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 goblin 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.