Clinch vanished and so did his rifle; and Quintana's first bullet struck the moss where the stock had rested.
"You black crow!" jeered Clinch, laughing, "— I need that empty case of yours. And I'm going after it. … But it's because your filthy claw touched my girlie that you gotta hop!"
Twilight lay over the phantom wood, touching with pallid tints the flooded forest.
So far only that one shot had been fired. Both men were still manoeuvering, always creeping in circles and always lining some great tree for shelter.
Now, the gathering dusk was making them bolder and swifter; and twice, already, Clinch caught the shadow of a fading edge of something that vanished against the shadows too swiftly for a shot.
Now Quintana, keeping a tree in line, brushed with his little back a leafy moose-bush that stood swaying as he avoided it.
Instantly a stealthy hope seized him: he slipped out of his coat, spread it on the bush, set the naked branches swaying, and darted to his tree.
Waiting, he saw that grey blot his coat made in the dusk was still moving a little — just vibrating a little bit in the twilight. He touched the bush with his rifle barrel, then crouched almost flat.
Suddenly the red crash of a rifle lit up Clinch's visage for a fraction of a second. And Quintana's bullet smashed Clinch between the eyes.
* * * * *