you can't git no more." He removed the cork and tendered the bottle. But Brent shook his head: "No thanks, Claw," he said, "I'm off of it. And besides, I haven't got but a few real friends—and you are not one of them."
"Oh, all right, all right," laughed Claw as he tilted the bottle and allowed part of the contents to gurgle audibly down his throat, "Of course I know you don't like me none whatever, but I like you all right. No harm in offerin' a man a drink, is they?"
"None whatever," answered Brent, "And no harm in refusing one when you don't want it."
Claw laughed again: "Not none whatever—when you don't want it." And turning on his heel, he returned to his own tent, chuckling, for he had noted the flash that momentarily lighted Brent's eyes at the sight of the liquor and the sound of it gurgling down his throat.
Early in the morning Brent awoke to see Claw standing beside his fire while Joe Pete prepared breakfast. He joined the two and Claw thrust out his hand: "Well, yer breakfast's ready an' you'll be pullin' out soon. We've pulled a'ready—the old woman's mushin' ahead. So long—shake, to show they's no hard feelin's—or, better yet, have a drink." He drew the bottle from his pocket and thrust it toward Brent so abruptly that some of the liquor spilled upon Brent's bare hand. The odor of it reached his nostrils, and for a second Brent closed his eyes.
"Tea ready," said Joe Pete, gruffly.
"Damn it! Don't I know it?" snapped Brent, then his hand reached out for the bottle. "Guess one won't hurt any," he said, and raising the bottle to his lips, drank deeply.
"Sure it won't," agreed Claw, "I know'd you wasn't afraid of it. Take it, or let it alone, whichever you want to—show'd that las' night."
Instantly the liquor enveloped Brent in its warm glow. The grip of it felt good in his belly, and a feeling of vast well-being pervaded his brain. Claw turned to go.
"What do you get for a quart of that liquor over here," asked Brent.