"Barney!" repeated Gosse, surprised.
"Yes, we've got him and two others. I don't want them. I'll turn 'em over to you. But not Morse and Barney. They're going to the post with me for whiskey-running."
Gosse went back to the camp-fire, where the Whoop-Up men had carried their wounded leader. Except West, they were all glad to drop the battle. The big smuggler, lying on the ground with a bullet in his thigh, cursed them for a group of chicken-hearted quitters. His anger could not shake their decision. They knew when they had had enough.
The armistice concluded, Beresford and Morse walked over to the camp-fire to find out how badly West was hurt.
"Sorry I had to hit you, but you would have it, you know," the constable told him grimly.
The man snapped his teeth at him like a wolf in a trap. "You didn't hit me, you liar. It was that li'l' hell-cat of McRae. You tell her for me I'll get her right for this, sure as my name's Bully West."
There was something horribly menacing in his rage. In the jumping light of the flames the face was that of a demon, a countenance twisted and tortured by the impotent lust to destroy.
Morse spoke, looking steadily at him in his quiet way. "I'm servin' notice, West, that you're to let that girl alone."
There was a sound in the big whiskey-runner's throat like that of an infuriated wild animal. He glared at Morse, a torrent of abuse struggling for utterance. All that he could say was, "You damned traitor."
The eyes of the younger man did not waver. "It goes. I'll see you're shot like a wolf if you harm her."