“‘And we’ll drive the savage crew from the land we love the best,
Shouting the battle-cry—’
“Hullo! Who’s comin’? Injuns—mean noble red men? Come in, gen’lemen all.”
The floor shook. They were all crowding in. There was a din of guttural monosyllables and sibilant phrases all fused together, threatening and sinister to the listener; yet he could understand that some of them were of pleasure. That meant the sight of the whiskey.
“P-play fair, gen’lemen,” the drunken voice quavered, “thas fine whiskey, fire-water. Got lot. Know where’s more. Queer shorter place ever did see. Aller folks skipped. Nobody welcome stranger. Ha, ha!—hic!—stranger found the whiskey, and is shelerbrating for himself. Help yeself, gen’lemen. I know where there’s shum—shum more—plenty.”
Dimly it came to Harned that here was the man’s bid for his life. They wouldn’t kill him until he should get the fresh supply of whiskey.
“Where Black Blanket gone?” grunted Red Horse. Harned knew his voice.
“Damfino,” returned the drunken accents, cheerfully. “L-lit out, thas all I know. Whas you mean, hitting each orrer with bottles? Plenty more. I’ll go get it. You s-shay where you are.”
The blood pounded through Harned’s veins at the sound of the shambling step on the floor. His own shoulders involuntarily hunched themselves, quivering as if he felt the tomahawk between them. Would they wait, or would they shy something at him and kill him the minute his back was turned? God! what nerve the man had! He was not taking a step the quicker—ah! Wickliff’s fingers were at the fastening. He flung the door back. Even then he staggered, keeping to his rôle. But the instant he was over the threshold the transformation came. He hurled the door back and threw his weight against it, quick as a cat. His teeth were set in a grin of hate, his eyeballs glittered, and he shook his pistol at the door.