"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, lunging at his face with bared teeth. Suddenly the end came: Salzar's body heaved upward, sprawled for an instant in the dazzling glare, hurtled over Smith's head and fell into the sink with a crashing splash. Frantically he thrashed there, spattering and floundering in darkness. He made no outcry. Probably he had landed head first. In a moment only a vague heaving came from the unseen ooze. Smith, exhausted, drenched with sweat, leaned against a tamarack, sickened. After all sound had ceased he straightened up with an effort. Presently he bent and recovered Salzar's red bandana and his hat, lifted his own rifle and pack and struggled into the harness. Then, kicking Salzar's rifle overboard, he unfastened both torches, pocketed one, and started on in a flood of ghostly light. He was shaking all over and the torch quivered in his hand. He had seen men die in the Great War. He had been near death himself. But never before had he been near death in so horrible a form. The sodden noises in the mud, the deadened flopping of the sinking body -- mud-plastered hands beating frantically on mud, splattering, agonising in darkness -- "My God," he breathed, "anything but that -- anything but that! ----" * * * * * II Before midnight he struck the hard forest. Here there was no trail at all, only spreading outcrop of crock under dying leaves. He could see a few stars. Cautiously he ventured to shine his compass close to the ground. He was still headed right. The ghastly sink country lay behind him. About of him, somewhere in the darkness -- but how far he did not know -- Quintana and his people were moving swiftly at Clinch's Dump. It may have been an hour later -- two hours, perhaps -- when from far ahead in the forest came a sound -- the faint clink of a shod heel on rock. Now, Smith unslung his pack, placed it between two rocks where laurel grew. Salzar's red bandanna was still wet, but he tied it across his face, leaving his eyes exposed. The dead man's hat fitted him. His own hat and the extra torch he dropped into his basket-pack. Ready, now, he moved swiftly forward, trailing his rifle. And very soon it became plain to him that the people ahead were moving without much caution, evidently fearing no unfriendly ear or eye in that section of the wilderness.