 Episode 8 of The Flaming Jewel This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. The Flaming Jewel by Robert W. Chambers. Episode 8. Cup and Lip. 1. Two miles beyond clinches dump, Hal Smith pulled Stormont's horse to a walk. He was tremendously excited. With naive sincerity, he believed that what he had done on the spur of the moment had been the only thing to do. By snatching the Flaming Jewel from Quintana's fingers, he had diverted that vindictive bandit's fury from Eve, from clinch, from Stormont, and had centered it upon himself. More than that, he had sown the seeds of suspicion among Quintana's own people. They never could discover Salzar's body. Always they must believe that it was Nicholas Salzar and no other who so treacherously robbed them, and who rode away in a rain of bullets, shaking the emblazoned Morocco case above his masked head in triumph to origin and defiance. At the recollection of what had happened, Hal Smith drew bridle, and sitting his saddle there in the false dawn, threw back his handsome head, and laughed until the fading stars overhead swam in his eyes through tears of sheer smirth. For he was still young enough to have had time for his life. Nothing in the Great War had so thrilled him, for in what had just happened there was humor. There had been none in the great grim drama. Still, Smith began to realize that he had taken the long, long chance of the opportunist who rolls the bones with death. He had kept his pledge to the little grand duchess. It was a clean job. It was even good drama. The picturesque angle of the affair shook Hal Smith with renewed laughter. As the moving picture hero, he thought himself the funniest thing on earth. From the time he had poked a pistol against Sard's fat punch to this bullet-pelted ride for life, life had become one ridiculously exciting episode after another. He had come through like the hero in a best seller, lacking only a heroine. If there had been any heroine, it was Eve Strayer. Drama had gone wrong in that detail. So perhaps, after all, it was real life he had been living and not a drama. Drama, for the masses, must have a definite beginning and ending. Real life lacks the latter. In life, nothing is finished. It is always a premature curtain that is yanked by that doddering old stagehand, Johnny Death. Smith sat his saddle, thinking, beginning to be sobered now by the inevitable reaction which follows excitement and mirth as relentlessly as Care Dogs the Horseman. He had had a fine time, saved for the horror of the rock trail, he shuddered. Anyway, at worst, he had not shirked a clean deal in that ghastly game. It was God's mercy that he was not lying where Salazar lay, ten feet, twenty feet, a hundred deep, perhaps, in immemorial slum. He shook himself in his saddle, as though to be rid of the creeping horror and wiped his clammy face. Now, in the false dawn, a blue jay awoke somewhere among the oaks and filled the misty silence with harsh grace notes. Then reaction, sitting in like a tide, stirred more somber depths in the heart of this young man. He thought of Riga, and of the red terror, of murder at noonday and outrage by night. He remembered his only encounter with a lovely child, once grand Duchess of Stonia, then a destitute refugee in silken rags. What a day that had been, only one day and one evening, and never had he been so near and love all his life. That one day evening had been enough for her to confide to an American officer her entire life's history, for him to pledge himself to her service while life endured. And if emotion had swept every atom of reason out of his useful head, their turmoil and alarm, there the terrified riotous city jammed with refugees reeking with disease, half frantic from famine and filthy rising flood of war. If really it had been merely romantic impulse, ardor born of overwrought sentimentalism, nevertheless, what he had pledged that day to a little grand Duchess and regs, he had fulfilled to the letter within the hour. As the false dawn began to fade, he loosened hunting coat and cartridge sling, drew from his shirt bosom the Rocco case. It bore the arms and crest of the grand Duchess Theodorica of Estonia. His fingers trembled slightly as he pressed the jeweled spring. It opened on an empty casket. In the sudden shock of horror and astonishment, his convulsive clutch on the spring started a tiny bell ringing. Then under his very nose, the empty tray slid aside, revealing another tray underneath, set solidly with brilliance, a rainbow glitter streamed from the unsilken tray, like an incredible child he touched them. They were magnificently real. In the center lay blazing the great aerosite gem, the flaming jewel itself, priceless diamonds, sapphires, emeralds ringed it. In his hands he held nearly four million dollars. Gingerly he balanced the emblazoned case, fascinated, then he replaced the empty tray, closed the box, thrust it into the bosom of his final shirt and buttoned it again. Now there was little more for the excited young man to do. Hal Smith holed up man and dishwasher at clinch's dump had ended his career. The time had now arrived for him to vanish and make room for James Dara. Because there still remained a very agreeable role for Dara to play, and he meant to eat it up, as Broadway has it. For by this time, the grand Duchess of Estonia, Rika, as she had been called by her companion, Valentin, the pretty Countess Orloff Sterowitz must have arrived in New York. The big hunting launch to the late Henry Herod, now inherited by Dara, there might be a letter, perhaps a telegram, a cue for Hal Smith to vanish and for James Dara to enter, playing his brief but glittering part. And Dara's sequence of pleasing meditations halted abruptly. To walk out of the life of the little grand Duchess did not seem to suit his ideas and indefinitely hazy as they were so far. He lifted the bridle from the horse's neck, divided curb and snaffled thoughtfully, touching the splendid animal with heel and knee. As he cantered on into the wide forest road that led to his late uncle's abode, curiosity led him to wheel into a narrower trail, leading east along star pond from whence he could take a farewell view of clinch's dump. He smiled to think of Eve and Stormont there together, now in safety behind the bolted doors and shutters. He grinned to think of Quintana and his precious crew, blood crazy baffled, probably already distrusting one another, yet running wild through the night like starving wolves galloping at hazard across famine, stricken waste. Only wait till Stormont makes his report, he thought grinning more broadly still, every state trooper north of Albany will be after Senor Quintana, some hunting. And if he could understand, Mike Clint might thank his star for what I've done this night, has saved him, his skin, and Eve a broken heart. He drew his horse to a walk now, for the path began to run closer to star pond, skirting the pebbled shallows in the open just ahead. Alders still concealed the house across the lake, but the trail was already coming out into the starlight. Suddenly his horse stopped short, trembling as he was pricked forward. Dara sat listening intensely for a minute. Then with infinite caution, he leaned over the candle and gently part of the alders. On the pebble beach, full on the starlights, did two figures, one white and slim, the other dark. The arm of a dark figure clasped the waist of the white and slender one. Evidently they had heard his horse, for they stood motionless, looking directly at the alders between which his horse had halted. The turn might mean a shot in the back, as far as Dara knew. He was still masked with Salzar's red bandana. He raised his rifle, slid a cartridge into the breach, pressed his horse forward with a slight touch of heel and knee, and rode slowly into the stardust. Stormont saw was a masked man riding his horse with menacing rifle half lifted for a shot. What Eve Strayer thought she saw was too terrible for words, and before Stormont could prevent her, she sprang in front of him, covered his body with earth. At that the horseman tore off his red mask. Eve! Jack Stormont! What a devil are you doing over here? Stormont walked slowly up to his own horse, laid one unsteady hand on its silky nose, kept it there while dusty velvet lips mumbled and caressed his fingers. I knew it was a cavalryman, he said quietly. I suspected you, Jim. It was a sort of crazy thing you were likely to do. I don't ask you what you're up to, where you've been, what your plans may be, if you need me, you'd have told me. But I've got to have my horse for Eve. Her feet are wounded. She's in her nightdress and ringing wet. I've got to set her on my horse and take her through to Ghost Lake. Dara stared at Stormont, at the ghostly figure of the girl who had sunk down on the sand at the lake's edge. Then he scrambled out of a saddle and handed over the Bible. Quintana came back, said Stormont. I hope to reckon with him someday. I believe he came back to harm Eve. We got out of the house. We swam the lake. I'd have gone under except for her. In his distress and overwhelming mortification, Dara stood miserable, mute, irresolute. Stormont seemed to understand. What she did, Jim, was well meant, he said. I understand. Eve will understand when I tell her. But that fellow Quintana is a devil. You can't draw a herring across any truly follows. I tell you, Jim, this fellow Quintana is either blood mad or just plain crazy. Somebody will have to put him out of the way. I'll do it if I ever find him. Yes, your people ought to do that. Or if you like, I'll volunteer. I have a little business to transact in New York first. Jack, your tunic and breeches are soaked. I'll be glad to chip in something for Eve. Wait a moment. He stepped into cover, drew the Morocc box from his gray shirt, shoved it into his hip pocket. Then he threw off his cartridge belt and hunting coat, pulled the gray shirt over his head and came out in his undershirt and breeches with the other garments hanging over his arm. Give her these, he said. She can button the coat around her waist for a skirt. She'd better go somewhere and get out of that soaking wet night dress. Eve crouched on the sand, trying to ring out and twisted up her drenched hair, looked up at Stormont as he came toward her, holding out Dara's dry clothing. You'd better do what you can with these, he said, trying to speak carelessly. He says you'd better chuck what you're wearing. She nodded in flushed comprehension. Stormont walked back to his horse, his boots slopping water every stride. I don't know a place nearer than Ghost Lake Inn, he said, except Herod's. That's where we're going, Gack, said Dara cheerfully. That's your place, isn't it? It is. But I don't want Eve to know it. I think it better she not know me except as House Smith for the present, anyway. You'll see to that, won't you? As you wish, Jim. Only if we go to your own house. We're not going to the main house. She wouldn't, anyway. Clinch has taught that girl to hate the very name of Herod. Hate every foot of forest that Herod Gamekeepers patrol. She wouldn't cross my threshold to save her life. I don't understand, but it's all right, whatever you say, Jim. I'll tell you the whole business someday. But where I'm going to take you now is a brand new camp which I ordered built last spring. It's within a mile of the state forest border. Eve won't know that it's Herod's property. I have a hatchery there, and the state lets me have man in exchange for free fry. When I get there, I'll post my man. It will be a roof for tonight, anyway, and breakfast in the morning whenever you're ready. How far is it? Only about three miles east of here. That's the thing to do, then, said Stormont Bluntly. He dropped one sopping wet sleeve over his horse's neck, taking care not to touch the saddle. He was thinking of a handful of gems in his pocket. He wondered why Dara had said nothing about the empty case for which he had so recklessly risked his life. What this whole business was about Stormont had no notion, but he knew Dara, that was sufficient to leave him tranquil, and perfectly certain that whatever Dara was doing must be the right thing to do. Yet Eve had swum star pond with her mouth filled with jewels. When she had handed the Morocco box to Quintana, Stormont now realized that she must have placed her last card on the utterly desperate chance that Quintana might go away without examining the case. Evidently, she had emptied the case before she left her room. He recollected that. During all that followed, Eve had not uttered a single word. He knew why, now. How could she speak with her mouth full of diamonds? A slight sound from the shore caused him to turn. Eve was coming toward him in the desk, moving painfully on her wounded feet. Dara's flannel shirt and hunting coat buttoned around her slender waist clothed her. The next instant he was beside her, lifting her in both arms. Placed her in the saddle, adjusted one stirrup to her bandaged foot. She turned and quietly thanked Dara for the clothing. And that was a brave thing you did, she added, to risk your life for my father's property. Because the Morocco case which you said proved to be empty does not make what you did any less loyal and gallant. Dara gazed at her astounded. Took the hand she stretched out to him, held it with a silly expression on his features. How Smith she said with a perceptible emotion, I take back what I once said to you on Al Marsh. No man is a real crook by nature who did what you have done. That is faithfulness unto death, the supreme offer, loyalty. Her voice broke. She pressed Dara's hand convulsively and her lip quivered. Dara with the Morocco case full of jewels buttoned into his hip pocket stood motionless, mutely swallowing his amazement. What in the world did this girl mean, talking about an empty case? But this was no time to unravel that sort of puzzle. He turned to Stormont who, as perplexed as he, had been listening in silence. Lead your horse forward, he said. I know the trail. All you need to do is follow me. And shouldering his rifle, he walked leisurely into the woods, the cartridge belts sagging and bandolare across his woolen shirt. Two. When Stormont gently halted his horse, it was dawn, and Eve, sagging against him with one arm around his neck, sat huddled on her saddle fast asleep. In a birch woods on the eastern slope of the divides stood the log camp, dimly visible in the silvery light of early morning. Dara, caution-stormed with a slight gesture, went forward, mounted the rustic veranda, and knocked on a lighted window. A man already dressed came and peered out at him, then hurried to open the door. I didn't know you, Captain Dara, he began, but fell silent under the warning gesture that checked him. I've a guest outside. She's clinch's stepdaughter, Eve Strayer. She knows me by the name of Hal Smith. Do you understand? Yes, sir. Cut that out, too. I'm Hal Smith to you. Also, State's drooper, Stormont out there with Eve Strayer. He was a comrade of mine in Russia. I'm Hal Smith to him. By mutual agreement. Now, do you get me, Ralph? Sure, Hal, go on, spit it out. They both grinned. You're a hootrunner, said Dara. This is your shack. The hatchery is only a blunt. That's all you have to know, Ralph. So put that girl into my room and let her sleep till she wakes of her own accord. Stormont and I will take two of the guest bunks in the owl, and for heaven's sake, make us some coffee when you make your own. But first, come out and take the horse. They went out together. Stormont lifted Eve out of the saddle. She did not wake. Dara led the way in the loghouse and along a corridor to his own room. Turn down the sheets, whispered Stormont. And when the bed was ready, can you get a bath towel, Jim? Dara fetched one from the connecting bathroom. Wrap it around her hair, whispered Stormont. Good heavens, I wish there were a woman here. I wish so too, said Dara. She's chilled to the bone. You'll have to wake her. She can't sleep in what she's wearing. It's almost as damp as her hair. He went to the closet and returned with a man's morning robe as soft as fleece. Somehow or other she's got to get into that, he said. There was the silence. Very well, said Stormont, reddening. If you'll step out, I'll manage. He looked Dara straight in the eyes. I've asked her to marry me, he said. When Stormont came out, a great fire of birch logs was blazing in the living room, and Dara stood there, his elbow on the rough stone mantle shell. Stormont came straight to the fire and set one spurred boot on the fender. She's warm and dry and sound asleep, he said. I'll wake her again if you think she ought to swallow something hot. At that moment, the fish culturist came in with a pot steaming coffee. This is my friend Ralph Weir, said Dara. I think you'd better give Eve a cup of coffee. And to Weir, fill a cup of hot water, big old chap. We don't want any pneumonia in this house. When breakfast was ready, Eve once more lay asleep with a slight dew of perspiration on her brow. Dara was half-starved. Stormont ate little. Neither spoke at all until, satisfied they rose ready for sleep. At the door of his room, Stormont took Dara's offered hand, understanding what it implied. Thanks, Jim. Hers is the loveliest character I've ever known. If I weren't as poor as a homeless dog, I'd marry her tomorrow. I'll do it anyway, I think. I can't let her go back to clinch his dump. After all, said Dara smiling. If it's only money that worries you, why not talk about a job to me? Stormont flushed heavily. That's rather wonderful of you, Jim. Why? You're the best officer I had. Why the devil did you go into the constable boy without talking to me? Stormont's upper lip seemed inclined to twitch as he controlled it and scowled at space. Go to bed, you darn fool, said Dara carelessly. You'll find dry things ready. Ralph will take care of your uniform and boots. Then he went into his own quarters to read two letters which, conforming to his arrangements made with Mrs. Ray the day he had robbed Emanuel Sard, were to be sent to Trout Lodge to await his arrival. Both, written from the writs, bore the date of the day before. The first he opened was from the Countess Orloff Strelwitz. Dear Captain Dara, you are so wonderful, your messenger, with the ten thousand dollars which you say you already have recovered from those misgrants who robbed Rika, came aboard our ship before we landed. It was a godsend, we were nearly penniless, and oh so shabby. Instantly, my friend, we shopped, Rika and I. Fifth Avenue enchanted us. All misery was forgotten in the magic of that paradise for women. Yet, spend thrifts that we naturally are. We were not silly enough to be extravagant. Rika was wild for American sport clothes. I also, yet only two gowns apiece accept our sport clothes, and other necessities. Don't you think we were economical? Furthermore, dear Captain Dara, we are hastening to follow your instructions. We are leaving today for your chateau in the wonderful forest of which you told us that never to be forgotten day in Rika. Your agent is politeness, consideration, and kindness itself. We have our accommodations. We leave New York at midnight. Rika is so excited that it is difficult for her to restrain her happiness. God knows the child is seen enough unhappiness to quench the gaiety of anybody. While all things end, even tears, even the red tear shall pass from our beloved Russia, for after all, Monsignor, God still lives. Valentin, PS, Rika has written to you too. I have read the letter. I have let it go uncensored. Dara went to the door of his room. Ralph, Ralph, he called, and one weird hurriedly appeared. What time does the midnight train from New York get into Fire Lakes? A little before nine. You can make it there in the flipper, can't you? Yes, if I start now. All right, two ladies. You are to bring them to the house, not here. Mrs. Ray knows about them, and get back here as soon as you can. He closed his door again, sat down on the bed, and opened the other letter. His hands shook as he unfolded it. He was so scared and excited that he could scarcely decipher the angular girlish penmanship. To dear Captain Dara, our champion and friend. It is difficult for me, Monsignor, to express my happiness and my deep gratitude in the so cold formality of the written page. Alas, sir, it will be still more difficult to find words for it, when again I have happiness of greeting you in proper person. Valentin has told you everything. She warns me, and I am therefore somewhat at a loss to know what I should write to you, yet I know very well what I would write, if I dare. It is this that I wish you to know, although it may not pass the censor, that I am most impatient to see you, Monsher. Not because of the kindness passed, nor with an unworthy expectation of benefits to come, but because of friendship, the deepest sincerest of my whole life. Is it not modest of a young girl to say this? Yes, surely all of the world, which was once enraguelle, formal, artificial, has been burnt out of our hearts by this frightful calamity which has overwhelmed the world with fire and blood. If ever on earth there was a time when we might venture to express with candor what is hidden within our minds and hearts, it would seem, Monsher, that the time is now. True, I have known you only one day and one evening, yet what happened to the world in that brief space of time, and to us, Monsher, brought us together as though our meeting were but a blessed reunion after a happy intimacy of many years. I speak, Monsher, for myself. May I hope that I speak also for you, with a heart too full to thank you, and with expectations indescribable, but with courage always for any event. I take my leave of you at the foot of this page, like death, I trust my ado is not the end, but the beginning. It is not farewell, it is a greeting to him whom I most honor in all the world, and would willingly obey if he shall command, and otherwise all else that is in his mind and heart he might desire. Theodorica. It was the most beautiful love letter any man ever received in all of the history of love, and it had passed the censor. Three. It was afternoon when Dar awoke in his bunk, stiff, sore, confused in mind and battered in body. However, when he recollected where he was, he got out of bed in a hurry and jerked aside the window curtains. The day was magnificent, a sky of royal azure overhead, everywhere the silver pillars of the birches supporting their splendid canopy of ochre, orange, and burnt gold. We, or hearing him astir, came in. How long have you been back? Did you meet the ladies with your fliver demented Dar impatiently? I got to five lake stations just as the train came in. The young ladies were the only passengers who got out. I waited to get to their steamer trunks, and then I drove them to Herod Place. How did they seem, Ralph? Worn out, worried ill? We were laughed. No, sir, they looked very pretty and lively to me. They seemed delighted to get here. They talked to each other in some foreign tongue, Russian, I would say. At least it sounded like what we heard over in Siberia, captain. It was Russian. You go on and tell them I take another hot bath. We were followed him into the bathroom, and vaulted to a seat on the deep-set window sill. When they weren't talking Russian and laughing, they talked to me and admired the woods and mountains. I had to tell them everything. They wanted to see buffalo and Indians, and when I told them there weren't any, inquired for bears and panthers. We saw two deer on the scour, and a woodchuck near the house. I thought they'd jump out of the fliver. He began to laugh at the recollection. No, sir, they didn't act tired and sad. They said they were crazy to get into their knickerbockers and go to look for you. Where did you say I was, Astara, drying himself vigorously? Out in the woods somewhere, the last I saw them, Miss Ray, had her handbags, and Jerry and Tom were shouldering their trunks. I'm going up there right away, interrupted Dara excitedly. Good heavens, Ralph, I haven't eaten clothes here, have I? No, sir, but those you wore last night are dry. Confounded, I meant to send some decent clothes here. All right, get me those duds I wore yesterday, and a bite to eat. I'm in a hurry, Ralph. He ate while dressing, disgustedly arraying himself in a gray shirt, breeches, and laced booze, which weather, water, rock, and briar had not improved. In a pathetic attempt to spruce up, he knotted the red bandana around his neck and pinched Salazar's slousa hat into a peek. I look like a hooch-running wop, he said. Maybe I can get into the house before I meet the ladies. You look like one of Clinch's bums, remarked Weir with native honesty. Dara, chagrin, went to his bunk, pulled the Morocco case from under the pillow, and shoved it into the bosom of his final shirt. That's the main thing, anyway, he thought. Then, turning to Weir, he asked whether even Stormont had waken. It appeared that Trooper Stormont had saddled up and cantered away shortly after sunrise, leaving word that he must hunt up his comrade, Trooper Lannis, at Ghost Lake. They're coming back this evening, added Weir. He asked you to look out for Clinch's stepdaughter. She's all right here. Can't you keep an eye on her, Ralph? I'm stripping trout, sir. I'll be around here to cook dinner for her when she wakes up. Dara glanced across the brook, the hatchery. It was only a few yards away. He nodded and started for the veranda. That'll be all right, he said. Nobody is coming here to bother her, and don't let her leave, Ralph, till I get back. Very well, sir, but suppose she takes it into her head to leave? Dara called back gaily. She can't. She hasn't any clothes. In a way he strode in gorgeous sunshine of a magnificent autumn day, all the clean and vigorous youth of fire in an anticipation of a reunion which the letter from his lady love had transfigured into a trist. Four, in that amazing courtship of a single day, he never dreamed that he had won the heart of that sad, white-faced, hungry child in regs. Silk and battered still stand but the blood of massacre, the very soles of her shoes still charred by the embers of her own home. Yet, that is what must have happened in a single day and evening. Life passes swiftly during such periods. Minutes lengthen into days, hours into years. The soul finds itself. Then, mind and heart become twin prophets, clairvoyant concerning what hides behind the veil, comprehending with divine clair-audience, what the three sisters whispered there, hearing even the whir of the spindle, the very snipping of the eternal shears. The soul finds itself. The mind knows itself. The heart perfectly understands. He had not spoken to this young girl of love. The blood of friends and the servants was still rusty and her skirts ragged him. Yet, that night, when at last in safety, she had said goodbye to the man who had secured it for her. He knew that he was in love with her, and at such crisis the veil that hides his heart becomes transparent. At that instant he had seen and known. Afterwards he had dared not to believe that he had known, but hers had been a pure courage. As he strode on the comprehension of her candor, her honesty, the sweet bravery that had conceived, created, and sent that letter, thrilled this young man until his heavy boots sprouted wings, and the trail he followed was but a path of rosy clouds over which he floated heavenward. About half an hour later he came to his senses with a distinct shock, straight ahead of him on the trail, and coming directly toward him, moved a figure in knickers and belted tweed, flecked sunlight slanted on the stranger's cheek and burnished hair, dappling face and figure with moving golden spots. Instantly Dara knew and trembled, but Theodorica of Estonia had known him only in his uniform, as she came toward him, lovely in her lithe and rounded grace, only friendly curiosity gazed at him from her blue eyes. Suddenly she knew him, went scarlet to her yellow hair, and then white, and tried to speak, but had no control of the short rosy lip, which only quivered as he took her hands. The forest was dead still around them, saved the whisper of the painted leaves, sifting down from the sunlit vault above. Finally she said in a ghost of a voice, My friend, if you accept this friendship, friendship is to be shared, hours mingled on that day, your share is as much as pleases you. All you have to give me then. Take it, all I have. Her blue eyes met his with a little effort, all courage is an effort. Then the young man dropped on both knees at her feet and laid his lips to her soft hands. In trembling silence she stood for a moment, then slowly sank on both knees to face him across their cost fans. So in the gilded cathedral of the woods, powered with silver and azure domed, the betrothal of these two was sealed with clasp and lip. Odd, a little fearful, she looked into her lover's eyes with a gaze so chaste, so oblivious to all things earthly, that the still purity of her face seemed a sacrament, and he scarcely dared touch the childish lip she offered. But when the sacrament of the kiss had been accomplished, she rested one hand on his shoulder and rose, and drew him with her. Then his moment came. He drew the emblazoned case from his breast, opened it, and in silence, laden in her hands. The blaze of the jewels in the sunshine almost blended them. This was his moment, the next was Quintana's. Tara hadn't a chance. Out of the bushes two pistols were thrust hard against his stomach. Quintana's face was behind them. He wore no mask, but the three men with him watched him, over the edges of the handkerchief, over the sights of leveled rifles too. The young grand duchess had turned deadly white, one of Quintana's men took the Morocco case from her hand and shoved her aside without ceremony. Quintana leered at Tara over his leveled weapons. My friend Smith, he exclaimed softly, so it is you then who have twice tried to rob me of my property. Ah, you recollect, yes, you have robbed me of my packet, which contained only some chocolate. Tara's face was burning with helpless rage. My friend Smith repeated Quintana, do you recollect what you said to me, yes, how often it is the unexpected which so usually happens. You are quite correct, Nami Smith, it has happened. He glanced at the open jewel box, which one of the masked men held, then like lightning, his sinister eyes focused on Tara. So he said, it was also you who robbed me last night of my property. What you do to Nick Salzare? Killed him, said Tara, dry lipped, nerve for death. I had to have killed you too when I had the chance, but I'm white, you see. At the insult flung into his face over the muzzles of his own pistols, Quintana burst into laughter. Ah, you should have shot me. You are quite right, my friend. I must say you have behaved very foolish. He laughed again so hard that Tara felt his pistols shaking against his body. So you have killed Nick Salzare, eh? continued Quintana with perfect good humor. My friend, I am obliged for you for what you do. You are surprised, eh? It is very simple, my friend Smith. What I want of a man who can be killed, eh? Of what use is me to me? Voila. He laughed, patting Tara on the shoulder with one of his pistols. You now, you could be of use. Why? Because you are a better man than was Nick Salzare. He who kills is better than the dead. Then swiftly his dark features altered. My friend Smith, he said, I have come here for my property, not to kill. I have recovered my property. Why shall I kill you? To say that I am a better man? Yes, perhaps. But also I should be obliged to say that also I am a fool. Yes, a poor damn fool. Without shifting his eyes, he made a motion with one pistol to his men as they turned and entered the thicket. Quintana's intent gaze became murderous. If I must kill you, I shall do so. Otherwise I have sufficient trouble to keep from ennui. My friend, I am going home to enjoy my property. If you live or die, it signifies nothing to me. No. Why, for the pleasure of killing you, should I bring a dirty ganderamis on my heels? He backed away into the edge of the thicket, venturing one swift and evil glance of the girl who stood as though dazed. Listen attentively, he said to Dar. One of my men remains hidden very near. He is a dead shot. His aim is at your sweetheart's body, you understand? Yes. Very well. You shall not go away for one hour time. After that, he took off his slouch hat with a sweeping bow. You may go to hell. Behind him, the bushes parted closed. Jose Quintana had made his adieu. End of Episode 8 Episode 9 of The Flaming Jewel This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Flaming Jewel by Robert W. Chambers Episode 9 The Forest and Mr. Sard 1 When at last Jose Quintana had secured what he had been after for years, his troubles really began. In his pocket he had two million dollars worth of gems, including the Flaming Jewel. But he was in the middle of a wilderness ringed in by hostile men and obliged to rely for safety on a handful of the most desperate criminals in Europe. Those openly hostile to him had a wide net spread around him, wide of mesh too, perhaps. And it was through a mesh he meant to wiggle, but the net was intact from Canada to New York. Canadian police and secret agents held it on the north. This he had learned from Jake Klune long since. East, west, and south he knew he had this troopers of the New York state constabulary to deal with, and in addition every game warden and fire warden in the state forests, a swarm of plain clothesmen from the metropolis, and the rural constabulary of every town along the edges of the vast reservation. Just who was responsible for this enormous conspiracy to rob him of what he considered his own legitimate loot Quintana did not know? Sard's attorney Eddie Abrams believed that the French police instigated it through agents in the United States Secret Service. Of one thing Quintana was satisfied, Mike Klinch had nothing to do with stirring up the authorities. Lawbreakers of his sort didn't shout for the police or invoke state or government aid. As for the status of Dara, or Hal Smith, as he supposed him to be, Quintana took him for what he seemed to be, a well-born young man gone wrong. Europe was full of that kind. To Quintana there was nothing suspicious about Hal Smith. On the contrary, his clever recklessness confirmed that polish banned its opinion that Smith was a gentleman degenerated into a crook. It takes an educated imagination for a man to do what Smith had done to him. If the common crook has any imagination at all, it never is educated. Another matter worried Jose Quintana. He was not only short on provisions, but what remained was cashed in Drown Valley, and Mike Klinch and his men were guarding every inlet to that sinister region, except only the rocky and submerged trail by which he had made his exit. That was annoying. It cut off provisions and liquor from Canada, for which he had arranged with Jake Klune, for Klune's hoochrunners now would be stopped by Klinch and not one among them knew about the rocky trail in. All these matters were disquieting enough, but what really in most deeply troubled Quintana was his knowledge of his own men. He did not trust one among them. Of intentional crookdom, they were the cream. Not one of them, but would have murdered his fellow if the loot were worth it and the chances of escape sufficient. There was no loyalty to him, none to one another, no honour among thieves, and it was Jose Quintana who knew that only in a romance such things existed. No, he could not trust a single man. Only hope of plunder attached these marauders to him, and merely because he had education and imagination enough to provide what they wanted. Anyone among them would murder and rob him if opportunity presented. Now, how to keep his loot, how to get back to Europe with it was the problem that confronted Quintana after robbing Dara, and he determined to settle part of that question at once. About five miles from Herod Place, with a hundred rods of which he had held up Hal Smith, Quintana halted, seated himself on a rotting log, and waited until his men came up and gathered around him. For a little while, in utter silence, his keen eyes travelled from one visage to the next, from Henry Pickett to Victor Georgiatis to Sanchez to Sard. His intense scrutiny focused on Sard, lingered. If there was anybody he might trust a little way, it would be Sard. Then a polite, untroubled smile smoothed the pale, dark features of Jose Quintana. Bien, monsieurs. The coup has been success. Yes, very well. In turn, then, and on court, with our custom, I shall dispose myself to listen to your good advice. He looked at Henry Pickett, smiled, and nodded in invitation to speak. Pickett shrugged. For me, mon capitaine, it is very simple. We are five, therefore, divide into fives he gems. After that, each one for himself to make his way out. Nick Salazar and Harry Beck are in Drowned Valley, interrupted Quintana. Pickett shrugged again, Sanchez laughed, saying, If there, there, it is their misfortune. Also, we others are in a hurry. Pickett added, Also, five shares are sufficient division. It is proposed, then, that we abandon our comrades Beck and Salazar to the rifle of Mike Clinch. Why not, demanded Giorgiata solemnly. We shall have worse to face before we see the place de la apre. There remains also Eddie Abrams, remarked Quintana. Crooks never betray their attorney. Everybody expressed a willingness to have the five shares of plunder properly assessed to satisfy the fee due to Mr. Abrams. Very well, nodded Quintana, are you satisfied, monsieurs, to divide and disperse? Sard said, heavily, that they ought to stick together until they arrived in New York. Sanchez sneered, accused Sard of wanting a bodyguard to escort him to his own home. In this accursed forest, he insisted five of us would attract attention where one alone with sufficient stealth can slip through into open country. Two by two is better, said Pickett. You, Sanchez, shall travel alone if you desire. Divide the gems first, growled Giorgiata, and then let each do what pleases him. That, nodded Quintana, is also my opinion. It is so subtle. Attention! Two pistols were in his hands as by magic, with a slight smile, he laid them on the moss beside him. He then spread a large white handkerchief flat on the ground, and from his pockets he poured out the glittering cascade. Yet, like a feeding panther, every sense remained alert to the slightest sound or movement elsewhere, and when Giorgiata's grunted from excess emotion, Quintana's right hand held a pistol before the grunted ceased. It was a serious business, this division of loot. Every reckless visage reflected the strain of the situation. Quintana, both pistols in his hands, looked down at the scintillating heap of jewels. I estimate two and one-quarter million of dollars, he said simply. It has been agreed that I asset for me the aerosite gem known as the flaming jewel. In addition, Miseres, it has been agreed that I asset for myself one part in five of the remainder. A fierce silence reigned. Every wolfish eye was on the leader. He smiled, rested his pair of pistols on either knee. Is there, he asked softly, any gentleman who shall object. Who, demanded Giorgiata's hoarsely, is to divide for us. It is for such purpose, explained Quintana swathly, that my friend Emmanuel Sard has arrived. Monsieurs Sard is a broker of diamonds, as all know very well. Therefore, it shall be our friend Sard who will divide for us what we have gained today by our industry. The savage tension broke with a laugh at the word chosen by Quintana to express their efforts of the morning. Sard had been standing with one fat hand flat against the trunk of a tree. Now, at a nod from Quintana, he squatted down, and with the same hand that had been resting against the tree, he spread out the pile of jewels into a flat layer. As he began to divide this into five parts, still using the flat of his pudgy hand, something poked him lightly in the ribs. It was the muzzle of one of Quintana's pistols. Sard, ghastly pale, looked up. His palms, sticky with balsam gum, quivered in Quintana's grasp. I was going to scrape it off, he gassed. The tree was sticky. Quintana, with the muzzle of his pistol, detached half a dozen diamonds and rubies that clung to the gum of Mr. Sard's palm. Wash, he said dryly. Sard, sweating with fear, washed his right hand with whiskey from his pocket flask and dried it for general inspection. My God, he protested tremulously. It was accidental, gentlemen. Do you think I'd try to get away with anything like that? Quintana coolly shoved him aside with the barrel of his pistol. He pushed the flat pile of gems into five separate heaps. Only he and Georgiatus knew what a magnificent diamond had been lodged in the muzzle of his pistol. The eyes of the Greek flamed with rage at the trick, but he awaited the division before he should come to any conclusion. Quintana coolly picked out the flaming jewel and pocketed it. Then, to each man, he indicated the heaped was to be his portion. A snarling wrangle instantly began, Sanchez objecting to rubies and demanding more emerald and paquette complaining violently concerning the smallness of the diamonds allotted to him. Sard's trained eyes appraised every allotment without weighing and lacking time and paraphernalia for expert examination. He was inclined to think the division was fair enough. Quintana got to his feet lithuely. For me, he said, it is finished. With my friends, Sard, I shall now depart. Messieurs, I embrace and salute you. Abien toi, in Paris, if it be God's will. Donc au revoir. Les amis et à la bonne heure. Allons. Each for himself and gar aux flics. Sard seized with a sort of still terror regarded Quintana with enormous eyes, torn between dismay of being left alone in the wilderness and a very fear of any single companion. He did not know what to say or do. On mass, the gang were too distrustful of one another to unite on robbing any individual, but any individual might easily rob a companion when alone with him. Why? Why can't we all go together? He stammered. It is safer. Sure. I go with Quintana and you, interrupted Georgiata, smiling, his mind on the diamond in the muzzle of Quintana's pistol. I do not invite you, said Quintana, but come if it pleases you. I also prefer to come with the others, growls Sanchez. To roam alone in this filthy forest does not suit me. Picat shrugged his shoulders, turned on his heel in silence. They watched him moving away all alone, eastward. When he had disappeared among the trees, Quintana looked inquiringly at the others. Eh bien, non elos! Snarled Georgiata suddenly. There are too many in your troop, Mon Capitán. Bonne chance! He turned and started noisily in the direction taken by Picat. They watched him out of sight, listened to his careless trample after he was lost to view. When at length the last distant sound of his retreat had died away in the stillness, Quintana touched Sar with the point of his pistol. Go first, he said, suavely. For God's sake, be a little careful of your gun. I am, my dear friend. It is of you I may become careless. You will most kindly face south, and you will be Quintana's sufficient to start immediate. That's what I mean. I thank you. Now, my friend Sanchez, that's correct. You shall follow my friend Sard. Very close. Me, I march in the rear. So we shall pass to the east of the star pond, then between the crossroad and Ghost Lake, and then we shall repose, and one of us, Envade, shall discover if the constable or have patrol beyond, along's march. Two, guided by Quintana's directions, the three had made wide detour to the east, steering by compass for the crossroads beyond star pond. In a dense growth of cedars, on a little ridge traversing wetland, Quintana halted to listen. Sard and Sanchez, supposing to be at their heels, continued on, pushing their way blindly through the cedars, clinging to the hard ridge and terror of sinkholes. But their progress was very slow, and they were still in sight, fighting a painful path amid the evergreens when Quintana suddenly squatted close to the moist earth behind a juniper bush. At first, except for the threshing of Sard and Sanchez through the mass of obstructions ahead, there was not a sound in the woods. After a little while there was a sound, a very, very slight. No dry stick cracked, no dry leaves rustled, no swish of foliage, no whipping sound to branches disturbed the intense silence. But presently came a soft, swift rhythm, like the pace of a forest creature in haste. A discreetly hurrying tread, which was more of a series of light earth shocks than sound. Quintana, kneeling on one knee, lifted his pistols. He already felt the slight vibration of the ground on the hard ridge. The cedars were moving just beyond him now. He waited until through the parted foliage, a face appeared. The loud report of his pistol struck Sard with the horror of paralysis. Sanchez faced about with one spring snarling a weapon in either hand. In the terrible silence, they could hear something heavy floundering in the bushes, choking, moaning, thudding on the ground. Sanchez began to creep back. Sard, more dead than alive, crawled at his heels. Presently they saw Quintana waist-deep in juniper looking down at something. And when they drew closer, they saw Georgiatis lying on his back under a cedar, the whole front of his shirt, from chest to belly, a sopping mess of blood. There seemed to be no need of explanation. The dead Greek lay where he had not been expected, and his two pistols laid beside him where he had fallen. Sanchez looked stealthily at Quintana, who said softly. He began sure, in his left side pocket, I believe. Sanchez laid cool hand on the dead man's heart, then satisfied, rummaged until he found Georgiatis' share of the loot. Sard hurriedly displayed a pair of clean but shaky hands made the division. When the three men had silently pocketed what was allotted to each, Quintana pushed curiously at the dead man with a tow of his shoe. Pesta, he remarked. I had place, for security, a very large diamond in my pistol-barrel. Now it is within the interior of this gentleman. He turned to Sanchez. I sell him to you, one sapphire, yes? Sanchez shits head with a slight sneer. We wait, if you want your diamond, Mon Capitan. Quintana hesitated, then made a grimace and shook his head. No, he said. He is swallow, let him digest, along's march. But after they had gone on, two hundred yards perhaps, Sanchez stopped. Well, inquired Quintana, then with a sneer. I now recollect that once you have been butcher in Madrid. Such a tossa la me, Sanchez. Sard gazed at Sanchez out of sickened eyes. You keep away from me until you've washed yourself, he burst out, revolted. Don't you come near me till you're clean. Quintana laughed and seated himself. Sanchez, with a hanged-dog glance at him, turned and sneaked back on the trail they had traversed. Before he was out of sight, Sard saw him fish out a Spanish knife from his hip pocket and unclasp it. Almost nauseated, he turned on Quintana in a sort of frightened fury. Come on, he said hoarsely. I don't want to travel with that man. I want to associate with a ghoul. My God, I'm a respectable businessman. Yes, Drog, Quintana. That's what I saw always myself, my friend. Sard, he is very respectable. As I trust him, like I trust myself. However, after a moment, Quintana got up from the fallen trees where he had been seated. As he passed Sard, he looked curiously into the man's frightened eyes. There was not the slightest doubt that Sard was a coward. You shall walk behind me, remarked Quintana carelessly. If Sanchez find us, it is well. If shall not, that also is very well. We go now. Sanchez made no effort to find them. He had been gone half an hour before he had finished the business that had turned him back. After that he wandered about hunting for water, a rivulet, a puddle, anything. The wet ground proved wet only on the surface moss. Sanchez needed more than damp moss for his toilette. Casting about him, hither and thither, for some depression that might indicate a stream, he came to a heavily wooded slope and descended it. There was a bog at the foot. With his fouled hands, he dug out a basin, which filled up full of reddish water, discolored by alders. But the water was redder still when his toilette had ended. As he stood there, examining his clothes, and washing what he could of the ominous stains from his sleeves and shoe, very far away to the north he heard a curious noise, a far-faint sound such as he never before had heard. If it were a voice of any sort, there was nothing human about it, probably some sort of unknown bird, perhaps a bird of prey, that was natural considering the attraction that Georgiatus would have for such creatures. If it were a bird, it must be a large one, he thought, because there was a certain volume to the cry. Perhaps it was a beast, after all, some unknown beast of the forest. Sanchez was suddenly afraid, scarcely knowing what he had been doing, he began to run along the edge of the bog. First growth timber skirted it, running was unobstructed by underbrush. With his startled ears full of the alarming and unknown sound, he ran through the woods under gigantic pines, which spread a soft green twilight around him. He was tired or thought he was, but the alarming sounds were filling his ears now, the entire forest seemed full of them, echoing in all directions, coming in upon him from everywhere, so that he knew not which direction to run. But he could not stop, demoralized, he darted this way and that, terror winged his feet, the air vibrated above and around him with the dreadful unearthly sound. The next instant he fell headlong over a ledge, struck water, felt himself world around in the icy rushing current, rolled over, tumbled through rapids, blind, deafened, choked, swept helplessly in a vast green wall of water towards something that thundered in his brain an instant, then dashed it into roaring chaos. Half a mile down the turbulent outlet of Starpond, where a great sheet of green water pours 30 feet into the tossing foam below and spinning, dipping, diving, bobbing up like a lust log after the drive, the body of Senor Sanchez danced all alone in the wilderness, spilling from soggy pants, diamonds, sapphires, rubies, emeralds, and crystal caves where only the shadows of slim trout stirred. Very far away to the eastward, Quintana stood listening, clutching sard by one sleeve to silence him. Presently he said, My friend, somebody is hunting with hounds in this forest. Maybe they are not hunting us. Maybe, for me, I shall seek running water. Go your own way. Hoop, vamoose! He turned westward. He had taken scarcely a dozen strides when sard came panting after him. Don't leave me, gasp, a terrified diamond broker. I don't know where to go. Quintana faced him abruptly with a terrifying smile and a glimmer of white teeth, and shoved a pistol into the fold of fat beneath sard's double chin. You hear those dogs? Yes? Very well. I also. Run now. I say you run very damn quick. Hey, hoop, alevu en. Beat it! He struck sard a stinging blow on his fleshy ear with a pistol barrel, and sard gave a muffled shriek, which was more like the squeak of a frightened animal. My god, Quintana, he sobbed. Then Quintana's eyes blazed murder, and sard turned and ran lumbering through the thicket like a stampeded ox, crashing on amid withered break, white birch scrub and briar, not knowing whether he was headed crazed with terror. Quintana watched his flight for a moment. Then, pistol-swinging, he ran in opposite direction, eastward, speeding lithly as a cat down a long, wooded slope which promised running water at the foot. Sard could not run very far, and he could scarcely stand when he pulled up and clung to the trunk of a tree. More dead than alive, he embraced the tree, gulping horribly for air, every fat-incrusted organ laboring, his senses swimming. As he sagged there, gripping his support on shaking knees by degrees, his senses began to return. He could hear the dogs now vaguely as in a nightmare, but after a little while he began to believe that their hysterical yelping was growing more distant. Then this man whose every breath was an outrage on God prayed. He prayed that the hounds would follow Quintana, come up with him, drag him down, worry him, tear him to shreds of flesh and clothing. He listened and prayed alternately. After a while he no longer prayed, but concentrated on his ears. Surely, surely, the diabolical sound was growing less distinct. It was changing direction, too, but whether in Quintana's direction or not, Sar could not tell. He was no woodsman. He was completely turned around. He looked upward through a dense yellow foliage, but all was gray in the sky, very gray and still, and there seemed to be no traces of a sun that had been shining. He looked fearfully around. Trees, trees, and more trees, no break, no glimmer, nothing to guide him, teach him. He could see perhaps fifty feet no further. In panic he started to move on. This is what fright invariably does to those ignorant of the four. Terror starts them moving. Sobbing, frightened, almost whittless, he had been floundering forward for over an hour, and it made circle after circle without knowing. One by chance he set foot in a perfectly plain trail. Emotion overpowered him. He was too overcome to stir for a while. At length, however, he trotted off down the trail. Oblivious as to what direction he was taking, animated only by a sort of madness, horror of trees, an insane necessity to see open ground get into it and lie down on it. And now, directly overhead, he saw clear gray sky low through the trees, the woods edge. He began to run as he emerged from the edge of the woods, waist deep in brush and weeds, wide before his bloodshot eyes spread star pond. Even in his half stupefied brain, there was memory enough left for recognition. He remembered the lake. His gaze traveled to the westward. He saw clenches dump standing below, stark, silent, doors swinging open in the wind. When terror had subsided in a measure, and some of his trembling strength returned, he got up out of the clump of ragweeds where he had laid down and earnestly nosed at the unpainted house, listened with all his ears. There was not a sound save as softening of autumn winds and the delicate rattle of falling leaves in the woods behind him. He needed food and rest. He gazed earnestly at the house. Nothing stirred there save the open doors swinging idly in every vagrant wind. He ventured down a little way near enough to see the black cinders of the burning barn and close enough to hear the lake water slapping the sandy shore. If he dared, after a long while he ventured to waddle near, slinking through brush and frosted weed, creeping behind boulders, edging always closer and closer to that silent house where nothing moved except the wind-blown door. And now at last he set a furtive foot upon the threshold, stood listening, tiptoed in, peered here and there, sidled to the dining-room, peered in. When at length Emanuel Sard discovered that clinch's dump was tenantless, he made straight for the pantry. Here was cheese, crackers, and apple pie, half a dozen bottles of home-brewed beer. He loaded his arms with all they could carry, stole through the dance hall out to the veranda which overlooked the lake. Here, hidden in the doorway, he could watch the road from Ghost Lake and survey the hillside down which an intruder must come from the forest. And here Sard slaked his raging thirst and satiated the gnawing appetite of the obese, then which there is no crueler torment to an inert liver and distended punch. Munching, guzzling, watching, Sard squatted just within the veranda door, anxiously considering his chances. He knew where he was. At the foot of the lake in eastward, he had been robbed by a highwayman on the forest road branching from the main highway, southwest, Lake Ghost Lake, in the inn. Somewhere between these two points, he must try to cross the state road. After that, comparative safety, for the miles that would still lie between him and distant civilization seemed as nothing to the horror of that hell of trees. He looked up now at the shaggy fringing wood shuttered and opened another bottle of beer. In all that panorama of forest, swale, and water, the only thing that had alarmed him at all by moving was something in the water. When first he noticed, he was almost swoon, for he took it to be a swimming dog. In his agitation, he had risen to his feet. Then this swimming creature almost frightened Sard out of his senses, for it tilted suddenly and went down with the report like the crack of a pistol. However, when Sard regained control of his wits, he realized that a swimming dog doesn't dive and doesn't whack the water with its tail. He dimly remembered hearing that beavers behave that way. Watching the water, he saw the thing out there in the look again, swimming in erratic circles, its big dog-like head welling out of the water. It certainly was no dog, a beaver, maybe, whatever it was, Sard didn't care any longer. Idly he watched it. Sometimes when it swam very near, he made a sudden motion with his fat arm and crack, with a pistol shot report down it dived, but always it reappeared. What had a creature like that to do with him? Sard watched it with failing interest, thinking of other things, of Quintana and the chances that the dogs had caught him. Of Sanchez, the ghoul hoping that dire misfortune might overtake him, too, of a dead man sprawling under the cedar tree, all sopping crimson. Shivering, Sard filled his mouth with apple pie and cheese and pulled the cork from another bottle of homebrewed beer. Three. About that time, a mile and a half to the southward, James Dara came out on the rocky and rushy outlet of Starpond. Over his shoulder was a rifle, and all around him ran dogs, big, powerful dogs, built like foxhounds, but with the rough, wiry coats of air dales, even rougher of ear and features. The dogs, half a dozen or so in number, seemed very tired, all round down idly to the water and drank and slobbered and panted, lulling their tongues and slaking their thirst again and again along the swirling edge of the deep trout pool. Dara's rifle lay in the hollow of his left arm. His khaki waistcoat was set with loops full of cartridges from his left wrist hung a raw-hide whip. Now he laid aside his rifle and whip, took from the pockets of his shooting coats three or four leather dog leashes, went down among the dogs and coupled them up. They followed him back to the bank above. Here he sat down on a rock and inspected his watch. He had been seated there for 10 minutes possibly with his tired dogs lying around him. When just above him he saw a state trooper emerge from the woods on foot, carrying a rifle over one shoulder. Jack, he called in a guarded voice. Trooper Stormont turned, caught sight of Dara, made a signal of recognition and came toward him. Dara said, Your mate, Trooper Lannis, is downstream. I have two of my own game wardens at the crossroads, two more on Ghost Lake Road, and two foresters and inspector out toward Owl Marsh. Stormont nodded and looked down at the dogs. This isn't the state forest, said Dara smiling, then his face grew gray. How's Eve, he asked. She's feeling better, replied Stormont. I telephoned to Ghost Lake Inn for the hotel physician. I was afraid of pneumonia, Jim. Eve had chills last night, but Dr. Claiborne thinks she's all right, so I left her in care of your housekeeper. Mrs. Ray will look out for her. You haven't told Eve who I am, have you? No. I'll tell her myself tonight. I don't know how she'll take it when she learns I'm the heir to the mortal enemy of Mike Clinch. I don't know either, said Stormont. There was a silence. The state trooper looked down at the dogs. What are they, Jim? Otterhounds, said Dara, a breed of my own. But that's all they're capable of hunting, I guess, he added grimly. Stormont's gaze questioned him. Dara said, after I telephoned you this morning, that a guest of mine had herred place, and I had been stuck up and robbed by Quintana's outfit. What did you do, Jack? I called up Bill Lannis first, said Stormont, then the doctor. After he came, Mrs. Ray arrived with a maid. Then I went in and spoke to Eve. Then I did what you suggested. I crossed the forest diagonally toward the scar. Zigzag North, turned by the rock-hog back, south of Drowned Valley, came southeast, circled west, then came out here as you asked me to. Almost on the minute, not at Dara. You saw no sign of Quintana's gang? None. Well, said Dara. I left my two guests at Herod's place to amuse each other, got out three couple of my otterhounds and started with them as I hoped and supposed on Quintana's trail. What happened, inquired Stormont curiously. Well, I don't know. I think they were following some of Quintana's gang for a while. Anyway, after that, God knows. Deer, hare, cottontail? I don't know. They yelled their bolly heads off, eye on the run. They're slow dogs, you know, and whatever they were after either fooled them, or there were too many trails. I made a mistake, that's all. These poor beasts don't know anything except an otter. I just hope they might take Quintana's trail if I put them on it. Well, said Stormont, can't be helped now. I told Bill Lannis that we'd rendezvous at Clinch's dump. All right, not at Dara. Let's keep to the open. My dogs are leash couples. They had been walking for 20 minutes, possibly exchanging scarcely a word, and they were now nearing the hilly basin where Star Pawn lay when Dara said abruptly, I'm going to tell you about things, Jack. You've taken my word so far that it's all right. Naturally, said Stormont simply, the two men who had been brother officers in the Great War glanced at each other, slightly smiling. Here it is, then, said Dara. When I was on duty in Riga for the Intelligence Department, I met two ladies in dire distress, whose mansion had been burned and looted, supposedly by the Bolsheviki. They were actually hungry and penniless, and only clothing they possessed they were wearing. These ladies were the Countess Orlov Sterilwitz, and a young girl, Theodorica, Grand Duchess of Estonia. I did what I could for them. After a while, in the course of the utter duty, I found out that the Bolsheviki had had nothing to do with the arson and robbery, but that the crime had been perpetrated by Jose Quintana's gang of international crooks masquerading as Bolsheviki. Stormont nodded. I also came across similar cases, he remarked. Well, this was a flagrant example. Quintana had burned the Chateau and had made off with over two million dollars worth of the Little Grand Duchess jewels. Among them, the famous aerosite gem known as the Flaming Jewel. I've heard of it. There are only two others known, while I did what I could with the Estonian police who didn't believe me. But a short time ago, Countess Orlov sent me word that Quintana really was the guilty one, and that he had started for America. I've been after him ever since, but Jack, until this morning, Quintana did not possess these stolen jewels. Clinch did what? Clinch served overseas in a forestry regiment, and in Paris he robbed Quintana of these jewels. That's why I've been hanging around Clinch. Stormont's face was flushed and incredulous. Then it lost color as he thought of the jewels that Eve had concealed, the gems for which she had risked her life. He said, But you tell me Quintana robbed you this morning. The Little Grand Duchess and Countess Orlov Strelwitz are my guests at Herd Place. Last night I snatched the case containing these gems from Quintana's fingers. This morning, as I offered them to the Grand Duchess, Quintana coolly stepped out between us. His voice became bitter, and his features reddened with rage, poorly controlled. By God, Jack, I should have shot Quintana when the opportunity offered. Twice I've had the chance. Next time I shall kill him any way I can legitimately. Of course, said Stormont gravely, but his mind was full of the jewels which Eve had. What and whose were they if Quintana again had the Estonian gems in his possession? Had you recovered all of the jewels for the Grand Duchess, he asked Dara? Every one, Jack, Quintana had done me a terrible injury. I shan't let it go. I need to hunt that man to the end. Stormont terribly perplexed, nodded. A few minutes later, as they came out among the willows and alders on the northeast side of Starpond, Stormont touched his comrade's arm. Look at that enormous dog otter out there in the lake. Grab those dogs, they'll strangle each other, cried Dara quickly. That's it, unleash them, Jack, and let them go. He was struggling with the other two couples while speaking. And now the hounds, unleashed, lifted frantic voices. The very sky, filled full of a discordant tumult, would ensure reverberated with the volume of convulsive and dissonant bang. Damn it, said Dara, disgusted. That's what they'd been trailing all the while across woods, that devilish dog otter yonder. And I had hoped they were on Quintana's trail. Amass, rush, and scurry crazed dogs nearly swept him off his feet. Both men caught a glimpse of a large bitch otter taking on the lake from a ledge of rock just beyond. Now the sky vibrated with a deafening outcry of the dogs, some taking to water, others racing madly along shore. Crack, the echoed dog otters, blow on the water came across them as the beast dived. Well, I'm in for it now, muttered Dara, starting along the bank toward Clint's dumps to keep an eye on his dogs. Stormont followed more leisurely. Four. A few minutes before Dara and Stormont had come out on the farther edge of the star pond, Sard, who had heard from Quintana about the big drain pipe which led from Clint's pantry into the lake, decided to go in and take a look at it. He had been told all about its uses, how Clint, in the event of a raid by state troopers or government enforcement agents, could empty his contraband hooch into the lake if necessary, and even could slide a barrel of ale or a keg of rum intact into the great tile tunnel and recover the liquor at his leisure. Also, and grimly, Quintana had admitted that through the strain, Eve Strayer and state trooper of Stormont had escaped from Clint's dump. So now, Sard, full of curiosity, went back into the pantry to look at it for himself. Almost instantly, the idea occurred to him to make use of the strain for his own safety and comfort. Why shouldn't he sleep in the pantry, lock the door, and in case of intrusion, other exits being unavailable, why shouldn't he feel entirely safe with such an avenue of escape open? For swimming was Sard's single accomplishment. He wasn't afraid of the water. He simply couldn't sink. Swimming was the only sport he had ever indulged in. He adored it. Also, the mere idea of sleeping alone amid that hell of trees terrified Sard, never had he known such a horror as when the Quintana abandoned him in the woods. Never again could he gaze upon a tree without malignant hatred. Never again did he desire to lay eyes upon even a bush. The very sight now of a dusky forest filled him with loathing. Why should he not risk one night in this deserted house? Sleep well and warmly, feed well, drink his belly full of clinches beer before attending the deadline southward, where he was only too sure that patrols were riding and hiding in the lookout for the fancy gentleman of Jose Quintana's selected company of malfactors. Well, here in the snug pantry were pies, cruelers, bread, cheeses, various dried meats, tin vegetables, ham, bacon, fuel, and range to prepare what he desired. Here was beer, too, and doubtless ardent spirits he could nose out the hidden demi-jons and bottles. He peered out of the pantry window at the forest, shuttered, cursed it in every separate tree in it, cursed Quintana, too, wishing him black mischance. No, it was settled. He'd take his chance here in the pantry. And there must be a mattress somewhere upstairs. He climbed the staircase cautiously, discovered clinches' bedroom, took the mattress and blankets from the bed, dragged them into the pantry. Could an honest man be more tight and snug in this perilous world of a desperate and undeserving? Sard thought not. But one matter troubled him. The lock of the pantry door had been shattered. To remedy this, he moused around until he discovered some long nails in a claw hammer. When he was ready to go to sleep, he'd nail himself in. And in the morning he pried the door loose. That was simple. Sard chuckled for the first time since he had set eyes upon the accursed region. And now the sun came up behind a low bank of solid gray clouds and fell upon the countenance of Emmanuel Sard. It warmed his parrot nose agreeably. It cheered and enlivened him. Not for him, a night of terrors in that horrible forest which he could see through the pantry window. A sense of security and a well-being pervaded Sard to his muddy shoes. He even curled his fat toes in them with animal contentment. A little snack before cooking a heavily satisfactory dinner? Certainly. He tucked a couple of bottle of beers under one arm, a loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese under the other and wallowed out onto the verandah door. And at that very instant, the very heavens echoed with that awful tumult which had first paralyzed then crazed him in the woods. Bottles, bread, cheese fell from his grasp and his knees nearly collapsed under him. In the bushes on the lakeshore, he saw animals leaping and racing, but in his terror he did not recognize them for dogs. Then suddenly he saw a man close to the house running and another man not far behind. That he understood and it electrified him to action. It was too late to escape from the house now. He understood that instantly. He ran back through the dance hall and dining room to the pantry, but he dared not let these intruders hear the noise of hammering. In an agony of indecision he stood trembling, listening to the infernal racket of the dogs and waiting for the first footstep within the house. No step came, but chanceing to look over his shoulder he saw a man peering through the pantry window at him. Ungovernable terror seized Sard. Scarcely aware of what he was about, he seized the edges of the big drainpipe and crowded his obese body into it head first. He was so fat and heavy that he filled the tile. To start himself down, he pulled with both his hands and kicked himself forward toward his leg down the slanting tunnel, sticking now and then dragging himself on and downward. Now he began to gain momentum. He felt himself sliding, not fast, but steadily. There came a hitch somewhere. His heavy body stuck on the steep incline. Then, as he lifted his bewildered head and strove to peer into the blackness in front, he saw four balls of green fire close to him in the darkness. He began to slide at the same instant and flung out both hands to check himself, but his palms slid in the slime and his body slid after them. He shrieked once as his face struck a furry obstruction where four balls of green fire flamed horribly and a fury of murderous teeth tore his face and throat to bloody tatters as he slid lower, lower, settling through crimson-dyed water into the icy depths of Starpond. Stormont, down by the lake, called the Dara who appeared on the veranda. Oh, Jim, both otters crawled into that drain. I think your dogs must have killed one of them underwater. There's a big patch of blood spreading offshore. Yes, said Dara. Something's just been killed. Somewhere, Jack. Yes? Pull both your guns and come up here quick. End of episode nine. Episode ten of The Flaming Jewel. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Flaming Jewel by Robert W. Chambers. Episode ten, The Twilight of Mike. One. When Quintana turned like an enraged snake on Sard and drove him to his destruction, he would have killed and robbed the frightened diamond broker had he dared risk the shot. He had intended to do this anyway sooner or later, but with the noise of the hunting dogs filling the forest, Quintana was afraid to fire. Yet even then, he followed Sard stealthily for a few minutes, afraid yet murderously, desirous of the gems, confused by the tumult of the hounds, timid and ferocious at the same time, and loathe to leave his fat, perspiring and demoralized victim. But the rack of the dogs proved too much for Quintana. He sheared away toward the south, leaving Sard floundering on ahead, unconscious of the treachery that had followed furtively in his panic-stricken tracks. About an hour later, Quintana was seen, challenged, chased and shot at by Trooper Lannis. Quintana ran, and what with the dense growth of seedling beach and oak and heavily falling birch and poplar leaves, Lannis first lost Quintana, and then his trail. The state trooper had left his horse at the crossroads near the scene of Dara's mass exploit, where he had stopped and robbed Sard, and now Lannis hastened back to find and mount his horse and galloped straight into the first growth timber. Through dim aisles of great pine, he spurred to a dead run on the chance of cutting Quintana from the eastward edge of the forest and forcing him back toward the north or west, where patrols were more likely to hold him. The state trooper rode with all the reckless indifference and grace of the western cavalrymen. He seemed to be part of the superb animal he rode, part of its bone and muscle, its litheness, its supple power, part of its vertebrae and ribs and limbs, so perfect was their bodily coordination. Rifle and eyes tently alerted, the rider's scarce notice to his rushing mount, and if he guided with wrist and knee, it was instinctive, and as though the horse were guiding them both. And now, far ahead through this primeval stand of pine, sunshine glimmered, warning of a clearing, and here trooper Lannis pulled in his horse at the edge of what seemed to be a broad, flat meadow, vividly green, but it was the intense, arcenical green of hair-fine grass that covered with its false velvet those quaking bogs were only a thin, crust-like skin of root fiber and vegetation cover infinite depths of silt. The silt had no more substance than drop of ink coloring the water in a tumbler. Sitting his fast-breathing mount, Lannis searched this wide, flat expanse of brilliant green. Nothing moved on it, save a green heron picking its deliberate way on stilt-like legs. It was well for Quintana that he had not attempted it. Very cautiously Lannis walked his horse along the hard ground which edged this marsh on the west. Nowhere was there any sign that Quintana had come down to the edge among the shrubs and swale grasses. Beyond the marsh another trooper patrolled, and when at length he and Lannis perceived each other and exchanged signals, the latter wheeled his horse and retraced his route at an easy canter, satisfied that Quintana had not broken cover. Back through the first growth he cantered his rifle at ready, carefully scanning the more open woodlands, and so came again to the crossroads, and here stood a state game inspector, with a report that some sort of beagle pack was hunting in the forest to the northwest and very curious to investigate. So it was arranged that the inspector should turn road patrol and the trooper become the rover. There was no sound of dogs when Lannis rode in on the narrow, spotted trail once he had flushed Quintana into the dense growth of saplings that bordered it. His horse made little noise on the moist layer of leaves and forest mold. He listened hard for the sound of hounds as he rode, heard nothing save the chur of red squirrels, the shriek of a watching jay, or the startling noise of falling acorns wrapping and knocking on great limbs in their descent to the forest floor. Once very far away westward in the direction of star pond, he fancy heard a faint vibration in the air that might have been hounds' bang. He was right, and at that very moment Sard was dying, horribly among two trapped otters, as big and fierce as the dogs that had driven them into the drain. But Lannis knew nothing of that as he moved on, mounted along the spotted trail, now all yellow glory of birch and poplar which made the woodland brilliant as though led by yellow glanterns. Somewhere among the birches between him and a star pond was Herd Place, and the idea occurred to him that Quintana might have ventured to ask food and shelter there, yet that was not likely because Trooper Storma had called him that morning on the telephone from the hatchery lodge. No, the only logical retreat for Quintana was northward to the mountains, where patrols were plenty and fire wardens on duty in every watchtower, or the fugitive could make for Drowned Valley by a blind trail which Storma informed him existed, which Lannis never had heard of. However, to reassure himself, Lannis rode as far as Herd Place and found game wardens on duty along the line. Then he turned west and trotted his mount down to the hatchery where he saw Ralph Weir, the superintendent standing outside the lodge talking to his assistant George Frye. When Lannis rode up on the opposite side of the book, he called across to Weir. You haven't seen anything of any crooked outfits around here, have you Ralph? I'm looking for that kind. See here, said superintendent. I don't know, but George Frye may have seen one of your guys. Come over and he'll tell you what happened an hour ago. Trooper Lannis pivoted his horse, put him to the brook with scarcely any takeoff, and the splendid animal cleared the water like a deer and came cantering up to the door of the lodge. Frye's boyish face seemed agitated. He looked up at the state trooper with the flush of tears in his gaze and pointed at the rifle Lannis carried. If I'd had that, he said excitedly, I'd have brought in a crook you bet. Where did you see him? Just west of the scour about an hour and a half ago. Weir and me was stalking the head of scour brook with fingerlings. There's more good water two miles up to the east and all it needed was a fish ladder around scour falls. So I towed an instrument and sand and grub last week. And I built me a shanny on the scour and I'd been laying up a fish way around the falls. So that's how I come there. He clicked his teeth and darted a furious glance at the woods. By God, he said, I was such a fool I didn't take no rifle. All I had was an axe and a few traps. I wasn't going to let the mink get our trout, whatever you fellas say, he added defiantly, and law or no law. Get along with your story, young man, interrupted Lannis. You can spill the rest of it out to the commissioner. All right then. This is the way it happened down to the scour. I was eaten lunch by the fish dares, looking up at him in kind of plan and how to save cement, not thinking about anybody being near me when something made me turn my head. You know how it is in the woods, I kind of felt somebody near. And by cracky, there stood a man with a big black automatic pistol, and he had a bead on my belly. Well, said I, What's troubling you when you're gunned, my friend? I was that astonished. He was a slim built, powerful guy with a foreign face and a voice and way. He wanted to know if he had the honor, as he put it, to introduce himself to a detective or game constable or friend of my clinch. I told him I wasn't any of these, that I worked in a private hatchery. He called me a liar. Young fry's face flushed and his voice began to quiver. That's the way he misused me, and he backed me into a shanty. I had to sit down with both hands up. Then he filled my pack basket with grub and took my axe, strapped my kid onto his back, talking all the time in his mean, sneering, foreign way. I guess he thought he was funny, for he laughed at his own jokes. He told me his name was Quintana, and that he ought to shoot me for a rat, but wouldn't because of the stink. Then he said he was going to do a quick job that the police were too cowardly to do, that he was going to find Mike clinch, down, down valley and kill him. If he could catch Mike's daughter, too, he'd spoil her face for life. The boy was breathing so hard and his rage made him so incoherent that Lannis took him by the shoulder and shook him. What next demanded the trooper impatiently? Tell your story and quit thinking how you were misused. He told me to stay in the shanty for an hour, or he'd do for me good, cry-fried. Once I got up and went to the door, and there he stood by the brook, wolfing my lunch with both hands. I tell you, he cursed and drove me, like a dog, inside with his big pistol. My God, like a dog. Then the next time I took a chance, he was gone, and I beat it here to get me a rifle. The boy broke down and sobbed. He drove me around like a dog he did. You leave that to me, interrupted Lannis sharply, and to Weir. You and George would better get a gun apiece. That fellow might come back here or go to Herod Place if we starve him out. Weir said to Frye, go up to Herod Place and tell Jansen your story and bring back two 45s, 70s, and quit sniveling. You may get a shot at him yet. Lannis had already ridden back to the brook. Now he jumped his horse across, pulled up, called back to Weir. I think our man is making for Drowned Valley, all right. My mate Stormont telephoned me that some of his gang are there, and that Mike Clinch and his gang have stopped up the other side. Keep your eye on Herod Place, and away he cantered into the north. Behind the curtains of her open window, Eve Strayer lying on her bed had heard every word. Crouched there, beside her pillow, she peered out and saw Trooper Lannis ride away, saw the Frye Boy start toward Herod Place on a run, saw Ralph Weir watching him out of sight, and then turned and re-entered the lodge. Wrapped in Dara's big blanket robe, she got off the bed and opened her chamber door as Weir passed through the living room. Please, I'd like to speak to you a moment, she called. Weir turned instantly and came to the partly open door. I want to know, she said, where I am. Ma'am, what is this place? It's a hatchery. Who's? Ma'am. Who's lodge is this? Does it belong to Herod Place? Weir Hootrunners miss, stammered Weir, mindful of instructions, but making a poor business of deception. I and Hal Smith, we run an easy one. We strip trout for a blind and sell the Herod Place. Hal and I. Who is Hal Smith? she asked. Ma'am. The girl's flowery blue eyes turned icy. Who is the man who calls himself Hal Smith? she repeated. Weir looked at her red and dumb. Ma'am. Is he a trooper in plain clothes, she demanded in a bitter voice? Is he one of the commissioner's spies? Are you one too? Weir gazed miserably at her, unable to formulate a convincing lie. She flushed swiftly as a terrible suspicion seized her. Is this Herod property? Is Hal Smith old Herod's heir? Is he? My God, miss. He is. Listen, miss. She flung open the door and came out into the living room. Hal Smith is that nephew of old Herod, she said, comely. His name is Dara, and you are one of his wardens, and I can't stay here. Do you understand? Weir wiped his hot face and waited. The cat was out. There was a hole in the bag, and he knew there was no use in such lies as he could tell. He said, All I know, miss, is that I was to look after you and get you whatever you want. I want my clothes. Ma'am. My clothes, she repeated impatiently. I've got to have them. Where are they, ma'am? asked the bewildered ma'am. At the same moment the girl's eyes fell on a pile of men's sporting clothes, garments sent down from Herod Place to the lodge, lying on a leather lounge near a gun rack. Without a glance at Weir, Eve went to the heap of clothing, tossed it about, selected cords, two pairs of woolen socks, gray shirt, putties, shoes, flung the garments through the door into her own room, followed them, and locked herself in. When she was dressed, the two heavy pair of socks, helping to fit her feet into the shoes, she emptied her handful of diamonds, sapphires, and emeralds, including the flaming jewel into the pocket of her breeches. Now she was ready. She unlocked her door and went out, scarcely living it all now. Weir gazed at her helplessly as she coolly chose a rifle and cartridge belt at the gun rack. Then she turned on him as still and dangerous as a young puma. Tell Dara he'd better keep clear of clenches, she said. Tell him I always thought he was a rat. Now I know he's one. She plunged one slim hand into her pocket and drew out a diamond. Here, she said, this will pay your gentleman for his gun and clothing. She tossed the gem onto a table where it rolled glittering. For heaven's sake, Miss, burst out Weir, horrified, but she cut him short. He may keep the change, she said. Weir no swindlers at clenches dump. Weir started forward as though to intercept her. Eve's eyes flamed, he stood still. She wrenched open the door and walked out among the silver birches. At the edge of the brook she stood a moment, coolly loading magazine of her rifle. Then, with one swift glance of hatred, flung at the place that Herod's money had built, she sprang across the brook, tossed her rifle to her shoulder, and passed lithly into the golden wilderness of Poplar and Silver Birch. 2. Quintana, on a foxtrot along the rock trail into Drowned Valley, now thoroughly understood that it was the only sanctuary left him for the moment. Egress to the southward was closed. To the eastward also. He was too wary to venture westward toward Ghost Lake. No, the only temporary safety lay in the swamps of Drowned Valley. And there, he decided as he jogged along, if worse came to worst and starvation drove him out, he'd settle matters with Mike Clinch and break through to the north. He meant to settle matters with Mike Clinch anyway. He was not afraid of Clinch, not really afraid of anybody. It had been the dogs that demoralized Quintana. He had no experience with hunting hounds, did not know what to expect, how to maneuver. If only he could have seen these beasts that filled the forest with their hobgob on outcries, if he could have a good look at them at the creatures who gave forth that weird crazed melancholy volume of sound. Bon, he said coolly to himself. It was a crisis of nerves which I experienced. Yes, I should have shot him, the fat sard. Yes, only those damn dogs. And now he shall die and rot, that fat sard, all by himself, parblu. Like one big dead thing all alone in the wood, a puddle of guts full of diamonds, eh? Monde d'eux, a million franks and gems that shine like festering stars in this damn wood till the world end. Ah bah, nom de d'eux d'eux. Haut à l'art, from a sharp voice from a cedar fringe in front, a pause, then recognition. And Henry Pickett walked out on the hard ridge beyond and stood leaning on his rife, looking sullenly at his leader. Quintana came forward, carelessly a disagreeable expression in his eyes and on his narrow lips and continued on past Pickett. The latter slushed after his leader who had walked over to the lean to before which a pile of charred logs lay in cold ashes. As Pickett came up, Quintana turned on him with a gesture toward the extinguished fire. It is cold like hell, he said. Why do you not have some fire? Not for me, none, growled Pickett and jerked the dirty thumb in the direction of the lean to. And there Quintana saw a pair of muddy boots protruding from a blanket. It is Harry Beck, yes, he inquired. Then something about the boots in the blanket silenced him. He kept his eyes on them for a full minute, then walked into the lean to. The blanket also covered Harry Beck's features and there was a stain on it where it outlined the prostrate man's features, making a ridge over his bony nose. After a moment Quintana looked around at Pickett. So he is dead, yes, Pickett shrugged. Since noon, Mon Capitan. Comment? How shall I know? It was the fire, perhaps, green wood or wet. It is no matter now. I said to him, pay attention, Henry. Your wood makes too much smoke. To me, he replied, I shall go to hell. Well, there was too much smoke for me. I arrived to search for wood more dry when crack. They began to shoot out there. He waved a dirty hand toward the forest. Bon, he said. Clinch, he have seen your damn smoke. What shall I care? he make reply, Henry Beck to me. Clinch, he shall shoot and be damned him. I cook me my Degener all the same. I make representations to that John Bull. He say to me I am a frog and other injuries, while he lay yet more wood on the sacrifier. Then crack, crack, crack and zing, we, come the big bullets of Clinch and his voice yonder. Bon, I say. Me, I make my excuse to retire. Then Henry Beck, he laugh and say, Hop it, frog. And that is all he has fine time to say. Then crack, spat, bien droit. He has it. Tens, mon capiton, here over the left eye. Like a beef surprise he go over, crash, thump. And like a beef that dies, the air bellows out from his big lungs. Pickett looked down at the dead comrade in a sort of weary compassion for such stupidity. So he pass this ross beef, god damn John Bull. Me, I roll him in there, je ne sais pas pour quoi. Then I put out the fire and leave. Quintana let his sneering glance rest on the dead a moment, and his thin lip curled in memorial contempt for the Anglo-Saxon. Then he divested himself of the basket pack, which he had stolen from the fry boy. Allures, he said calmly. It has been Mike Clinch who shoot my friend Beck, bien. He threw a cartridge into the breach of this rifle, adjusted his ammunition belt, and bandoulairé carelessly. Then a quiet voice. My friend Pickett. The time has now arrived when it become very necessary that we go from here away. Don't, we shall now go kill me my friend Mike Clinch. Pickett unastonished gave him a heavy bovine look of inquiry. Quintana said softly, Me, I have enough already of this damn woods. Why shall we starve here when there lies our path? He pointed north, his arm remaining outstretched for a while. Clinch, he is there, growled Pickett. Also our path lay on me Henry. And behind us they hunt us now with dogs. Pickett bared his big white teeth in furious surprise. Dogs, he repeated with a sort of snarl. That is how they now hunt us my friend, like they hunt the hare in the cote or. Me, I shall now reconnoiter, that way. And he looked where he was pointing into the north with smoldering eyes. Then he turned calmly to Pickett. And you, lay on me? At orders, mon capitaine. Si es bien, Venice? They walked leisurely forward with rifles shouldered, followed the hard ridge out across a vast and flooded land where the bark of trees glimmered with wet mosses. After a quarter of a mile the ridge broadened and split into two, one hogback branching northeast. They however continued north. About 20 minutes later, Pickett creeping along on Quintana's left about some 60 yards difference discovered something moving in the woods beyond and fired at it. Instantly two unseen rifles spoke from woods ahead. Pickett was jerked clear around, lost his balance and nearly fell. Blood was spurting from his right arm between elbow and shoulder. He tried to let them level his rifle. His arm collapsed and dangled broken and powerless. His rifle clattered to the fourth floor. A moment he stood there in a plain view, dumb and deathly white, he began screaming with fury while the big soft-nosed bullets came streaming in all around him. His broken arm was hit again. His screaming ceased. He dragged out his big clasp knife with his left hand and started running towards the shooting. As he ran, his mangled arm flopping like a broken wing, Byron Hastings stepped out from behind a tree and Cooley shot him down at close quarters. Then Quintana's rifle exploded twice very quickly and Hastings' boy stumbled sideways and fell sprawling. He managed to rise to his knees again. He even was trying to stand up when Quintana, taking his time, deliberately began to empty his magazine into the boy, riddling him limb and body and head. Down once more, he still moved his arms. Sid Hone reached out from behind a fallen log to grasp the dying lad's ankles and draw him into shelter. But Quintana reloaded swiftly and smashed Hone's left hand with a first shot. Then 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 and 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 paralyzed as a dead flounder. A mile to the north, blocking the other exit from Drown Valley, Mike Clinch, Harvey Chase, Cornelius Bloomers, and Dick Berry stood listening to the shooting. Begosh blurted out, Chase. It sounds like they was going through, Mike. Begosh, it does. Clinch's little pale eyes blazed, but he said in his soft, agreeable voice, stay right here, boys. Like is not, some of them will come this way. The shooting below ceased. Clinch's nostrils expanded and flattened with every breath as he stood glaring into the woods. Harv, he said presently. You and Corny go down there and kind of look around. And you signal if I'm wanted. Go on, both of you get. 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 empty magazines. Go on down there, Dick, said Clinch. You'll be alone, Mike. All right, you do like I say. Get along quick. Berry walked southward a little ways. He had turned very white under his tan. Gal ding ye, shouted Clinch. Take it on a lope, or I'll kick the pants off ye. Berry began to run, carrying his rifle at a trail. For half an hour there was not a sound in the forest of Drowned Valley, except in the dead timber where unseen woodpeckers hammered fitfully at the ghosts of ancient trees. Always Clinch's 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 moving now and then, but uttered no sound. All I want God should do, he repeated again and again, is just to let Quintana come my way. Twain for because he robbed my girl. Taint for the stuff he carries on to him. No God, taint them things. But it's what that there's gunk done to my Evie. Oh God, be you listening. He heard her, Quintana did. That's it, he misused her. God, if you'd seen my girlies little bleeding feet, that's the reason. Taint the stuff I can work. I can save for to make my Evie a lady. Sames them high steppers on Fifth Avenue. I can moil and toil and slave and run hooch, hooch. They was one and fixens into the Bible. It ain't you, God. It's them fanatics. Nobody in my dump wanted I should sell him more than a bottle of beer for this here prohibition. Set us all crazy. Taint right, oh God. Don't hold little hooch again me, when all I want of you is to let Quintana. The slightest noise behind him. He waited and turned slowly. Eve stood there. Hell died in his pale eyes as she came to him. Rested silently in his gentle embrace, returned his kiss, laid her flushed sweet cheek against his unshaven face. Dad, darling? Yes, my baby? You're watching to kill Quintana, but there's no use watching any longer. Have the boys below got him, he demand? They got one of his gang. Byron Hastings is dead. Jim is badly hurt. Sid Hone too. Not so badly. Where's Quintana? Dad, he's gone, but it don't matter. See here? She dug her slender hand into her breech's pockets and pulled out a little fistful of gems. Clinch, his powerful arms closing, her shoulders looked doly at the jewels. You see, Dad, there's no use killing Quintana. These are all the things he robbed you of. Taint them that matter. I'm glad you got them. I always wanted you should be a great lady, girly. Them's the ticket of admission. You put them in your pants. I gotta stay here, Spell. Dad, take them. He took them, smiled, shoved them into his pocket. What is it, girly? He asked absently, his pale eyes searching the woods ahead. I've just told you, she said, that the boys went in as far as Quintana's shanty. There was a dead man there too, but Quintana has gone. Clinch said, not removing his eyes from the forest. If any of them boys has let Quintana crawl through, I'll kill him. Two, go on home, girly. I got a mosey. I got a kind of loaf around for a spell. Dad, I want you to come back with me. You go home. You hear me, Eve? Tell Corny and Dickberry to hook it for Al Marsh and stop the Star Peak Trails, both on him. Can Sid and Jimmy walk? Jim can't. Well, let Harv take him on his back. You go too. You help fix Jimmy up at the house. He's a little fella, Jimmy Hastings is. Harv can toad him, and you can go along. Dad, Quintana says he means to kill you. What is the use of hurting him? You have what he took. I gotta have more than he took. But even that is enough. He couldn't pay for all he ever done to me, girly. I'm aiming to draw on him on sight. Clinch's set visage relaxed into an alarming smile, which flickered, faded, died into the wintery ferocity of his eyes. Dad, go on home, he interrupted harshly. You want that Hastings boys to bleed to death? She came up to him, not uttering a word, yet asking him with all the tenderness and eloquence of her eyes to leave this blood trail where it lay and hunt no more. He kissed her mouth, infinitely tender, smiled, then again, prim and scowling. Go on home, you little scut, and do what I told you, or by God I'll cut a switch that'll learn you good. Never a word now, on your way, go on. Twice she turned to look back. The second time, Clinch was slowly walking into the woods straight ahead of him. She waited, saw him go in, waited. After a while, she continued on her way. When she sighted the men below, she called to Blommers and Dick Berry. Dad says you're to stop Star Peak Trail by Alan Marsh. Jim Hastings sat on a log, crying and looking down at his dead brother. Over whose head somebody had spread a coat. Blommers had made a tourniquet for Jimmy out of a bandana and a peeled stick. The girl examined it, loosened it for a moment, twisted it again, and bade Harvey Chase take him on his back and start for clenches. The boy began to sob, but he didn't want his brother to be left out here all alone. But Chase promised to come back and bring him in before night. Sid Holm came up, haggard from pain and loss of blood, resting his mangled hand in the sling of his cartridge belt. Berry and Blommers were already starting across toward Alan Marsh, and the latter passing by asked Eve where Mike was. He went into Drowned Valley by the upper outlet, she said. He'll never find no one in them logans and sinks, muttered Chase, squatting to hoist Jimmy Hastings to his broad back. I guess he'll be over star-peaked side by sundown, nodded Blommers. Eve watched him slouching off into the woods, followed solemnly by Berry, then she looked down at the dead men in silence. Be you ready, Eve, grunted Chase? She turned with a heavy heart to the home trail. Her mind was passionately with clinch in the spectral forest of Drowned Valley. Three. And clinch's mind was on her, all else his watchfulness, his stealthy advance, all the alertness of eye and ear, all the subtlety, the cunning, the infinite caution, were purely instinctive mechanics. Somewhere in the flooded twilight of gigantic trees was Jose Quintana. Knowing that, he dismissed that fact from his mind and turned his thoughts to Eve. Sometimes his lips moved. They usually did when he was arguing with God, or calling his creator's attention to the justice of his case. His two cases, each to him a cause celebrate, the matter of Herod, the fair of Quintana. Many a time he had pleaded these two causes before the Most High, but now his thoughts were chiefly concerned with Eve, with the problem of her future, his master passion, this daughter of the dead wife he had loved. He sighed unconsciously, halted. Well, Lord, he concluded in his wordless way. My girly has got to have a chance if I got to go to hell for it. That sure is shooting, amen. At that instant he saw Quintana. Recognition was instant and mutual, neither man stirred. Quintana was standing beside a giant hemlock. His pack lay at his feet. Clinch had halted, always the mechanics, close to a great ironwood tree. Probably both men knew they could cover themselves before the other moved a muscle. Clinch's small, light eyes were blazing. Quintana's black eyes had become two slits. Finally, you dirty, skunk trawled Clinch in his agreeably misleading voice. By Jesus, I got you now. Ah, said Quintana. This happens very nice, like I expect. Always I say to myself, yet a little patience, Jose, and one day you shall meet this Mike Clinch who has robbed you. I am very thankful to the good God. He had made the slightest of movements. Instantly both men were behind their trees. Clinch and the ferocious pride of Woodcraft laugh exultingly, filled the dim and spectral forest with his roar of laughter. Quintana, he called out. You're going to cash in, Savvy. You're going to hop off. And first you're going to hear why. Taint for the stuff, nah. I hooked it off you. You hooked it off me. Now I got it again. That's all square. No, taint that grudge. You green-livered welp of crossbread, stillborn slut. No, it's because you laid the heft of your dirty, flittle finger on my girly. Now you gotta hop. Quintana's sinister laugh was his retort. Then, you damn fool, Clinch, he said. I got in my pocket what you robbed me. Now I kill you. Then I feel very well. I go home. Live like some kings, yes? But you, he sneered. You shall not go home. Nevermore. No. You shall remain in these damn woods like very dead old rat that is all wormy. Hey, I got a million dollar. Five million franc in my pocket. You shall learn what it costs to rob Jose Quintana. Understand? You liars, said Clinch, contentiously. I got them jewels in my pants pocket. Quintana's derisive laugh cut him short. I give you the flaming jewel. If you show me, you got my gems in your pants pocket. I'll show you later on your rifle so as I see the stock. First, you, my friend, Mike, said Quintana cautiously. Clinch took his rifle by the muzzle and shoved the stock into view so that Quintana could see it without moving. To his surprise, Quintana did the same. Then Cooley stepped a pace outside the shelter of his hemlock stump. Now you show me, he called across the swamp. Clinch stepped into view, dug into his pocket, and cupping both hands displayed a glittering heap of gems. I wanted you should know who got him, he said, before you hop. It'll give you something to think over in hell. Quintana's eyes had become slits again. Neither man stirred then. So you are buzzard, eh, Clinch? You feed on dead men's pockets, eh? You find sards somewhere and you feed. He held up the Morocco case and bladed with the arms of the Grand Duchess of Estonia and shook it at Clinch. In there is my share, not all, very quick. Now I take yours, too. 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 claws touched my girly that you gotta hop. Twilight lay over the phantom wood, touching with pallid tints the flooded forest. So far, only the one shot had been fired. Both men were still maneuvering, always creeping in circles, 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 lithe back, a leafless 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 gray blot his coat made in the dusk was still moving a little, just vibrating a little in the twilight. He touched the bush with his barrel rifle, then crouched almost flat. Suddenly a 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. After a long while, Quintana ventured to rise and creep forward. Night two came creeping like an assassin and the ghostly trees. So the twilight died in the stillness of Drowned Valley and the pall of night lay over all things, living and dead alike. End of episode 10.