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Updated: May 13, 2025
Among the first who offered their services was old Portnoff and a friend of his, an old man with ragged beard, and deep-set, piercing eyes looking out from under shaggy brows, to whom Portnoff gave the name of Malkarski. As Portnoff seemed to be a man of influence among his people, Rosenblatt made him foreman over one of the gangs of workmen in his employ.
It would be wise," he continued, "to carry your information to Kalman at once." "It shall be done to-night," said Malkarski in a deep voice. "It is important. Portnoff will go." Portnoff agreed. The following morning brought Kalman to Wakota. The arrival of Rosenblatt in the country had changed for him the face of heaven and earth.
"Here, you man," he cried, "stir in your tracks and you are dead!" Malkarski laughed scornfully at him and proceeded to strike his third match. Before the Sergeant could fire, old Portnoff sprang upon him with the cry, "Would you murder the man?" Meantime, under the third match, the train was blazing, and slowly creeping toward the cabin.
An hour later found Malkarski, pale and breathless, at the door of Portnoff's cabin, unable to recover his speech till Portnoff had primed him with a mug of Sprink's best whiskey. "What is it, my brother?" cried Portnoff, alarmed at his condition. "What is it?" "A plot!" gasped Malkarski, "a most damnable plot! Give me another drink."
Knowing French's easy-going methods of doing business, he knew it to be quite possible. French was still away in his tie camp. Kalman was ten miles off at the mine. It was too great a chance to take. "Throw the saddle on my horse, Portnoff," he cried. "I must ride to the Fort." "It would be good to kill this man," said old Malkarski quietly. "What are you saying?" cried Brown in horror.
Why speak of him?" "It is a good story," replied Portnoff with a laugh, "but not pleasant for Sprink to tell. It appears he was negotiating with Mr. French, suggesting a partnership in the mine, but Mr. French kicked him out. It was amusing to hear Sprink tell the tale with many oaths and curses. He loves not French any more." "Bah!" said Malkarski, "the rest of the tale I heard.
I hear cries of women and children. I fall asleep and feel my fingers in his throat. I wake and find them empty!" "Aha! I too," growled Malkarski. "But patience, patience, brother!" "Malkarski," cried Portnoff, pausing in his walk, "I have suffered through this man in my country, in my people, in my family, in my heart!" "Aha!" ejaculated old Malkarski with fierce emphasis, "have you?
The hut of the Nihilist Portnoff stood in a thick bluff about midway between Wakota and the mine, but lying off the direct line about two miles nearer the ranch. It was a poor enough shack, made of logs plastered over with mud, roofed with poplar poles, sod, and earth. The floor was of earth, the walls were whitewashed, and with certain adornments that spoke of some degree of culture.
"It is best by the river," cried Brown. "The cross trail you might lose. Go! Go, in God's name!" he added, rushing toward his stable, followed by Portnoff and his wife. "Where is Paulina?" he cried. "Paulina," said his wife, "is gone. She is acting strangely these days, goes and comes, I don't know where." "Get a boy, then," said her husband, "and send him to the ranch.
Lashing his pony into a gallop, heedless of the obstacles on the trail, or of the trees overhead, Brown crashed through scrub and sleugh, with old Portnoff following as best he could.
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