"How I know? Eh? Why shall I believe that? You tell-a me queeck or I blow-a your damn head off!" "Quintana will blow-a _your_ head off unless you take me to Sard," drawled Smith. A movement might have meant death, but he calmly rummaged for a cigarette, lighted it, blew a cloud insolently toward the white glare ahead. Then he took another chance: "I guess you're Nick Salzar, aren't you?" "Si! I am Salzar. Who the dev' are you?" "I'm Eddie Abrams, Sard's lawyer. My business is to find my client. If you stop me you'll go to prison--the whole gang of you--Sard, Quintana, Picquet, Sanchez, Georgiades and Harry Beck,--and _you_!" After a dead silence: "Maybe _you'll_ go to the chair, too!" It was the third chance he took. There was a dreadful stillness in the woods. Finally came a slight series of splashes; the crunch of heavy boots on rock. "For why you com-a here, eh?" demanded Salzar, in a less aggressive manner. "What-a da matt', eh?" "Well," said Smith, "if you've got to know, there are people from Esthonia in New York.... If you understand that." "Christi! When do they arrive?" "A week ago. Sard's place is in the hands of the police. I couldn't stop them. They've got his safe and all his papers. City, State, and Federal officers are looking for him. The Constabulary rode into Ghost Lake yesterday. Now, don't you think you'd better lead me to Sard?" "Cristi!" exclaimed Salzar. "Sard he is a mile ahead with the others. Damn! Damn! Me, how should I know what is to be done? Me, I have my orders from Quintana. What I do, eh? Cristi! What to do? What you say I should do, eh, Abrams?" A new fear had succeeded the old one--that was evident--and Salzar came forward into the light of his own fixed torch--a well-knit figure in slouch hat, grey shirt, and grey breeches, and wearing a red bandanna over the lower part of his face. He carried a heavy rifle. He came on, sturdily, splashing through the water, and walked up to Smith, his rifle resting on his right shoulder. "For me," he said excitedly, "long time I have worry in this-a damn wood! Si! Where you say those carbinieri? Eh?" "At Ghost Lake. _Your_ signature is in the hotel ledger." "Cristi! You know where Clinch is?" "You know, too. He is on the way to Drowned Valley." "Damn! I knew it. Quintana also. You know where is Quintana? And Sard? I tell-a you. They march ver' fast to the Dump of Clinch. Si! And there they would discover these-a beeg-a dimon'--these-a Flame-Jewel. Si! _Now_, you tell-a me what I do?" Smith said slowly: "If Quintana is marching on Clinch's he's marching into a trap!" Salzar blanched above his bandanna. "The State Troopers are there," said Smith. "They'll get him sure." "Cristi," faltered Salzar, "--then they are gobble--Quintana, Sard, everybody! Si?" Smith considered the man: "You can save _your_ skin anyway. You can go back and tell Harry Beck. Then both of you can beat it for Drowned Valley."