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Updated: May 11, 2025
Through the sound of scuffling came the noise of short-armed jabs, the deep throated curses of Kootanie George and once . . . his first vocal utterance . . . one of Dave Drennen's laughs. It was when he had again driven his fist against George's mouth, drawing blood from both lips and hand cut by breaking teeth.
His words had been given after Drennen's fashion; like a slap in the face. All this had been less than a year ago. Elated at the success with which his words had met, Blunt Rand laughed. Again Kootanie George looked at him steadily. "What are you lookin' for Drennen for?" he asked quietly. "Oh, nothin'," rejoined the other lightly.
Drennen saw Ygerne Bellaire, half in light, half in shadow. She leaned out. She was laughing softly. Garcia, his bow carrying to the ground his hat which in the dim light appeared to Drennen's fancy to wear the black plume which would not have been misplaced there, came closer to the window.
Presently the younger of the two, Captain Sefton's companion, got up and came to Drennen's side, offering his hand. "I am glad to see you around again," he said, pleasantly. Drennen did not look toward him. "Some more coffee, Joe," he said shortly. The young fellow stared at him a moment, a quick retort upon his lips. It was checked however by Sefton saying quickly: "Come on, Lemarc.
Why must he seek to do my work for me?" So began Drennen's quest for three men and one girl with grey eyes and a sweet body that was like a song, a girl who had awakened the old, dormant good in him and then had driven him so deep into the black chasm that no light entered where he was. Each day that passed set its seal deeper into the heart and soul of David Drennen.
"If you are doing this for me . . . let be! I have told Max." "What do you mean?" muttered Drennen dully. "Told him what?" "Who I am." He laid his hand on the barrel of Drennen's rifle, forcing it downward. His son stared at him with wondering eyes. "I don't understand. . . ."
But after a while in his thoughts there was room for another. . . . John Harper Drennen, masquerading as Marshall Sothern. Drennen sneered at his old hero. The old man was a fool like so many other fools. He had committed what the world calls a crime and the weight of it had shown upon him. Drennen's sneer was not for the wrong done but for the weakness of allowing suffering to come afterward.
And yet the men who ceased their playing at the snap of his voice forgot Rand and hungered for trouble between Drennen and Kootanie George. Rand had been measured long ago and didn't count. He blabbed big words when he was drunk and whined when a man struck him. He would swallow his words now and swallow with them No-luck Drennen's vicious "You're a liar, Blunt Rand."
"He asked me to have dinner with him last night." Drennen's laugh jeered at her. "You don't burn daylight, do you?" he sneered. "The man has money; he is young; he looks quite the pink-cheeked, impressionable pup, as good as a gilded youth on Broadway. How did he accept the wonder tale of the virgin purity of your red lips, Ygerne?"
He could only oppose his physical strength against the physical strength of a man who was an Antaeus from the madness and blood lust upon him. Sefton's white face went whiter, chalky and sick as Drennen's long arms encircled his body. Lemarc was rising slowly, his knife at last in his hand when Sefton's body, hurled far out, struck the ground. Drennen was not fighting as a man fights.
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