The Flaming Jewel

by Robert W. Chambers

Smith might economise on his torch.

  He knew every foot of it. As a boy he had carried a jacob-staff in theGeological Survey. Who better than the forest-roaming nephew of HenryHarrod should know this blind wilderness?

  The great pines towered on every side, lofty and smooth to the featherycanopy that crowned them under the high stars.

  There was no game here, no water, nothing to attract anybody except thedevastating lumberman. But this was a five thousand acre patch of Stateland. The ugly whine of the stream-saw would never be heard here.

  On he walked at an easy, swinging stride, flashing his torch rarely,feeling no concern about discovery by Quintana's people.

  It was only when he came into the hardwoods that the combined necessityfor caution and torch perplexed and worried him.

  Somewhere in here began an outcrop of rock running east for miles. Onlystunted cedar and berry bushes found shallow nourishment on this ridge.

  When at last he found it he travelled upon it, more slowly, constantlyobliged to employ the torch.

  After an hour, perhaps, his feet splashed in shallow water. _That_ waswhat he was expecting. The water was only an inch or two deep; it wasice cold and running north.

  Now, he must advance with every caution. For here trickled the thinflow of that rocky rivulet which was the other entrance and exitpenetrating that immense horror of marsh and bog and depthless sink-holeknown as Drowned Valley.

  * * * * *

  For a long while he did not dare to use his torch; but now he wasobliged to.

  He shined the ground at his feet, elevated the torch with infiniteprecaution, throwing a fan-shaped light over the stretch of sink he hadsuspected and feared. It flanked the flat, wet path of rock on eitherside. Here Death spread its slimy trap at his very feet.

  Then, as he stood taking his bearings with burning torch, far ahead inthe darkness a light flashed, went out, flashed twice more, and wasextinguished.

  Quintana!

  Smith's wits were working like lightning, but instinct guided him beforehis brain took command. He levelled his torch and repeated the threesignal flashes. Then, in darkness, he came to swift conclusion.

  There were no other signals from the unknown. The stony bottom of therivulet was his only aid.

  In his right hand the torch hung almost touching the water. At times heventured sufficient pressure for a feeble glimmer, then again trusted tohis sense of contact.

  For three hundred yards, counting his strides, he continued on. Then,in total darkness, he pocketed the torch, slid a cartridge into thebreech of is rifle, slung the weapon, pulled out a handkerchief, andtied it across his face under the eyes.

  Now, he drew the torch from his pocket, levelled it, sent three quickflashes, out into the darkness.

  Instantly, close ahead, three blinding flashes broke out.

  For Hal Smith it had all become a question of seconds.

  Death lay depthless on either hand; ahead death blocked the trail insilence.

  Out of the dark some unseen rifle might vomit death in his very face atany moment.

  He continued to move forward. After a little while his ear caught aslight splash ahead. Suddenly a glare of light enveloped him.

  "Is that you, Harry Beck?"

  Instinct leg again while wits worked madly: "Harry Beck is two milesback on guard. Where is Sard?"

  The silence became terrible. Once the glaring light in front moved,then become fixed. There was a light splashing. Instantly Smithrealised that the man in front had set his torch in a tree-crotch andwas now cowering somewhere behind a levelled weapon. His voice camepresently:

  "He! Drap-a that-a gun damn quick!"

  Smith bent, leisurely, and laid his rifle on a mossy rock.

  "Now! You there! Why you want Sard! Eh?"

  "I'll tell Sard, not you," retorted Smith coolly. "You listen to me,whoever you are. I'm from Sard's office in New York. I'm Abrams. Thepolice are on their way here to find Quintana."

  "How do I know? Eh? Why shall I believe that? You tell-a me queeck orI blow-a your damn head off!"

  "Quintana will blow-a _your_ head off unless you take me to Sard,"drawled Smith.

  A moment might have meant death, but he calmly rummaged for a cigarette,lighted it, blew a cloud insolently toward the white glare ahead. Thenhe took another chance:

  "I guess you're Nick Salzar, aren't you?"

  "Si! I am Salzar. Who the dev' are you?"

  "I'm Eddie Abrams, Sard's lawyer. My business is to find my client. Ifyou stop me you'll go to prison -- the whole gang of you -- Sard,Quintana, Picquet, Sanchez, Georgiades and Harry Beck, -- and _you!_"

  After a dead silence: "Maybe _you'll_ go to the chair, too!"

  It was the third chance he took.

  There was a dreadful stillness in the woods. Finally came a slightseries of splashes; the crunch of heavy boots on rock.

  "For why you com-a here, eh?" demanded Salzar, in a less aggressivemanner. "What'a da matt', eh?"

  "Well," said Smith, "if you've got to know, there are people fromEsthonia in New York. ... If you understand that."

  "Christi! When do their arrive?"

  "A week ago. Sard's place is in the hands of the police. I couldn'tstop them. They've got his safe and all his papers. City, State, andfederal officers are looking for him. The Constabulary rode into GhostLake yesterday. Now, don't you think you'd better lead me to Sard?"

  "Christi!" exclaimed Salzar. "Sard he is a mile ahead with the others.Damn! Damn! Me, how should I know what is to be done? Me, I have myorders from Quintana. What do I do, eh? Christi! What to do? What doyou say I should do, eh, Abrams?"

  A new fear had succeeded the old one -- that was evident -- and Salzarcame forward into the light of his own fixed torch -- a well-knit figurein slouch hat, grey shirt, and grey breeches, and wearing a red bandannaover the lower part of his face. He carried a heavy rifle.

  He came on, sturdily, splashing through the water, and walked up toSmith, his rifle resting on his right shoulder.

  "For me," he said excitedly, "long time I have worry in this-a damnwood! Si! Where did you say those carbiniery? Eh?"

  "At Ghost lake. _Your_ signature is in the hotel ledger."

  "Christi! You know where Clinch is?"

  "You know too. He is on the way to Drowned Valley."

  "Damn! I knew it. Quintana also. You know where is Quintana? AndSard? I tell-a you. They march ver' fast to the Dump of Clinch. Si!And there they would discover these-a beeg-a dimon' -- these-aFlame-Jewel. Si! _Now,_ you tell-a me what I do?"

  Smith said slowly: "If Quintana is marching on Clinch's he's marchinginto a trap!"

  Salzar blanched above his bandana.

  "The State Troopers are there," said Smith. "They'll get him sure."

  "Cristi," faltered Salzar, "-- then they are gobble -- Quintana, Sard,everybody! Si!"

  Smith considered the man: "You can save _your_ skin anyway. You can goback and tell Harry Beck. Then both you can beat it for DrownedValley."

  He picked up his rifle, stood a moment in troubled reflection:

  "If I could overtake Quintana I'd do it," he said. "I think I'll try.If I can't, he's done for. You tell Harry Beck that Eddie Abramsadvises him to beat it for Drowned Valley."

  Suddenly Salzar tore the bandana from his face, flung it down andstamped on it.

  "What I tell Quintana!" he yelled, his features distorted with rage. "Idon't-a like! -- no, not me! -- no, I tell-a heem, stay at those Ghost-aLake and watch thees-a fellow Clinch. Si! Not for me thees-a wood.No! I spit upon it! I curse like hell! I tell Quintana I don't-alike. Now, eet is trouble that comes and we lose-a out! Damn! _Damn!_Me, I find me Beck. You shall say to Jose Quintana how he is a damfool.Me, I am finish -- me, Nick Salzar! You hear me, Abrams! I am through!I go!"

  He glared at Smith, started to move, came back and took his torch, madea violent gesture with it which drenched the weeds with goblin l
ight.

  "You stop-a Quintana, maybe. You tell-a heem he is the bigg-a fool!You tell-a heem Nick Salzar is no damn fool. No! Adios, my frien'Abrams. I beat it. I save my skin!"

  Once more Salzar turned and headed for Drowned Valley. ... Where Clinchwould not fail to kill him. ... The man was going to his death. ... Andit as Smith who sent him.

  Suddenly it came to Smith that he could not do this thing; that this manhad no chance; that he was slaying a human being with perfect safety tohimself and without giving him a chance.

  "Salzar!" he called sharply.

  The man halted and looked around.

  "Come back!"

  Salzar hesitated, turned finally, slouched toward him.

  Smith laid aside his pack and rifle, and, as Salzar