"I don' know you feller' at all," continued Poleon, "but Ole Man Gale, he's my frien', so I guess you don' better talk no more lak' dat."
"Don't get sore," said Stark. "I simply say it looks bad." But the other had turned his back and was walking on.
There are men quite devoid of the ability to read the human face, and Runnion was of this species. Moreover, malice was so bitter in his mouth that he must have it out, so when they paused to blaze the next stake he addressed himself to Stark loud enough for Poleon to hear.
"That Lieutenant is more of a man than I thought he was."
"How so?" inquired the older man.
"Well, it takes nerve to steal a girl for one night and then face the father; but the old man don't seem to mind it any more than she does. I guess he knows what it means, all right."
Stark laughed raucously. "I thought of that myself," he said.
"That's probably how Gale got his squaw," concluded Runnion, with a sneer.
It seemed a full minute before the Frenchman gave sign that he had heard, then a strange cry broke from his throat and he began to tremble as if with cold. He was no longer the singer of songs or the man who was forever a boy; the mocking anger of a moment ago was gone; in its place was a consuming fury that sucked the blood from beneath his tan, leaving him the pallor of ashes, while his mouth twitched and his head rolled slightly from side to side like a palsied old man's. The red of his lips was blanched, leaving two white streaks against a faded, muddy background, through which came strange and frightful oaths in a bastard tongue. Runnion drew back, fearful, and the older man ceased chopping and let his axe hang loosely in his hand. But evidently Poleon meant no violence, for he allowed the passion to run from him freely until it had spent its vigor, then said to Runnion:
"M'sieu, eider you are brave man or dam' fool."