Montell took off his hat and threw it petulantly on the floor. The expression on his face was sour as curdled milk.
“We couldn’t make it, that’s all,” he growled. “I guess the H. B. C.’s gettin’ busy all at once. Anyhow, we got headed off.”
“How?” Barreau demanded.
Montell flung out his hands expressively.
“Easiest way in the world,” he sputtered wrathfully. “Some feller with a good eye just trailed us up, and killed off our stock—shot ’em one by one. Finally we was afoot. So we turned back. Couldn’t walk clear to MacLeod. Damn ’em, anyway!”
“No one hurt?” Barreau asked quietly.
“Barrin’ blistered feet—no,” Montell snapped.
His gaze involuntarily travelled to his own broad, shapeless feet, and a smile flickered across Barreau’s countenance. There was a momentary lull.
“What are you going to do now?” Barreau inquired next.
“I’m goin’ to take eight men, by God! and a string of mules, and hit it in the mornin’,” Montell exploded. “I ain’t goin’ to have that girl winter here, if I know it. And I ain’t goin’ to be headed off from nothin’ by the Hudson Bay or any other damned outfit. I’ll show them bushwhackin’ parties a trick or two. They’ll find old Montell ain’t so slow. I just come over here to let you know I was back, George, so’s you wouldn’t be gettin’ into the foreground to-morrow mornin’ when we’re fixin’ to start. You might just as well be accommodatin’.”