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.

"I keel you! I keel you! d.a.m.n! d.a.m.n!" 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 at 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 bandanna 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, spattering, agonising in darkness--"My G.o.d," 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 rock under dying leaves.

He could see a few stars. Cautiously he ventured to shine his compa.s.s close to the ground. He was still headed right. The ghastly sink country lay behind him.

Ahead of him, somewhere in darkness--but how far he did not know--Quintana and his people were moving swiftly on 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.

Smith could hear their tread on rock and root and rotten branch, or swishing through frosted fern and brake, or louder on newly fallen leaves.

At times he could even see the round white glare of a torch on the ground--see it shift ahead, lighting up tree trunks, spread out, fanlike, into a wide, misty glory, then vanish as darkness rushed in from the vast ocean of the night.

Once they halted at a brook. Their torches flashed it; he heard them sounding its depths with their gun-b.u.t.ts.

Smith knew that brook. It was the east branch of Star Brook, the inlet to Star Pond.

Far ahead above the trees the sky seemed luminous. It was star l.u.s.tre over the pond, turning the mist to a silvery splendour.

Now the people ahead of him moved with more caution, crossing the brook without splashing, and their boots made less noise in the woods.

To keep in touch with them Smith hastened his pace until he drew near enough to hear the low murmur of their voices.

They were travelling in single file; he had a glimpse of them against the ghostly radiance ahead. Indeed, so near had he approached that he could hear the heavy, laboured breathing of the last man in the file--some laggard who dragged his feet, plodding on doggedly, panting, muttering. Probably the man was Sard.

Already the forest in front was invaded by the misty radiance from the clearing. Through the trees starlight glimmered on water. The perfume of the open land grew in the night air,--the scent of dew-wet gra.s.s, the smell of still water and of sedgy sh.o.r.es.

Lying flat behind a rotting log, Smith could see them all now,--spectral shapes against the light. There were five of them at the forest's edge.

They seemed to know what was to be done and how to do it. Two went down among the ferns and stunted willows toward the west sh.o.r.e of the pond; two sheered off to the southwest, shoulder deep in blackberry and sumac.

The fifth man waited for a while, then ran down across the open pasture.

Scarcely had he started when Smith glided to the wood's edge, crouched, and looked down.

Below stood Clinch's Dump, plain in the starlight, every window dark. To the west the barn loomed, huge with its ramshackle outbuildings straggling toward the lake.

Straight down the slope toward the barn ran the fifth man of Quintana's gang, and disappeared among the out-buildings.

Smith crept after him through the sumacs; and, at the foot of the slope, squatted low in a clump of rag-weed.

So close to the house was he now that he could hear the dew rattling on the veranda roof. He saw shadowy figures appear, one after another, and take stations at the four corners of the house. The fifth man was somewhere near the out-buildings, very silent about whatever he had on hand.

The stillness was absolute save for the drumming dew and a faint ripple from the water's edge.

Smith crouched, listened, searched the starlight with intent eyes, and waited.

Until something happened he could not solve the problem before him. He could be of no use to Eve Strayer and to Stormont until he found out what Quintana was going to do.

He could be of little use anyway unless he got into the house, where two rifles might hold out against five.

There was no use in trying to get to Ghost Lake for a.s.sistance. He felt that whatever was about to happen would come with a rush. It would be all over before he had gone five minutes. No; the only thing to do was to stay where he was.

As for his pledge to the little Grand d.u.c.h.ess, that was always in his mind. Sooner or later, somehow, he was going to make good his pledge.

He knew that Quintana and his gang were here to find the Flaming Jewel.

Had he not encountered Quintana, his own errand had been the same. For Smith had started for Clinch's prepared to reveal himself to Stormont, and then, masked to the eyes--and to save Eve from a broken heart, and Clinch from States Prison--he had meant to rob the girl at pistol-point.

It was the only way to save Clinch; the only way to save the pride of this blindly loyal girl. For the arrest of Clinch meant ruin to both, and Smith realised it thoroughly.

A slight sound from one of the out-houses--a sort of wagon-shed--attracted his attention. Through the frost-blighted rag-weeds he peered intently, listening.