Indeed she had to shout, so great already was the clamor growing up about them. A crowd was gathering rapidly, and the camp police were just drunk enough to ply their clubs at random, while they lacked the numbers needed to keep the ground clear. The bartenders at the wagon were taking on special police, each of them pledged with a pint to keep the crowd off.
Yet while the riot grew, the vortex round which it swirled seemed to become so quiet, that presently Rain heard quite clearly the low voice of the Crow as he spoke to Storm. By main force, she wrung her captor half round until she could face the scene.
The Crow was speaking quite amiably, and by his gestures in the sign talk Rain understood him where his English failed her.
"Well, Storm," he said, "I hear you've come to preach against my god."
"I have."
"Going to put up your shingle in front of my wagons?"
"I am."
"Waal, I've got along of a quarter million dollars to back John Barleycorn, my god with, agin your God."
Storm looked him in the eyes, and laughed. "Well?"
"White man, I ain't exactly partial to your tribe, your bleached, washed-out white men. I," he said this proudly, "am of the black. I been insulted too much and too often to be fond of you-all—much. Still, I'm not a bad sort of fellow, I'm a bit of a sport, kinder warm-hearted enough, anyways, to give your God a sporting chance agin John Barleycorn."