"Well," said Smith, "if you've got to know, there are people from
Esthonia in New York. … If you understand that."
"Christi! When do their 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?"
"Christi!" 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 do I do, eh? Christi! What to do? What do 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 did you say those carbiniery? Eh?"
"At Ghost lake. Your signature is in the hotel ledger."
"Christi! You know where Clinch is?"
"You know too. He is on the way to Drowned Valley."