He glared at Smith, started to move, came back and took his torch, made a violent gesture with it which drenched the weeds with goblin light.
"You stop-a Quintana, maybe. You tell-a heem he is the bigg-a fool!
You tell-a heem Nick Salzar is no damn fool. No! Adios, my frien'
Abrams. I beat it. I save my skin!"
Once more Salzar turned and headed for Drowned Valley. … Where Clinch would not fail to kill him. … The man was going to his death. … And it as Smith who sent him.
Suddenly it came to Smith that he could not do this thing; that this man had no chance; that he was slaying a human being with perfect safety to himself and without giving him a chance.
"Salzar!" he called sharply.
The man halted and looked around.
"Come back!"
Salzar hesitated, turned finally, slouched toward him.
Smith laid aside his pack and rifle, and, as Salzar came up, he quietly took his weapon from him and laid it beside his own.
"What-a da matt'?" demanded Salzar, astonished. "Why you take my gun?"