Quintana's sinister laughter was his retort. Then: "You damfool Clinch," he said, "I got in my pocket what you rob of me. Now I kill you, and then I feel ver' well. I go home, live like some kings; yes. But you," he sneered, "you shall not go home never no more. No. You shall remain in thees damn wood like ver' dead old rat that is all wormy.... He! I got a million dollaire--five million franc in my pocket. You shall learn what it cost to rob Jose Quintana! Unnerstan'?" "You liar," said Clinch contemptuously, "I got them jools in my pants pocket----" Quintana's derisive laugh cut him short: "I give you thee Flaming Jewel if you show me you got my gems in you pants pocket!" "I'll show you. Lay down your rifle so's I see the stock." "First you, my frien' Mike," said Quintana cautiously. Clinch took his rifle by the muzzle and shoved the stock into view so that Quintana could see it without moving. To his surprise, Quintana did the same, then coolly stepped a pace outside the shelter of his hemlock stump. "You show me now!" he called across the swamp. Clinch stepped into view, dug into his pocket, and, cupping both hands, displayed a glittering heap of gems. "I wanted you should know who's gottem," he said, "before you hop. It'll give you something to think over in hell." Quintana's eyes had become slits again. Neither man stirred. Then: "So you are buzzard, eh, Clinch? You feed on dead man's pockets, eh? You find Sard somewhere an' you feed." He held up the morocco case, emblazoned with the arms of the Grand Duchess of Esthonia, and shook it at Clinch. "In there is my share.... Not all. Ver' quick, now, I take yours, too----" Clinch vanished and so did his rifle; and Quintana's first bullet struck the moss where the stock had rested. "You black crow!" jeered Clinch, laughing, "--I need that empty case of yours. And I'm going after it.... But it's because your filthy claw touched my girlie that you gotta hop!" * * * * * Twilight lay over the phantom wood, touching with pallid tints the flooded forest. So far only that one shot had been fired. Both men were still manoeuvring, always creeping in circles and always lining some great tree for shelter. Now, the gathering dusk was making them bolder and swifter; and twice, already, Clinch caught the shadow of a fading edge of something that vanished against the shadows too swiftly for a shot. Now Quintana, keeping a tree in line, brushed with his lithe back a leafless moose-bush that stood swaying as he avoided it. Instantly a stealthy hope seized him: he slipped out of his coat, spread it on the bush, set the naked branches swaying, and darted to his tree. Waiting, he saw that the grey blot his coat made in the dusk was still moving a little--just vibrating a little bit in the twilight. He touched the bush with his rifle barrel, then crouched almost flat.