"We ain't going to hurt Clinch."
"You bet you're not. Where's the rest of your gang?"
"What gang?"
"Quintana's," said Smith, laughing. A wild exhilaration possessed him. His flanks and rear were protected by the sink-hole. He had Quintana's gang — two of them — over his pistol.
"Turn your backs and sit down," he said. As the shadowy forms hesitated, he picked up a stick and hurled it at them. They sat down hastily, hands up, backs toward him.
"You'll both die where you sit," remarked Smith, "if you yell for help."
Clinch sighed heavily, stirred, groped on the damp leaves with his hands.
"I say," began the voice which Smith identified as Harry Beck's, "if you'll come in with us on this it will pay you, young man."
"No," drawled Smith, "I'll go it alone."
"It can't be done, old dear. You'll see if you try it on."