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"At Melton's No. 8, Oi moind, th' shtables is a good bit av a way from th' rist av th' buildin's, an' hid from soight be a knowl av ground." "I don't remember the stables, but they can't be very far; they are in the clearing, and Moncrossen had the blacksmith make me a crutch." "A crutch, is ut? A crutch!
I have the logs, Moncrossen, all safely cached the pile of ashes you found was a blind. Quite a long score, take it first and last, isn't it, Moncrossen?" The silence, save for the sound of the voice, was almost painful. Men strained to listen, looking from one to the other of the two big men, with white, tense faces. At the words, the blood rushed to the boss's face.
"It is well," he said, and his dark eyes flashed, "for the heart of Moncrossen is bad, and the beauty of Jeanne has inflamed the evil passions of him, and he will stop at nothing in the fulfillment of his desire. "But, into the North has come a greater than Moncrossen. And terrible will be the vengeance of this man if harm falls upon Jeanne.
"That one is for trying to get Stromberg to file a link." Bill ducked a lunging blow without raising his guard. "And now your ear, Moncrossen; I won't knock it off, but it will never be pretty again." Another long swing landed with a glancing twist that split the ear in half. "That is for the Creed item and this one is for the river."
Suddenly the door was flung open and a huge, yellow-bearded man stamped noisily to the stove, disregarding the curses that issued from the bunks of those who had already turned in. This man was larger even than Moncrossen, with protruding eyes of china blue, which stared weakly from beneath heavy, straw-colored eyebrows.
"Moncrossen said 'twa'nt safe to bushwhack him like I wanted to said how I ain't got nerve nor brains to stand no investigation. "But if he'd git burnt up in the shack, that's safer yet. He got that booze somewhere some one knows he had it. He got spiflicated, built a roarin' fire in the old stove an' there y'are, plain as daylight. No brains!
"I, too, could kill Moncrossen for that," he said, and the tone of his voice was low, and soft, with a tense, even softness that sounded in the ears of the girl more terrible than a thousand loud hurled threats. She looked up quickly into the face of the glinting eyes, her tiny hand trembled in his, and a sudden flush deepened the warm color of her neck. "For me?" she faltered. "Me?"
And always he talked. Low and smooth his voice sounded between the thud of blows and the heavy breathing of the big boss. "Poor business, Moncrossen poor judgment for a fighting man. Save your wind take it easy, and you'll last longer this is a long fight, Moncrossen take it slow slow and steady." The taunting voice was always in the boss's ears, goading him to blind fury.
Fallon arose, consulted his watch, and led the way toward the bunk-house. "So now ye know fer phwy Moncrossen hates ye," he continued. "He knows ye're a greener in th' woods, but he knows be this toime ye'll be a har-rd man to handle, an' he fears ye. Oi've put ye wise to th' bird's-eye game so ye c'n steer clear av ut, an' not be gittin' mixed up in ut wan way or another."
But the greener knew that the boss was masking, while Moncrossen accepted the other's guileless expression at its face value, and his pendulous lips widened into a grin of genuine relief as he greeted the arrivals. "Hullo! You back a'ready? Hullo, Dunnigan! I'm sure glad you come; we'll have some real grub fer a change. "Hey, LaFranz!" he called to the passing Frenchman.
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