“Does this fit you?” He stood up and set it on my head. “Fine. No, I’ll get a hat from Steve before we start,” he silenced my protest. We had both ridden bareheaded.
Montell returned while I was getting into the welcome change of apparel.
“Steve’s gettin’ you what you need, George,” he informed. “There’s a new tarpaulin by the bed you can use for your pack. Steve’ll get you blankets. Go softly. I’m none too sure of all these bull-whackers I got.”
Barreau went on spreading his clothes in a flat heap as if he had not heard. Presently he closed the trunk. Getting to his feet he glanced about.
“Oh, yes,” he said curtly, as if he had but recollected something. “I want some of that port you’ve been guzzling. Dig it up.”
“Certainly, George, certainly,” Montell’s face broadened in an ingratiating smile, though Barreau’s tone was as contemptuously insulting as it could well be. He reached under the box upon which the candle stood and brought out a bottle. Barreau took it, held it up to the light, then laid it by his clothing without a word; Montell watching him with a speculative air, meanwhile.
“That’s fine stuff, George,” he said tentatively. “Fine stuff. I ain’t got but a little.”
“Damn you, don’t talk to me!” Barreau whirled on him. “I’m sick of the whole business, and I want none of your smooth palaver, nor whining about what I do.”
The older man’s florid face took on a deeper tint. One of his fat hands suddenly drew into a fist. Barreau had penetrated his hide, in some way that I could not quite understand. And I imagine there would have been some sort of explosion on the spot, but for the timely diversion of a man’s head parting the door-flaps.
“Them hosses is ready,” he briefly announced. And Barreau turned his back on Mr. Montell forthwith. I did likewise.