Part 32 (1/2)
”He! Drap-a that-a gun d.a.m.n quick!”
Smith bent, leisurely, and laid his rifle on a mossy rock.
”Now! You there! Why you want Sard! Eh?”
”I'll tell Sard, not you,” retorted Smith coolly. ”You listen to me, whoever you are. I'm from Sard's office in New York. I'm Abrams. The police are on their way here to find Quintana.”
”How I know? Eh? Why shall I believe that? You tell-a me queeck or I blow-a your d.a.m.n 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.
d.a.m.n! d.a.m.n! 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 s.h.i.+rt, and grey breeches, and wearing a red bandanna over the lower part of his face. He carried a heavy rifle.
He came on, st.u.r.dily, splas.h.i.+ng 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 d.a.m.n 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.”