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 this 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 celebre; the matter of Harrod; the affair 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 girlie has gotta have a chance if I gotta go to hell for it. That's sure as shootin'. ... 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 that 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," drawled Clinch in his agreeably misleading voice, "by Jesus Christ I got you now."
"Ah -- h," said Quintana, "thees has happen ver' nice like I expec'. ... Always I say myse'f, yet a little patience, Jose, an' one day you shall meet thees fellow Clinch, who has rob you. ... I am ver' thankful to the good God----"
He had made the slightest of movements: instantly both men were behind their trees. Clinch, in the ferocious pride of woodcraft, laughed exultingly -- filled the dim and spectral forest with his roar of laughter.
"Quintana," he called out, "you're a-going to cash in. Savvy? You're a-going to hop off. An' first you gotta hear why. 'Tain't for the stuff. Naw! I hooked it off'n you; you hooked it off'n me; now I got it again. That's all square. ... No, 'tain't that grudge, you green-livered whelp of a cross-bred, still-born slut! No! It's becuz you laid the heft o' your dirty little finger onto my girlie. 'N' now you gotta hop!"
Quintana's sinister laughter was his retort. Then: "You damfool Clinch," he said. "I got in my pocket what you rob of me. Now I kill you, and then I feel ver' well. I go home, live like some kings; yes. But you," he sneered, "you shall not go home never no more. No. You shall remain in thees damn wood like ver' dead old rat that is all wormy. ... He! I got a million dollaire -- five million franc in my pocket. You shall learn what it cost to rob Jose Quintana! Understan'?"