“Say, thanks be to the Holy Mackinaw this is going to be the last trip I’m makin’ up Three-Way Creek,” the man bellowed across at him, in a tone and accent that was unmistakably Irish. “I’ve beat it through muskeg that had me right up to the cinchas. There’s enough flood water by the way to drown a whole darn world, and the skitters are crazy for good Irish blood. Say, boy, I come along to tell you you’re going to get out right away.”
Jim Pryse hurried across to his visitor with his bunch of strung trout. He looked up into eyes as blue as his own. The man was infinitely bigger than himself. He was a weather-stained creature round about forty, clad in the hard clothing of the prairie. And his big horse was well fed and cared for.
Dan Quinlan swung out of the saddle, and began to unship a pair of bulging saddle-bags.
Pryse watched him.
“Do you mean all that, Dan? About my going, I mean?” he asked, in a voice that was not quite steady.
The Irishman answered him over his shoulder while he tugged at the rawhide lashings.
“Mean it? Faith, I do that, man,” he said, in his big-voiced way. Then, the saddle-bags released, he held them out. “Beat it, and empty that truck right out. Ther’s soap there. But for the love of St. Patrick I can’t get your need of it. There’s a razor, too. Maybe it’s a shade better than a hay mower, which would seem to be just an elegant proposition for that carpet hanging to your face. Ther’s tobac an’ lucifers, a flask of Rye, and all the junk we folks reckon fits our bellies better than hay. Just empty it right out, and bring that flask of the stuff back. We’ll sit around awhile, so you ken roast them measly trout and eat. And we ken yarn. I got things fixed the way you asked and the police boys have quit your trail.”
Jim Pryse made no reply. He offered no word of thanks. But the thing shining in his sunken eyes was all sufficient for the Irishman. He took the saddle-bags from his benefactor and obeyed him implicitly. When he returned with them empty, and bearing a pannikin and the flask of Rye, he indicated a large log beside the spluttering fire.
“Will you sit, Dan?”
Pryse’s invitation was quiet in contrast with the other’s larger manner. And the Irishman turned abruptly from his contemplation of the flood of snow-water teeming with legions of wild-fowl.