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Updated: May 19, 2025
"Oi've hear-rd av yer doin's in th' timber av yer killin' th' werwolf in th' midst av her pack an yer lickin' Moncrossen wid a luk an' a grin av yer knockin' out Shtromberg wid t'ree blows av yer fisht.
Moncrossen is great among the white men and his heart is bad. But the heart of the chechako is good, and one day will come a reckoning, and in that day the curse of the Yaga Tah shall fall from thy lips upon the dead face of Moncrossen." "All white men are bad," grumbled the squaw. "There is no good white man." Jacques silenced her with a gesture of impatience.
Not only had he made the trip without mishap, but accomplished the seemingly impossible in persuading Daddy Dunnigan to cook for a log camp, when in all reason the old man should have scorned the proposition in a torrent of Irish profanity. Moncrossen dealt only in facts. Speculation as to cause and effect found no place in his mental economy. His plan had miscarried.
Pivoting, he swung a terrific body blow which glanced lightly against Bill's lowered shoulder, and the greener came back with two stiff raps to the ear. Again and again Moncrossen rushed his antagonist, lashing out with both fists, but always the blows failed by a barely perceptible margin, and Bill always smiling, and without appreciable effort stung him with short, swift punches to the face.
If you don't b'lieve it ask Moncrossen ask Moncrossen, I mean, if he didn't have no booze along he must 'a' been drunk an' him crippled thataway! "Oh, Lordy, Lord! I ain't supposed to know it was the greener, let alone he was crippled! I'm all mixed up a'ready! They better not go askin' me questions lessen they want to git me hung Goda'mi'ty! I'd ort to done like Moncrossen said!"
"Maybe if you last well I will save a couple of punches for those poor devils' account. I think you will last, Moncrossen. You are big, and strong, and you are mad enough, in your blind, bull-headed way. "But I am not going to knock you out. I am going to make you lie down to make you show your yellow, and quit cold; for this is going to be your last fight.
Curbing his patience, he waited an hour and then gently awoke the sleeping girl. "Jeanne," he said as she gazed at him in bewilderment, "you need sleep. I will go alone to the camp of Moncrossen." At the words she sprang to her feet. "No! No!" she cried; "I have slept. I am not tired. Come to-day, and to-night and in the morning we come to the camp."
Men glanced at him covertly, as though taking his measure, and he soon found himself relating the adventures of the trail to an appreciative audience, which grinned approval and tendered flasks, which he declined. Later, as he helped Fallon nail the wolfskin to the end of the bunk-house he told him of the interview with Moncrossen. The Irishman listened, frowning.
"Moncrossen says there is a real one down there Daddy Dunnigan, he called him." "Sure, Dunnigan'll not come into th' woods. An' phy shud he? Wid money in th' bank, an' her majesty's Oi mane, his nibs's pension comin' in ivery month, an' his insides broke in to Hod Burrage's whisky phwat more c'd a man want?" "The boss thinks maybe he'll come. Anyway, I am going after him."
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