ankle and draw him into
shelter, but Quintana reloaded swiftly and smashed Hone's left hand with
the first shot.

Them Jim Hastings, kneeling behind a bunch of juniper, fired a
high-velocity bullet into the tree behind which Quintana stood; but
before he could fire again Quintana's shot in reply came ripping through
the juniper and tore a ghastly hole in the calf of his left leg,
striking a blow that knocked young Hastings flat and paralysed as a dead
flounder.

A mile to the north, blocking the other exit from Drowned Valley, Mike
Clinch, Harve Chase, Cornelius Blommers, and Dick Berry stood listening
to the shooting.

"B'gosh," blurted out Chase, "it sounds like they was goin' through,
Mike. B'gosh, it does!"

Clinch's little pale eyes blazed, but he said in his soft, agreeable
voice:

"Stay right here, boys. Like as not some of 'em will come this way."

The shooting below ceased. Clinch's nostrils expanded and flattened
with every breath, as he stood glaring into the woods.

"Have," he said presently, "you an' Corny go down there an' kinda look
around. And you signal if I'm wanted. G'wan, both o' you. Git!"

They started, running heavily, but their feet made little noise on the
moss.

Berry came over and stood near Clinch. For ten minutes neither man
moved. Clinch stared at the woods in front of him. The younger man's
nervous glance flickered like a snake's tongue in every direction, and
he kept moistening his lips with his tongue.

Presently two shots came from the south. A pause; a rattle of shots
from hastily emptied magazines.

"G'wan down there, Dick!" said Clinch.

"You'll be alone, Mike----"

"Au right. You do like I say; git along quick!"

Berry walked southward a little way. He had turned very white under his
tan.

"Gol ding ye!" shouted Clinch, "take it on a lope or I'll kick the pants
off'n ye!"

Berry began to run, carrying his rifle at a trail.

For half an hour there was not a sound in the forests of Drowned Valley
except in the dead timber where unseen woodpeckers hammered fitfully at
the ghosts of ancient trees.

Always Clinch's little pale eyes searched the forest twilight in front
of him; not a falling leaf escaped him; not a chipmunk.

And all the while Clinch talked to himself; his lips moved a little now
and then, but uttered no sound:

"All I want God should do," he repeated again and again, "is to just let
Quintana come _my_ way. 'Tain't for because he