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Updated: May 6, 2025
"And I am of half a mind to die," he told the last man to trouble him; "just to shame Kootanie George, to hang Ernestine Dumont and to drive a hundred gold seekers mad." During the week a boy from Joe's Lunch Counter brought him his meals and gave him the scant attention he demanded. The boy went away with money in his pockets and with tales to tell of a man like a wounded bull moose.
And that he should head them back along the trail? Not a pretty trick to play, but was now the time for nicety? It would mean delay, not for Drennen, but for Kootanie and Max . . . it might mean the opportunity he wanted, to come up with Sefton before the others. He passed close to where George lay. The Canadian had again drawn up his blanket and was going back to sleep. The others were sleeping.
As it was it was Max's tread which Drennen's eager ears first heard drawing near swiftly. And a moment later Max himself, with big Kootanie George at his heels and both Marshall Sothern and Ernestine hurrying after them, came running toward the strange building. Drennen at the door, his rifle laid across his arm, met them. "Well?" snapped the officer. "What in hell's name have you done?"
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.
Ernestine glanced up sharply and for a moment indecision stood easily readable in her eyes. Then she shook her head. "Not now," she said quietly. "Maybe after a while. I don't know. Anyway not now." "Gracias, señorita." He thanked her quite as though she had taken his proffered arm. And turning away he went back to the game of dice and his wine glass. Kootanie laughed.
Ygerne had leaped to her feet, a little glad cry upon her lips. No doubt she had thought that this was Sefton returning, Lemarc with him. She stood still, staring incredulously, as she saw who these others were. A strange man, with an air of command about him . . . Kootanie George, his face convulsed with rage as his eyes met her own . . . Marshall Sothern . . . Ernestine!
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."
In the clapping of hands which broke out when he had done Ernestine's was to be heard above Kootanie George's grunt of disgust. "No man talk, that," he snorted, careless of who heard. "Dam' slush." "Your deal, Koot," laughed Blunt Rand, the American trapper from the headwaters of the Little MacLeod. "Don't let the Mexican gent spoil your play that-away. Deal 'em up, why don't you?"
It was as though he had worn a lace cloak over a capable, muscled body; as though the cloak had been blown aside by a sudden gust and men had seen the true man underneath. In Kootanie George's eyes where there had come to be a widening of slow astonishment during the brief struggle now was a dawning admiration. He put out his great hand as he shambled forward.
And then those who watched saw the middle finger of Drennen's hand drawn back from the flesh of George's neck, saw it bent back and back, still further back until it was a pure wonder that Drennen held on, back and back. . . . And then there was a little snap of a bone broken and Drennen's hand fell away and Kootanie George, drawing a long, sobbing breath, rolled clear of him and slowly rose to his feet.
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