"I find Lefty with sore head and I ask why. I make them tell. My men tell when I command. He say—"
"I don't care a tinker's cuss what he say. It's what I say counts on this job."
"Did they hurt boss?" Koppy's voice was servilely anxious. "Lefty tell me Morani stab."
Torrance laughed contemptuously. He was stroking his moustache with the injured hand; now he threw both arms out and repeated the sneering laugh.
"Chico's knife is more dangerous to himself than to me." He turned back and picked up the stiletto from the table. "Here"—tossing it on the ground before the Pole—"tell him he dropped his needle in his hurry; and I guess he didn't want to come back for it. It's no use to me. Your five hundred Chicos, with all their knives and knuckle-dusters, can't come up here and give orders."
"I fire them to-night," promised Koppy.
"No, you won't." Torrance's mind was working with unusual celerity. "They got what was coming to them from my fists this time. Next time they'll need a doctor—or an undertaker. Besides, it's not your business to fire. That's all. Good-night."
"Ignace Koppowski hope young missus not frightened," came the voice from the darkness.
"Why should she be? There ain't enough men in the camp to hurt her.
If you doubt it, refer to Werner and Morani."
Koppowski coughed. "Indian strong man. Indian save your life. Godd! But he hurt my men. Indian look out. They never forget. You tell him?"