"Damn! I knew it. Quintana also. You know where is Quintana? And
Sard? I tell-a you. They march ver' fast to the Dump of Clinch. Si!
And there they would discover these-a beeg-a dimon' — these-a
Flame-Jewel. Si! Now, you tell-a me what I do?"
Smith said slowly: "If Quintana is marching on Clinch's he's marching into a trap!"
Salzar blanched above his bandana.
"The State Troopers are there," said Smith. "They'll get him sure."
"Cristi," faltered Salzar, "— then they are gobble — Quintana, Sard, everybody! Si!"
Smith considered the man: "You can save your skin anyway. You can go back and tell Harry Beck. Then both you can beat it for Drowned Valley."
He picked up his rifle, stood a moment in troubled reflection:
"If I could overtake Quintana I'd do it," he said. "I think I'll try. If I can't, he's done for. You tell Harry Beck that Eddie Abrams advises him to beat it for Drowned Valley."
Suddenly Salzar tore the bandana from his face, flung it down and stamped on it.
"What I tell Quintana!" he yelled, his features distorted with rage. "I
don't-a like! — no, not me! — no, I tell-a heem, stay at those Ghost-a
Lake and watch thees-a fellow Clinch. Si! Not for me thees-a wood.
No! I spit upon it! I curse like hell! I tell Quintana I don't-a
like. Now, eet is trouble that comes and we lose-a out! Damn! Damn!
Me, I find me Beck. You shall say to Jose Quintana how he is a damfool.
Me, I am finish — me, Nick Salzar! You hear me, Abrams! I am through!
I go!"