It happened that Joe Smeaton, an axe-man at the main camp, and universally unpopular owing to his habit of tale-bearing, was rehearsing the “Sentinel’s” account of Indian Pete’s death to an interested but silent audience.
“Denny’s hit kind of hard,” he ventured at random.
Several nodded.
“He kind of liked Pete.”
More nods and a muttering of “That’s so—he sure did.”
Then, out of the smoke-heavy silence following, came Barney Axel’s voice, tense with the accumulated scorn of his secret knowledge.
“He’ll be hit harder yet!”
There was a covert threat in the tone. Pipes stopped wheezing. The men stared anywhere but at each other. This was high treason.
“Fisty’s drinkin’ too much,” he added, covering his former statement with this counter-suggestion, which seemed to satisfy every one but Smeaton. He took occasion to repeat the conversation to Harrigan that night in the seclusion of the wangan office.
“He said that, did he?” Harrigan’s heavy brows drew together. Smeaton nodded. Harrigan spat on the glowing stove viciously. “Things at the ‘Wing’ ain’t runnin’ jest to suit me. Barney’s been boss there just three years too long. He’s sufferin’ fur a new job, and he’ll get it.” Then he turned to Smeaton. “Joe, you can take charge at the ‘Wing’ in the mornin’.”