Driscoll was heavy and muscular, Drummond wiry and thin, but as they stood, highly strung, Thirlwell noted the athletic symmetry of both figures. Driscoll had, no doubt, acquired it by travel in the woods, and Drummond by inheritance from Indian forefathers. The older man's limbs and body had the fine proportions of a Greek statue, and since he did not move one could not see that he was lame. Their faces, although different in modeling, were somehow alike, for both had a curious, quiet watchful look. They disputed in low voices, but Thirlwell saw their mood was dangerous. He knew that noisy fury seldom marks a struggle in the North, where hunting animals and men strike in silence. There was something strangely like the stealthy alertness of the animals in their attitudes.
Waiting in the gloom among the pine-trunks, he gathered that the quarrel was about the sharpening of tools. Drummond had brought some cutters from the boring machine, and Driscoll wanted his ax ground.
"I came along first," Drummond declared. "Tom's going to fix my cutters; your ax has got to wait!" He glanced at the smith, sharply, as if reluctant to move his eyes from Driscoll. "Give the wheel a spin and let's get busy!"
"He certainly won't," said Driscoll; "I've unshipped the handle. You'll get your cutters quickest if you quit talking and wait until I'm through."
"That's not playing it like a white man. Don't know why they hired you at the mine. Your job's smuggling the Indians liquor."
"Your folks!" sneered Driscoll. "You're not white."
"Stop there!" said Drummond, with stern quietness, and Thirlwell saw him balance a cutter he held. It was a short but heavy piece of steel, curved at the point.
Driscoll's eyes glittered. "Your father was a squaw-man; your mother—"
He bent his body with the swift suppleness of an acrobat, and the cutter, flying past, rang upon the wall of the shack. Then he swung forward and the end of a pick-handle missed Drummond by an inch.
Another cutter shot from Drummond's hand and struck Driscoll's side. He stooped, and Thirlwell thought he was falling but saw that he had bent down to pick up his ax. Next moment the blade flashed in a long sweep and Drummond sprang behind the anvil, which occupied the middle of the floor. He had another cutter and held it back, with his arm bent, ready to launch it at Driscoll's head, but Thirlwell imagined he was pressed too hard to feel sure of his aim and wanted to get out of his antagonist's reach. It was plain that the situation was dangerous, but Thirlwell knew he could not stop the men by shouting, and the fight would probably be over before he reached the shack. He had, however, forgotten the smith, who pulled a glowing iron from the fire.