Wolf Breed

by Jackson Gregory

  CHAPTER III

  THE MAN UNDER THE CLOAK

  Dave Drennen was a big man, no man here so big save Kootanie Georgealone, who was two inches the taller and fully thirty pounds theheavier. The Canadian stood four inches better than six feet in hissquat, low-heeled boots and must turn sideways to get his massiveshoulders through most doors hereabouts. Unlike most very tall menGeorge carried himself straight, his enormous chest thrust forward.

  Drennen was younger by half a dozen years, slenderer, of cleaner build.Any man at Pere Marquette's would have emptied his pockets that nightto witness a fight between the two. Men as a rule liked KootanieGeorge, slow moving, slow spoken, heavily good humoured. And as aneven more unbroken rule they disliked Dave Drennen. Throughout the farplaces of the great northwest into which of recent years he had fittedrestlessly he was known as a man at once too silent and tooquarrelsome. He trod his own trail alone. Other men had "pardners";Drennen was no man's friend. He was hard and he was bitter. Not yetat the end of his first score and ten, his mouth had grown set instern, harsh lines, his heavy brows had acquired the habit of bunchingominously over eyes in which was the glint of steel. He was a manwhose smile was unpleasant, whose laugh could be as ugly as many aman's curse.

  It looked like a quarrel between No-luck Drennen and Blunt Rand. Andyet the men who ceased their playing at the snap of his voice forgotRand and hungered for trouble between Drennen and Kootanie George.Rand had been measured long ago and didn't count. He blabbed big wordswhen he was drunk and whined when a man struck him. He would swallowhis words now and swallow with them No-luck Drennen's vicious "You're aliar, Blunt Rand." Even if Drennen slapped his face he would merelycrawl away like a little bug, spitting venom.

  Drennen was standing ten feet from him and made no move to draw closer.

  "Did you hear me, Rand?" he demanded sharply.

  "I heard you," grumbled the trapper. "What's eatin' you, Dave, anyway?"

  "Tell them you lied."

  Rand flushed, and inspired by his liquor a sudden, unusual stubbornnesssprang up in his eyes. He heard Ernestine laugh softly.

  "You go to hell," he cried hotly. "I got a right . . ."

  "No man has a right to lie about me," announced Drennen crisply. Thebig hands at his sides had clenched swiftly with knotting muscles. Atlast he took a quick step forward, his quarrelsome mood riding him."If you don't want me to choke the tongue out of your head tell themyou lied."

  "_Messieurs, messieurs_," cried poor old Marquette imploringly. "Forthe love of God! Tonight all mus' be gay, all mus' be frien's. It isthe night Mamma Jeanne an' me we are marry fifty year . . ."

  Drennen snarled at him, shaking the thin old hand away angrily. Randwas upon his feet, some of the stubbornness already fled from his eyes,the sound of Ernestine Dumont's taunting laugh lost to him in the harshvoice of Drennen.

  "I don't want no trouble to-night, Dave," he said swiftly. "It's oldPapa Marquette's weddin' night. I . . . I was jus' joshin', Dave."And then as Ernestine laughed again, he spat out, "Jus' joshin' totease Ernestine here."

  "_Sangre de dios_!" murmured Ramon Garcia gently, his black eyes liquidfire. "He is a little coward, that Rand."

  Hardly more than a whisper and Garcia quite across the room from Rand.And yet the stillness was so perfect that Rand heard and jerked hishead up, swinging toward the Mexican.

  "You little Greaser!" he cried shrilly. "You dirty breed, you!" Hepushed through the crowd to Garcia's table. "Coward, am I? I'll showyou."

  Ramon Garcia's laughter greeting the hot words was a clear burst ofunaffected, boyish merriment. He tilted his chair back against thewall and turned a delighted face up to Rand's flushed one.

  "Senor," he chided softly, shaking a slender white finger very close toRand's nose, "have you forgot it is the gala night of our good host,the Papa Francais? That you don't care for trouble to-night? _Mamamia_! You are a comic--no?"

  Then bringing his hand away and hooking both thumbs impudently into thearmholes of his gay vest the Mexican smiled as he hummed softly,glancing away briefly to where Ernestine Dumont was watching them:

  "The perfume of roses, of little red roses; (Thou art a rose, oh, so sweet, _corazon_!)"

  With men laughing at him Blunt Rand struck. The young Mexican wasstill in his chair. Like a cat he slipped from it now, avoiding theheavy, swinging blow, moving to one side with swift gracefulness,standing with the table between him and Rand. As he moved his righthand slid into his pocket.

  "You dago!" Rand shouted at him, lunging forward while men scrambledout of the way. "Call me coward an' then go for your knife! Fightwith your hands, damn you."

  Again Garcia avoided him easily, calm and quick eyed, offeringpantherine swiftness against the blind fury of Rand.

  "Si, senor," he answered lightly. "With the hands. But the hands Imus' keep without dirt, senor!"

  His hand came away from his pocket and he made a sudden gesture, stilllaughing, toward Rand's face. The trapper jerked back quickly. Then agreat booming swell of laughter went up, even the slow rumble ofKootanie George's voice and the tinkling tremulo of Ernestine Dumont'sjoining it Ramon Garcia had brought out his gloves and had drawn themon before Rand had understood.

  In size and physique Rand was the average there. The young Mexican wasthe shortest, slightest man in the house. But none knows better thanthe dwellers in the North Woods that it is unwise to judge men by meresize of body. It is well to look to the eyes of one's antagonist.

  Garcia sprang forward and slapped Rand's face so that the face burnedand the sound of the blow was like a pistol shot in the quiet room.And as Rand's return threshing blow sought him he sprang away, laughing.

  "For calling me Greaser," he cried lightly. "When I have said out loudthat I am Ramon Garcia."

  Bellowing curses Rand charged at him again. Garcia avoided and seemedto have no difficulty whatever in so doing.

  "Will you open the door, senor?" he called to a man standing near theentrance.

  "He wants to have an open trail to run," jeered Rand. And againstriking heavily his blow found the empty air and a second resoundingslap reddened his other cheek.

  "For calling me a breed," taunted Garcia, so that all might hear thewords with the slap of the open hand. "Me who have the blood of kings,blue like the skies."

  The man standing at the door . . . it chanced to be young FrankMarquette . . . obeyed Garcia's command silently and promptly. Rand,his rage flaring ever higher as men drawing chairs and tables out ofthe way laughed at him and as the Mexican's sallies taunted him, hurledhimself forward purposing to get his enemy in a corner of the room.But at the best the trapper was awkward and Ramon Garcia's little feetin his little boots carried him much as the fabled winged sandals borethe hero Perseus in his encounter with the dragon. Not once had Randlanded a square blow; not once had Garcia been where the big red fistslooked for him. And while Rand breathed heavily, Ramon Garcia, whosesoul was as deeply steeped in the dramatic as Pere Marquette's incolour, sang maddening little snatches of love songs and stole swiftglances now and then at Ernestine Dumont.

  From the beginning it was clear that Garcia was playing with the other.But the end, coming swiftly, was not what men had looked for. A greatgasp went up at it, followed by a shout of applause and a roar oflaughter. Garcia had tantalised his antagonist, but beyond slappinghis face twice had not touched him. He skipped about him like a Frenchdancing master and so allowed Rand to make a fool of himself for themoment. Presently, so had the Mexican engineered it, they were notfive steps from the open door and the way was clear. One instant hehad seemed about to draw back again, to avoid Rand as he had avoidedhim so many times.

  "You little monkey-man!" Rand was shouting at him. "Stand stilland . . ."

  That was all that he said. Garcia had leaped forward; his two glovedhands had sped like lightning to Rand's wrists, he had seized thebigger man and had pushed him backward, had suddenly whirled him about,with a
bunching of strength which men had not guessed was in him he hadthrown Rand out through the open door, and as the trapper plungedforward into the muddy road the Mexican lifted his foot and kicked.

  "For calling me dago!" smiled Garcia. "Me, whose blood is of Castile."He stripped off his gloves and tossed them into the road. "They arespoil! Bah. Pig!"

  Rand was back at the threshold, his face blood red, his hands drippingthe mud from the slushy road. But young Frank Marquette had steppedout to meet him and had closed the door.

  For a little all eyes in the room rested intent upon Ramon Garcia. Thefirst estimate, founded upon dandified clothes and manner, had changedswiftly. He was a man even though he wore gloves and was overfond ofposing. Even though everything he did was overdone, whether it be thebowing over an old Frenchman's hand, the wide sweep of his hat in aflourish of slow gracefulness, the tender love making to a woman forwhom he did not care the snap of his little white fingers, uponoccasion his soft eyes knew how to grow keen and hard and he carriedhimself with the assurance of fearlessness. It was as though he hadworn a lace cloak over a capable, muscled body; as though the cloak hadbeen blown aside by a sudden gust and men had seen the true manunderneath.

  In Kootanie George's eyes where there had come to be a widening of slowastonishment during the brief struggle now was a dawning admiration.He put out his great hand as he shambled forward.

  "I called you Greaser, too," he said heavily. "I take it back, Garcia.You're a white man. Shake."

  Garcia took his hand readily, laughing.

  "And you, senor, whom I thought a clown are a gentleman," he answered,a trifle of impudence in the gaze which swept the big man from head toheel. Kootanie grinned a bit, passed over the innuendo in silence andwent back to his chair. Garcia, giving an added twist of fierceness tohis mustaches, returned to his dice game.

  For a little Dave Drennen had been forgotten. Now he was remembered.His appearance here to-night provoked interest for two reasons. Forone thing he had packed off on a lonely prospecting trip two weeksbefore, impatient at the delayed thaw, unwilling to wait until thetrails were open enough for a man to travel off the beaten route. Foranother thing one never sought Dave Drennen where other men drewtogether as they had congregated now. If under that hard exterior hefelt any of the emotions which other men feel, if he had his joys andhis griefs, he chose to experience them alone. Consequently the merefact of his appearance here now brought a flicker of curious interestwith it. Unless he had a quarrel with some man in the Frenchman'shouse, what had brought him?

  "M'sieu," Pere Marquette was saying the worn phrase, "you do me an'Mamma Jeanne the honour! You are welcome, m'sieu!"

  With the usual phrase came the customary offering. Drennen caught theglass from Marquette's hand and drank swiftly. The glass he set on thecounter, putting down a coin with it.

  "There's your money, old man," he said shortly. "Give me my change."

  "But, m'sieu," smiled Pere Marquette, pushing the money back toward hislatest guest, "one does not pay to-night! It is fifty year . . ."

  "I pay my way wherever I go," cut in Drennen curtly. "Will you give memy change?"

  Marquette lifted his two hands helplessly. Never had a man paid fordrink upon such an occasion, and this was the fiftieth! And yet neverbefore had Drennen come, and there must be no trouble to-night. With alittle sigh the old man took up the money, fumbled in his pockets andlaid down the change. Drennen took it up without a word and withoutcounting and strode through the room to the table where Ramon Garciasat, the one table where men were throwing dice. He drew up a chairand sat down, his hat brought forward over his eyes.

  When the last man to throw had rattled and rolled the dice across thetable top the cup sat at Drennen's right hand. He took it up, askingno question, saw what the bet was which they were making, put his ownmoney in front of him and threw. He was in the game. And no manliving in MacLeod's Settlement had ever known Dave Drennen to sit intoany sort of game until now.

  "_Tiens_!" whispered a dried up little fellow who had come down theriver from Moosejaw during the afternoon. "There shall be fon, _mesenfants_! One day I see heem play _la roulette_ in the place ofAntoine Duart'. There shall be fon, _mes enfants_! _Sacre nom dedieu_," and he rubbed his hands in the keenness of his anticipation,"he play like me when I am yo'ng."