Weston nodded.
“It’s very probable,” he said. “They’re evidently getting angry about something inside there. What’s the trouble?”
“Guess it’s your partner,” said the other man, with a grin. “It seems Jake bought a horse from him; but you’d better go in and see. I decided to pull out when one of them got an ax. Struck me it would be kind of safer in my shanty.”
He went down the stairway; and as Weston went up a raucous voice reached him.
“The money!” it said. “The money or the horse! You hear me! Hand out the blame money!”
Weston pushed open the door and stopped just inside it. The room was big, and, as usual, crudely furnished, with uncovered walls and floor, and a stove in the midst of it. A bar ran along part of one side, and a man in a white shirt was just then engaged in hastily removing the bottles from it. Another man, in blue shirt and duck trousers, stood beside the stove, and he held a big ax which he swung suggestively. It was evident that several of the others were runaway sailormen, who have, since the days of Caribou, usually been found in the forefront when there were perilous wagon bridges or dizzy railroad trestles to be built in the Mountain Province. There was, however, nothing English in their appearance.
“He wants his horse! Oh, bring it out!” sang the man with the ax.
There was a howl of approval from the cluster of men who sat on a rough fir table; but the man behind the bar raised an expostulating hand.
“Boys,” he said, “you have got to be reasonable. I bought that horse. If the deadbeat who made the deal with me wants it back, all he has to do is to produce the money.”
Then Grenfell, who leaned on the table, drew himself up, and made a gesture of protest. He was as ragged and unkempt as ever.