Can't an officer go wrong?"
"Soft stuff. Don't feed it to me. I told you too much anyway. I was babblin' drunk. I'm drunk now, but I got sense. D'you think I'll run chances of sittin' in State's Prison for the next ten years and leave Eve out here alone? No. I gotta shoot you, Smith. And I'm a-going to do it. G'wan and say what you want … if you think there's some kind o' god you can square before you croak."
"If you go to the chair for murder, what good will it do Eve?" asked Smith. His lips were crackling dry; he moistened them.
"Sink holes don't talk," said Clinch. "G'wan and square yourself, if you're the church kind."
"Clinch," said Smith unsteadily, "if you kill me now you're as good as dead yourself. Quintana is here."
"Say, don't hand me that," retorted Clinch. "Do you square yourself or no?"
"I tell you Quintana's gang were at the dance to-night – Picquet, Salzar, Georgiades, Sard, Beck, José Sanchez – the one who looks like a French priest. Maybe he had a beard when you saw him in that café wash-room – "
"What!" shouted Clinch in sudden fury. "What yeh talkin' about, you poor dumb dingo! Yeh fixin' to scare me? What do you know about Quintana? Are you one of Quintana's gang, too? Is that what you're up to, hidin' out at Star Pond. Come on, now, out with it! I'll have it all out of you now, Hal Smith, before I plug you – "
He came lurching forward, swinging his heavy pistol as though he meant to brain his victim, but he halted after the first step or two and stood there, a shadowy bulk, growling, enraged, undecided.
And, as Smith looked at him, two shadows detached themselves from the trees behind Clinch – silently – silently glided behind – struck in utter silence.
Down crashed Clinch, black-jacked, his face in the ooze. His pistol flew from his hand, struck Smith's leg; and Smith had it at the same instant and turned it like lightning on the murderous shadows.
"Hands up! Quick!" he cried, at bay now, and his back to the sink-hole.
Pistol levelled, he bent one knee, pushed Clinch over on his back, lest the ooze suffocate him.
"Now," he said coolly, "what do you bums want of Mike Clinch?"
"Who are you?" came a sullen voice. "This is none o' your bloody business. We want Clinch, not you."
"What do you want of Clinch?"
"Take your gun off us!"
"Answer, or I'll let go at you. What do you want of Clinch?"
"Money. What do you think?"
"You're here to stick up Clinch?" enquired Smith.
"Yes. What's that to you?"
"What has Clinch done to you?"
"He stuck us up, that's what! Now, are you going to keep out of this?"
"No."
"We ain't going to hurt Clinch."
"You bet you're not. Where's the rest of your gang?"
"What gang?"
"Quintana's," said Smith, laughing. A wild exhilaration possessed him. His flanks and rear were protected by the sink-hole. He had Quintana's gang – two of them – over his pistol.
"Turn your backs and sit down," he said. As the shadowy forms hesitated, he picked up a stick and hurled it at them. They sat down hastily, hands up, backs toward him.
"You'll both die where you sit," remarked Smith, "if you yell for help."
Clinch sighed heavily, stirred, groped on the damp leaves with his hands.
"I say," began the voice which Smith identified as Harry Beck's, "if you'll come in with us on this it will pay you, young man."
"No," drawled Smith, "I'll go it alone."
"It can't be done, old dear. You'll see if you try it on."
"Who'll stop me? Quintana?"
"Come," urged Beck, "and be a good pal. You can't manage it alone. We've got all night to make Clinch talk. We know how, too. You'll get your share – "
"Oh, stow it," said Smith, watching Clinch, who was reviving. He sat up presently, and put both hands over his head. Smith touched him silently on the shoulder and he turned his heavy, square head in a dazed way. Blood striped his visage. He gazed dully at Smith for a little while, then, seeming to recollect, the old glare began to light his pale eyes.
The next instant, however, Beck spoke again, and Clinch turned in astonishment and saw the two figures sitting there with backs toward Smith and hands up.
Clinch stared at the squatting forms, then slowly moved his head and looked at Smith and his levelled pistol.
"We know how to make a man squeal," said Harry Beck suddenly. "He'll talk. We can make Clinch talk, no fear! Leave it to us, old pal. Are you with us?" He started to look around over his shoulder and Smith hurled another stick and hit him in the face.
"Quiet there, Harry," he said. "What's my share if I go in with you?"
"One sixth, same's we all get."
"What's it worth?" asked Smith, with a motion of caution toward Clinch.
"If I say a million you'll tell me I lie. But it's nearer three – or you can have my share. Is it a go?"
"You'll not hurt Clinch when he comes to?"
"We'll make him talk, that's all. It may hurt him some."
"You won't kill him?"
"I swear by God – "
"Wait! Isn't it better to shoot him after he squeals? Here's a lovely sink-hole handy."
"Right-o! We'll make him talk first and then shove him in. Are you with us?"
"If you turn your head I'll blow the face off you, Harry," said Smith, cautioning Clinch to silence with a gesture.
"All right. Only you better make up your mind. That cove is likely to wake up now at any time," grumbled Beck.
Clinch looked at Smith. The latter smiled, leaned over, and whispered:
"Can you walk all right?"
Clinch nodded.
"Well, we'd better beat it. Quintana's whole gang is in these woods, somewhere, hunting for you, and they might stumble on us here, at any moment." And, to the two men in front: "Lie down flat on your faces. Don't stir; don't speak; or it's you for the sink-hole… Lie down, I tell you! That's it. Don't move till I tell you to."
Clinch got up from where he was sitting, cast one murderous glance at the prostrate forms, then followed Smith, noiselessly, over the stretch of sphagnum moss.
When they reached the house they saw Eve standing on the steps in her night-dress and bare feet, holding a lantern.
"Daddy," she whimpered, "I was frightened.
