The ranger nodded assent.
“Ay bane go down first an' see how t'ings look.”
When the Norwegian entered the cabin, he saw two men seated at a table, playing seven up. The one facing him was Tommie, the cook; the other was an awkward heavy-set fellow, whom he knew for the man he wanted, even before the scarred, villainous face was twisted toward him.
Struve leaped instantly to his feet, overturning his chair in his haste. He had not met the big Norseman since the night he had attempted to hang Fraser.
“Ay bane not shoot yuh now,” Siegfried told him.
“Right sure of that, are you?” the convict snarled, his hand on his weapon. “If you've got any doubts, now's the time to air them, and we'll settle this thing right now.”
“Ay bane not shoot, Ay tell you.”
Tommie, who had ducked beneath the table at the prospect of trouble, now cautiously emerged.
“I ain't lost any pills from either of your guns, gents,” he explained, with a face so laughably and frankly frightened that both of the others smiled.
“Have a drink, Siegfried,” suggested Struve, by way of sealing the treaty. “Tommie, get out that bottle.”