Part 17 (2/2)

The girl strode forward, and with the strength of a man, pitched down a dozen sticks with lightning speed.

”There!” she cried, turning to Tom. ”There you find him--you find him whiskey. You say you spill. No more my father he's drunk all day, he beat my mother.”

I stepped out.

”So, Tom Barrett,” I said, ”you've played the d----d sneak and hunted it out!”

He fairly jumped at the sound of my voice; then he got white as paper, and then--something came into his face that I never saw before. It was a look like his father's, the old missionary.

”Yes, McLeod,” he answered. ”And I've hunted _you_ out. It's cost me the loss of a whole term at college and a considerable amount of self-respect, but I've got my finger on you now!”

The whole infernal trick burst right in on my intelligence. If I had had a revolver, he would have been a dead man; but border traders nowadays are not desperadoes with bowie knives and hip pockets--

”You surely don't mean to split on me?” I asked.

”I surely don't mean to do anything else,” he cheeked back.

”Then, Tom Barrett,” I sputtered, raging, ”you're the dirtiest cad and the foulest liar that ever drew the breath of life.”

”I dare say I am,” he said smoothly. Then with rising anger he advanced, peering into my face with his foxy eyes. ”And I'll tell you right here, Dan McLeod, I'd be a hundred times a cad, and a thousand times a liar to save the souls and bodies of our Indians from going to h.e.l.l, through your cursed whiskey.”

I have always been a brave man, but I confess I felt childishly scared before the wild, mesmeric power of his eyes. I was unable to move a finger, but I blurted out boastfully: ”If it wasn't for your preacher's hat and coat I'd send your sneaking soul to Kingdom Come, right here!”

Instantly he hauled off his coat and tie and stood with clenched fists while his strange eyes fairly spat green fire.

”Now,” he fumed, ”I've discarded my cloth, Dan McLeod. You've got to deal with a man now, not with a minister.”

To save my immortal soul I can't tell why I couldn't stir. I only know that everything seemed to drop out of sight except his two little blazing eyes. I stood like a fool, queered, dead queered right through.

He turned politely to the girl. ”You may go, Elizabeth,” he said, ”and thank you for your a.s.sistance.” The girl turned and went up the trail without a word.

With the agility of a cat he sprang on to the wood-pile, pitched off enough cordwood to expose my entire ”cellar;” then going across to Lige, he coolly took the axe out of his hand. His face was white and set, but his voice was natural enough as he said:

”Now, gentlemen, whoever cares to interrupt me will get the blade of this axe buried in his brain, as heaven is my witness.”

I didn't even curse as he split the five barrels into slivers and my well-fought-for whiskey soaked into the slush. Once he lifted his head and looked at me, and the mouth I didn't understand revealed itself; there was something about it like a young Napoleon's.

I never hated a man in my life as I hated Tom Barrett then. That I daren't resist him made it worse. I watched him finish his caddish job, throw down the axe, take his coat over his arm, and leave the clearing without a word.

But no sooner was he out of sight than my devilish temper broke out, and I cursed and blasphemed for half an hour. I'd have his blood if it cost my neck a rope, and that too before he could inform on us. The boys were with me, of course, poor sort of dogs with no grit of their own, and with the axe as my only weapon we left the bush and ran towards the river.

I fairly yelled at my good luck as I reached the high bank. There, a few rods down sh.o.r.e, beside the open water sat Tom Barrett, calling something out to his folks across the river, and from upstream came the deafening thunder of the Onondaga Jam that, loosened by the rain, was shouldering its terrific force downwards with the strength of a million drunken demons.

We had him like a rat in a trap, but his foxy eyes had seen us. He sprang to his feet, hesitated for a fraction of a moment, saw the murder in our faces, then did what any man but a fool would have done--ran.

We were hot on his heels. Fifty yards distant an old dug-out lay hauled up. He ran it down into the water, stared wildly at the oncoming jam, then at us, sprang into the canoe and grabbed the paddle.

I was murderously mad. I wheeled the axe above my shoulder and let fly at him. It missed his head by three inches.

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