took a chance he was gone.... And I beat it here to get me a rifle——"The boy broke down and sobbed: "He drove me around—like a dog—he did——"
"You leave that to me," interrupted Lannis sharply. And, to Wier: "You and George had better get a gun apiece. That fellowmightcome back here or go to Harrod Place if we starve him out."
Wier said to Fry: "Go up to Harrod Place and tell Jansen your story and bring back two 45-70's.... And quit snivelling.... You may get a shot at him yet."
Lannis had already ridden down to the brook. Now he jumped his horse across, pulled up, called back to Wier:
"I think our man is making for Drowned Valley, all right. My mate, Stormont, telephoned me that some of his gang are there, and that Mike Clinch and his gang have them stopped on the other side! Keep your eye on Harrod Place!"
And away he cantered into the North.
Behind the curtains of her open window Eve Strayer, lying on her bed, had heard every word.
Crouched there beside her pillow she peered out and saw Trooper Lannis ride away; saw the Fry boy start toward Harrod Place on a run; saw Ralph Wier watch them out of sight and then turn and re-enter the lodge.
Wrapped in Darragh's big blanket robe she got off the bed and opened her chamber door as Wier was passing through the living-room.
"Please—I'd like to speak to you a moment," she called.
Wier turned instantly and came to the partly open door.
"I want to know," she said, "where I am."
"Ma'am?"
"What is this place?"
"It's a hatchery——"
"Whose?"
"Ma'am?"
"Whose lodge is this? Does it belong to Harrod Place?"
"We're h-hootch runners, Miss——"stammered Wier, mindful of instructions, but making a poor business of deception; "—I and Hal Smith, we run a 'Easy One,' and we strip trout for a blind and sell to Harrod Place—Hal and I——"
"Whois Hal Smith?" she asked.
"Ma'am?"
The girl's flower-blue eyes turned icy: "Who is the man who calls himself Hal Smith?" she repeated.
Wier looked at her, red and dumb.
"Is he a Trooper in plain clothes?" she demanded in a bitter voice. "Is he one of the Commissioner's spies? Areyouone, too?"
Wier gazed miserably at her, unable to formulate a convincing lie.
She flushed swiftly as a terrible suspicion seized her:
"Is this Harrod property? Is Hal Smith old Harrod's heir?Ishe?"
"My God, Miss——"
"Heis!"
"Listen, Miss——"
She flung open the door and came out into the living-room.
"Hal Smith is that nephew of old Harrod," she said calmly. "His name is Darragh. And you are one of his wardens.... And I can't stay here. Do you understand?"
Wier wiped his hot face and waited. The cat was out; there was a hole in the bag; and he knew there was no use in such lies as he could tell.
He said: "All I know, Miss, is that I was to look after you and get you whatever you want——"
"I want my clothes!"
"Ma'am?"
"Myclothes!" she repeated impatiently. "I'vegotto have them!"
"Where are they, ma'am?" asked the bewildered man.
At the same moment the girl's eyes fell on a pile of men's sporting clothing—garments sent down from Harrod Place to the Lodge—lying on a leather lounge near a gun-rack.
Without a glance at Wier, Eve went to the heap of clothing, tossed it about, selected cords, two pairs of woollen socks, grey shirt, puttees, shoes, flung the garments through the door into her own room, followed them, and locked herself in.
When she was dressed—the two heavy pairs of socks helping to fit her feet to the shoes—she emptied her handful of diamonds, sapphires and emeralds, including the Flaming Jewel, into the pockets of her breeches.
Now she was ready. She unlocked her door and went out, scarcely limping at all, now.
Wier gazed at her helplessly as she coolly chose a rifle and cartridge-belt at the gun-rack.
Then she turned on him as still and dangerous as a young puma:
"Tell Darragh he'd better keep clear of Clinch's," she said. "Tell him I always thought he was a rat. Now I know he's one."
She plunged one slim hand into her pocket and drew out a diamond.
"Here," she said insolently. "This will pay yourgentlemanfor his gun and clothing."
She tossed the gem onto a table, where it rolled, glittering.
"For heaven's sake, Miss——"burst out Wier, horrified, but she cut him short:
"—He may keep the change," she said. "We're no swindlers at Clinch's Dump!"
Wier started forward as though to intercept her. Eve's eyes flamed. And he stood still. She wrenched open the door and walked out among the silver birches.
At the edge of the brook she stood a moment, coolly loading the magazine of her rifle. Then, with one swift glance of hatred, flung at the place that Harrod's money had built, she sprang across the brook, tossed her rifle to her shoulder, and passed lithely into the golden wilderness of poplar and silver birch.
Quintana, on a fox-trot along the rock-trail into Drowned Valley, now thoroughly understood that it was the onlysanctuary 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 manœuvre. If only he could haveseenthese 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 là!" 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 expressionin 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. Thensomethingabout 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?"
Picquet shrugged: "Since noon, mon capitaine."
"Comment?"
"How shall I know? It was the fire, perhaps,—green wood or wet—it is no matter now.... I said to him, 'Pay attention, Henri; your wood makes too much smoke.' To me he reply I shall go to hell.... Well, there was too much smoke for me. I arise to search for wood more dry, when, crack!—they begin to shoot out there——"He waved a dirty hand toward the forest.
"'Bon,' said I, 'Clinch, he have seen your damn smoke!'
"'What shall I care?' he make reply, Henri Beck, to me.'Clinch he shall shoot and be damn to him. I cook me my déjeûner all the same.'
"I make representations to that Johnbull; he say to me that I am a frog, and other injuries, while he lay yet more wood on his sacré fire.
"Then crack! crack! crack! and zing-gg!—whee-ee! come the big bullets of Clinch and his voyous yonder.
"'Bon,' I say, 'me, I make my excuse to retire.'
"Then Henri Beck he laugh and say, 'Hop it, frog!' And that is all he has find time to say, when crack! spat! Bien droit he has it—tenez, mon capitaine—here, over the left eye!... Like a beef surprise he go over, crash! thump! And like a beef that dies, the air bellows out from his big lungs——"
Picquet looked down at the dead comrade in a sort of weary compassion for such stupidity.
"—So he pass, this ros-biff goddam Johnbull.... Me, I roll him in there.... Je ne sais pas pourquoi.... Then I put out the fire and leave."
Quintana let his sneering glance rest on the dead a moment, and his thin lip curled immemorial contempt for the Anglo-Saxon.
Then he divested himself of the basket-pack which he had stolen from the Fry boy.
"Alors," he said calmly, "it has been Mike Clinch who shoot my frien' Beck. Bien."
He threw a cartridge into the breech of his rifle, adjusted his ammunition belten bandoulière, carelessly.
Then, in a quiet voice: "My frien' Picquet, the time has now arrive when it become ver' necessary that we go fromhere away. Donc—I shall now go kill me my frien' Mike Clinch."
Picquet, unastonished, gave him a heavy, bovine look of inquiry.
Quintana said softly: "Me, I have enough already of this damn woods. Why shall we starve here when there lies our path?" He pointed north; his arm remained outstretched for a while.
"Clinch, he is there," growled Picquet.
"Also our path, l'ami Henri.... And, behind us, they hunt us now withdogs."
Picquet bared his big white teeth in fierce surprise. "Dogs?" he repeated with a sort of snarl.
"That is how they now hunt us, my frien'—like they hunt the hare in the Côte d'Or.... Me, I shall now reconnoitre—thatway!" And he looked where he was pointing, into the north—with smouldering eyes. Then he turned calmly to Picquet: "An' you, l'ami?"
"At orders, mon capitaine."
"C'est bien. Venez."
They walked leisurely forward with rifles shouldered, following the hard ridge out across a vast and flooded land where the bark of trees glimmered with wet mosses.
After a quarter of a mile the ridge broadened and split into two, one hog-back branching northeast! They, however, continued north.
About twenty minutes later Picquet, creeping along on Quintana's left, and some sixty yards distant, discovered something moving in the woods beyond, and fired at it. Instantly two unseen rifles spoke from the woods ahead. Picquet was jerked clear around, lost his balance and nearlyfell. Blood was spurting from his right arm, between elbow and shoulder.
He tried to lift and level his rifle; his arm collapsed and dangled broken and powerless; his rifle clattered to the forest floor.
For a moment he stood there in plain view, dumb, deathly white; then he began screaming with fury while the big, soft-nosed bullets came streaming in all around him. His broken arm was hit again. His screaming ceased; he dragged out his big clasp-knife with his left hand and started running toward the shooting.
As he ran, his mangled arm flopping like a broken wing, Byron Hastings stepped out from behind a tree and coolly shot him down at close quarters.
Then Quintana's rifle exploded twice very quickly, and the Hastings boy stumbled sideways and fell sprawling. He managed to rise to his knees again; he even was trying to stand up when Quintana, taking his time, deliberately began to empty his magazine into the boy, riddling him limb and body and head.
Down once more, he still moved his arms. Sid Hone reached out from behind a fallen log to grasp the dying lad's ankle and draw him into shelter, but Quintana reloaded swiftly and smashed Hone's left hand with the first shot.
Then Jim Hastings, kneeling behind a bunch of juniper, fired a high-velocity bullet into the tree behind which Quintana stood; but before he could fire again Quintana's shot in reply came ripping through the juniper and tore a ghastly hole in the calf of his left leg, striking a blow that knocked young Hastings flat and paralysed as a dead flounder.
A mile to the north, blocking the other exit fromDrowned Valley, Mike Clinch, Harvey Chase, Cornelius Blommers, and Dick Berry stood listening to the shooting.
"B'gosh," blurted out Chase, "it sounds like they was goin' through, Mike. B'gosh, it does!"
Clinch's little pale eyes blazed, but he said in his soft, agreeable voice:
"Stay right here, boys. Like as not some of 'em will come this way."
The shooting below ceased. Clinch's nostrils expanded and flattened with every breath, as he stood glaring into the woods.
"Harve," he said presently, "you an' Corny go down there an' kinda look around. And you signal if I'm wanted. G'wan, both o' you. Git!"
They started, running heavily, but their feet made little noise on the moss.
Berry came over and stood near Clinch. For ten minutes neither man moved. Clinch stared at the woods in front of him. The younger man's nervous glance flickered like a snake's tongue in every direction, and he kept moistening his lips with his tongue.
Presently two shots came from the south. A pause; a rattle of shots from hastily emptied magazines.
"G'wan down there, Dick!" said Clinch.
"You'll be alone, Mike——"
"Au' right. You do like I say; git along quick!"
Berry walked southward a little way. He had turned very white under his tan.
"Gol ding ye!" shouted Clinch, "take it on a lope or I'll kick the pants off'n ye!"
Berry began to run, carrying his rifle at a trail.
For half an hour there was not a sound in the forests of Drowned Valley except in the dead timber where unseen woodpeckers hammered fitfully at the ghosts of ancient trees.
Always Clinch's little pale eyes searched the forest twilight in front of him; not a falling leaf escaped him; not a chipmunk.
And all the while Clinch talked to himself; his lips moved a little now and then, but uttered no sound:
"All I want God should do," he repeated again and again, "is to just let Quintana comemyway. 'Tain't for because he robbed my girlie. 'Tain't for the stuff he carries onto him.... No, God, 'tain't them things. But it's what that there skunk done to my Evie.... O God, be you listenin'? Hehurther, Quintana did. That's it. He misused her.... God, if you had seen my girlie's little bleeding feet!——That'sthe reason.... 'Tain't the stuff. I can work. I can save for to make my Evie a lady same's them high-steppers on Fifth Avenoo. I can moil and toil and slave an' run hootch—hootch——They wuz wine 'n' fixin's into the Bible. It ain't you, God, it's them fanatics.... Nobody in my Dump wanted I should sell 'em more'n a bottle o' beer before this here prohybishun set us all crazy. 'Tain't right.... O God, don't hold a little hootch agin me when all I want of you is to let Quintana——"
The slightest noise behind him. He waited, turned slowly. Eve stood there.
Hell died in his pale eyes as she came to him, rested silently in his gentle embrace, returned his kiss, laid her flushed, sweet cheek against his unshaven face.
"Dad, darling?"
"Yes, my baby——"
"You're watching to kill Quintana. But there's no use watching any longer."
"Have the boys below got him?" he demanded.
"They got one of his gang. Byron Hastings is dead. Jim is badly hurt; Sid Hone, too,—not so badly——"
"Where's Quintana?"
"Dad, he's gone.... But it don't matter. See here!——" She dug her slender hand into herbreeches'pocket and pulled out a little fistful of gems.
Clinch, his powerful arm closing her shoulders, looked dully at the jewels.
"You see, dad, there's no use killing Quintana. These are the things he robbed you of."
"'Tain't them that matter.... I'm glad you got 'em. I allus wanted you should be a great lady, girlie. Them's the tickets of admission. You put 'em in your pants. I gotta stay here a spell——"
"Dad! Take them!"
He took them, smiled, shoved them into his pocket.
"What is it, girlie?" he asked absently, his pale eyes searching the woods ahead.
"I've just told you," she said, "that the boys went in as far as Quintana's shanty. There was a dead man there, too; but Quintana has gone."
Clinch said,—not removing his eyes from the forest: "If any o' them boys has let Quintana crawl through I'll killhim, too.... G'wan home, girlie. I gotta mosey—I gotta kinda loaf around f'r a spell——"
"Dad, I want you to come back with me——"
"You go home; you hear me, Eve? Tell Corny and Dick Berry to hook it for Owl Marsh and stop the Star Peak trails—both on 'em.... Can Sid and Jimmy walk?"
"Jim can't——"
"Well, let Harve take him on his back. You go too. You help fix Jimmy up at the house. He's a little fella, Jimmy Hastings is. Harve can tote him. And you go along——"
"Dad, Quintana says he means to kill you! What is the use of hurting him? You have what he took——"
"I gotta have more'n he took. But even that ain't enough. He couldn't pay for all he ever done to me, girlie.... I'm aimin' to draw on him on sight——"
Clinch's set visage relaxed into an alarming smile which flickered, faded, died in the wintry ferocity of his eyes.
"Dad——"
"G'wan home!" he interrupted harshly. "You want that Hastings boy to bleed to death?"
She came up to him, not uttering a word, yet asking him with all the tenderness and eloquence of her eyes to leave this blood-trail where it lay and hunt no more.
He kissed her mouth, infinitely tender, smiled; then, again prim and scowling:
"G'wan home, you little scut, an' do what I told ye, or, by God, I'll cut a switch that'll learn ye good! Never a word, now! On yer way! G'wan!"
Twice she turned to look back. The second time, Clinch was slowly walking into the woods straight ahead of him. She waited; saw him go in; waited. After a while she continued on her way.
When she sighted the men below she called to Blommers and Dick Berry:
"Dad says you're to stop Star Peak trail by Owl Marsh."
Jimmy Hastings sat on a log, crying and looking down at his dead brother, over whose head somebody had spread a coat.
Blommers had made a tourniquet for Jimmy out of a bandanna and a peeled stick.
The girl examined it, loosened it for a moment, twisted it again, and bade Harvey Chase take him on his back and start for Clinch's.
The boy began to sob that he didn't want his brother to be left out there all alone; but Chase promised to come back and bring him in before night.
Sid Hone came up, haggard from pain and loss of blood, resting his mangled hand in the sling of his cartridge-belt.
Berry and Blommers were already starting across toward Owl Marsh; and the latter, passing by, asked Eve where Mike was.
"He went into Drowned Valley by the upper outlet," she said.
"He'll never find no one in them logans an' sinks," muttered Chase, squatting to hoist Jimmy Hastings to his broad back.
"I guess he'll be over Star Peak side by sundown," nodded Blommers.