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 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 dejeuner 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 sacre 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 he 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 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 head 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 belt _en bandouliere,_ carelessly. Then, in a quiet voice: "My frien' Picquet, the time has now arrive when it become ver' necessary that we go from here away. Done -- I shall no go kill me my frien' Mike Clinch."