"How do 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 moment 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?"