Quintana, kneeling on one knee, lifted his pistol. He already felt the slight vibration of the ground on the hard ridge. The cedars were moving just beyond him now. He waited until, through the parted foliage, a face appeared.
The loud report of his pistol struck Sard with the horror of paralysis.
Sanchez faced about with one spring, snarling, a weapon in either hand.
In the terrible silence they could hear something heavy floundering in the bushes, choking, moaning, thudding on the ground.
Sanchez began to creep back; Sard, more dead than alive, crawled at his heels. Presently they saw Quintana, waist deep in juniper, looking down at something.
And when they drew closer they saw Georgiades lying on his back under a cedar, the whole front of his shirt from chest to belly a sopping mess of blood.
There seemed no need of explanation. The dead Greek lay there where he had not been expected, and his two pistols lay beside him where they had fallen.
Sanchez looked stealthily at Quintana, who said softly:
"Bien sure. … In his left side pocket, I believe."
* * * * *
Sanchez laid a cool hand on the dead man's heart; then, satisfied, rummaged until he found Georgiades' share of the loot.