"Who'll stop me? Quintana?"
"Come," urged Beck, "and be a good pal. You can't manage it alone. We've got all night to make Clinch talk. I now how, too. You'll get your share——"
"Oh, stow it," said Smith, watching Clinch, who was reviving. He sat up presently, and put both hands over his head. Smith touched him silently on the shoulder and he turned his heavy, square head in a dazed way. Blood striped his visage. He gazed dully at Smith for a little while, then, seeming to recollect, the old glare began to light his pale eyes.
The next instant, however, Beck spoke again, and Clinch turned in astonishment and saw the two figures sitting there with backs toward Smith and hands up.
Clinch stared at the squatting forms, then slowly moved his head and looked at Smith and his levelled pistol.
"We know how to make a man squeal," said Harry Beck suddenly. "He'll talk. We can make Clinch talk, no fear! Leave it to us, old pal. Are you with us?" He started to look around over his shoulder and Smith hurled another stick and hit him in the face.
"Quiet there, Harry," he said. "What's my share if I go in with you?"
"One sixth, same's we all get."
"What's it worth?" asked Smith, with a motion of caution toward Clinch.
"If I say a million you'll tell me I lie. But it's nearer three — or you can have my share. Is it a go?"