Young Dan left him without a word and shut the door. He removed his snowshoes then, and his cap and outer coat, lit the wick of the lantern and placed a new chimney in the battered frame.
“Reckon I’ll stop right here till I git my supper,” said Andy Mace from the floor.
Jim Conley turned over on his back, but did not attempt to rise.
Young Dan collected rifles and axes from the floor and stood them in a corner, set a big frying-pan on the stove and filled the kettle from a pail by the door—all in a grim silence. After slicing venison into the pan, along with some fat bacon, he removed his partner’s snowshoes and brushed him off with a broom.
“Is everything busted in that there sack?” inquired Conley, anxiously, raising himself slowly on an elbow.
Young Dan untied the sack and shook its contents out onto the floor. There were fragments of four square-faced black bottles. The other articles, the bacon and tea and tobacco, were saturated with gin. Young Dan pushed the mess together with his foot, in scornful silence.
“That’s sure a grand outfit o’ grub to take home to a woman an’ two childern,” remarked Andy Mace.
Jim Conley swore long and loud and strong.
“Shut up!” snapped Young Dan.
“Someun will pay for that!” cried Conley. “Good an’ plenty.”