"All right, all right," growled Hone, shouldering his rifle with a jerk. The Hastings boys, young and rash, shuffled into the trail. Blommers hesitated, glanced askance at Clinch, and instantly made up his mind to take a chance with the sink-holes rather than with Clinch. "God A'mighty, Mike, what be you aimin;' to do?" faltered Harvey. "I'm aimin' to stop the inlet and outlet to Drowned Valley, Harvey," replied Clinch in his pleasant voice. "God is a-goin' to deliver Quintana into my hands." "All right. What next?" "Then," continued Clinch, "I cal'late to set down and wait." "How long?" "Ask God, boys. I don't know. All I know is that whatever is livin' in Drowned Valley at this hour has gotta live and die there. For it can't never live to come outen that there morass walkin' on two legs like a real man." He moved slowly along the file of sullen men, his rifle a-trail in one huge fist. "Boys," he said, "I got first. There ain't no sink-hole deep enough o drowned me while Eve needs me. ... And my little girlie needs me bad. ... After she gits what's her'n, then I don't care no more. ..." He looked up into the sky, where the last ashes of sunset faded from the zenith. ... "Then I don't care," he murmured. "Like's not I'll creep away like some shot-up critter, n'kinda find some lone, safe spot, n'kinda fix me f'r a long nap. ... I guess that'll be the way ... when Eve's a lady down to Noo York 'r'som'ers----" he added vaguely. Then, still looking up at the fading heavens, he moved forward, head lifted, silent, unhurried, with the soundless, stealthy, and certain tread of those who walk unseeing and asleep. * * * * * II Clinch had not taken a dozen strides before Hal Smith loomed up ahead in the rosy dusk, driving in Leverett before him. An exclamation of fierce exultation burst from Clinch's thin lips as he flung out one arm, indicating Smith and his clinking prisoner: "Who was that gol-dinged catamount that suspicioned Hal? I wa'nt worried none, neither. Has a gent. Mebbe he sticks up folks, too, but he's a gent. And gents is honest or they ain't gents." Smith came up at his easy, tireless gait, hustling Leverett along with prods from gun-butt or muzzle, as came handiest. The prisoner turned a ghastly visage on Clinch, who ignored him. "Got my packet, Hal?" he demanded. Smith poked Leverett with his rifle: "Tune up," he said; "tell Clinch your story." As a caged rat looks death in the face, his ratty wits working like lightning and every atom of cunning and ferocity alert for attack or escape, so the little, mean eyes of Earl Leverett became fixed on Clinch like two immobile and glassy beats of jet. "G'wan," said Clinch softly, "spit it out." "Jake done it," muttered Leverett, thickly. "Done what?" "Stole that there packet o' yourn -- whatever there was into it." "Who put him up to it?" "A fella called Quintana." "What was there in it for Jake?" inquired Clinch pleasantly. "Ten thousand."