"An' a hell of a pick it was! Why, I've went out an' rustled 'em myself, an' fer a sack of flour, an' a half a dozen fish-hooks, an' mebbe a file er two, I've got the pick of a hull village."
Brent's brain cleared gradually as he listened to the villainous dialogue. Vaguely he sensed that it was himself and Joe Pete that the Captain spoke of "planting." So they intended to murder him, did they? And, when that detail had been attended to, they would go on with their traffic in "winter wives." But, they did not intend to kill him here on board the vessel. The Captain had spoken of coming back, after the deed was done. Where would they take him? Brent suddenly found himself possessed by curiosity. He decided to wait and see. And, when the time came, he would give as good an account of himself as he could—and then—what difference did it make? They were not fit to live. He would kill them if he could—or maybe they would kill him. But he was not fit to live either. He had sat at table with them—had fraternized with them—drank liquor in the stinking cabin with the scum of the earth. He was no better than they—he was one of them. The bottle scraped along the table, and he could hear the audible gulping of liquor, the tap of the returned glasses, and the harsh rasping of throats as they were cleared of the fiery bite.
Then the voice of Claw: "You ain't had no pick of a village since the Mounted begun patrolin' the coast."
"Damn the Mounted!"
"Yeh, that's what I say. But damnin' 'em don't git red of 'em. Facts is, they're here, an' every
year it's harder an' harder fer a man to make a livin'. But listen, Cap, I've got one bet up my sleeve. But it'll cost you more'n any fifty dollars—er a hundred, either. She ain't no Husky—she's an Injun breed—an' damn near white. Her name's Snowdrift—an' she's the purtiest thing in the North. I've had my eyes on her fer a couple of years. She was in the mission over on the Mackenzie. But she ain't there no more. She's way up the Coppermine, with a band of about twenty Dog Ribs." Claw paused to pour a glass of liquor, and Brent felt the blood pounding his eardrums in great surging throbs. He felt the sweat break out on his forehead and the palms of his hands, and it was only by a superhuman effort that he continued to feign sleep. Surely, they would notice the flush on his face, the sweat glistening on his forehead and the dryness of his lips—but, no—Claw was speaking again:
"I tried to buy her once—last year it was, offen her mother—offered her a thousan' dollars, cash money—an' 'fore I know'd what happened, the damned old squaw had me about half killed. She's a hell cat. She done it barehanded—clawed my eyes, an' clawed out a hull handful of whiskers—you kin see that patch on my throat where they never grow'd back. It was over near Good Hope, an' I didn't dast to make no holler, nor kill her neither, on account of the Mounted—but I'll get her yet. An' when I do, I'll learn her to pull folks whis
kers out by the ruts when they're tryin' to do the right thing by her!"
"You won't git no thousan' dollars from me!" exploded the Captain, "They ain't no woman, white, red, brown, yaller, or black that's worth no thousan' dollars o' my money!"
"Oh, ain't they?" sneered Claw, "Well you don't git her then. Fact is I never figgered on sellin' her to you, nohow. I kin take her over to Dawson an' make ten thousan' offen her in six months' time. They got the dust over there, an' they ain't afraid to spend it—an' they know a good lookin' woman when they see one. I'm a tellin' you they ain't no woman ever hit the Yukon that kin anyways touch her fer looks—an' I've saw 'em all. The only reason I'm offerin' her to you is because I kin run her up here a damn sight easier than I kin take her clean over to Dawson—an' with a damn sight less risk, too."