"Clinch," said Smith unsteadily, "if you kill me now you're as good as dead yourself. Quintana is here."
"Say, don't hand me that," retorted Clinch. "Do you square yourself or no?"
"I tell you Quintana's gang were at the dance to-night — Picquet,
Salzar, Georgiades, Sard, Beck, Jose Sanchez — the one who looks like a
French priest. Maybe he had a beard when you saw him in that cafe
wash-room——"
"What!" shouted Clinch in sudden fury. "What yeh talkin' about, you poor dumb dingo! Yeh fixin' to scare me? What do you know about Quintana? Are you one of Quintana's gang, too? Is that what you're up to, hidin' out at Star Pond. Come on, out with it! I'll have it all out of you now, Hal Smith, before I plug you——"
He came lurching forward, swinging his heavy pistol as though he meant to brain his victim, but he halted after the first step or two and stood there, a shadowy bulk, growling, enraged, undecided.
And, as Smith looked at him, two shadows detached themselves from the trees behind Clinch — silently — silently glided behind — struck in utter silence.
Down crashed Clinch, black-jacked, his face in the ooze. His pistol flew from his hand, struck Smith's leg; and Smith had it at the same instance and turned it like lightning on the murderous shadows.
"Hands up! Quick!" he cried, at bay now, and his back to the sink-hole.
Pistol levelled, he bent one knee, pushed Clinch over on his back, lest the ooze suffocate him.
"Now," he said coolly, "what do you bums want out of Mike Clinch?"