Wolf Breed | Page 4

the
law. All types, all classes. And yet now, standing jauntily upon Père
Marquette's threshold, was a type of which as yet the Settlement had
had no knowledge.
He was young and wore his black mustaches with all of the fierceness
of youth. His boots were at once the finest and the smallest which
MacLeod's had ever seen upon a man's feet. He wore gloves, and when
in due time the hands came out of the gloves, they were little like a

woman's and white and soft. He was a handsome young
devil-of-a-fellow with all of the soft, graceful beauty of the far
southland. His mouth, smiling now, was red lipped, his teeth a
glistening white. Eyes very big, very black, very soft, very tender,
smiling too. From the crown of his wide black hat to the tall heels of
his dainty boots he was such a dandy as demanded more than a casual
glance.
"Amigos," he cried, the door closed now, his back to it, his wide hat
describing a slow, graceful arc as he raised it gallantly from his black
hair, "I have the thirst of a lost soul. Who will drink with me?"
He whipped the glove from his right hand, caught his hat under his arm
and brought from his pocket a shining gold piece which he tossed to
one of Père Marquette's counters. A few of the men laughed, seeing his
mistake, while others murmured, "Dago," a little disgustedly and
returned their attention to their drink, gaming or talk. Père Marquette
came forward briskly.
"M'sieu," he said graciously, offering his hand, "your presence honours
Mamma Jeanne an' me. We are to-night fifty year marry . . . you shall
put your money in your pocket, m'sieu. One does not pay to drink at the
place of Père Marquette to-night."
The young fellow looked at him in surprise, then turned wondering
eyes about him, even peering through the open door into the further
rooms as though asking himself what manner of place was this where
men drank and did not pay. Then he laughed softly.
"Your pardon, señor," he said politely, taking the old man's proffered
hand and bending over it gracefully. "Outside I was athirst like a man
in hell . . ."
A queer change came over his smiling face as his eyes, journeying
beyond the thin, black coated figure of Père Marquette, rested upon a
secluded corner of the room where in the nook by the fireplace a quiet
game of cards was in progress.

"Señorita! Señorita!" he cried softly, pushing by Père Marquette and
coming forward swiftly. "Dispensame! Forgive me, señorita!"
It was Ernestine, the one woman remaining in the room, Ernestine
Dumont, who had come from over the ridge with big Kootanie George,
her latest lover. She was sitting close to Kootanie's side now,
whispering occasionally in his ear as a hand was dealt him, for the most
part contentedly sipping at her little glass of sweet wine as she sat back
and watched. She, with the others, had turned toward the entrant, her
eyes remaining upon him until now. She smiled, no doubt pleased at his
notice, while Kootanie George, wide-shouldered, mighty limbed, the
biggest man within a hundred miles of the Settlement, glared at him in
frowning wonder.
"Forgive you?" laughed Ernestine, after a quick glance at George upon
whose shoulder she laid her hand lightly. "What for?"
"I did not know that a lady was here," explained the young fellow
eagerly. He was almost standing over her, his eyes for her alone as he
turned up his mustaches more fiercely yet and his eyes grew the more
tender. "I speak roughly and not guarding my tongue which should
suffer and not taste wine for a week, señorita. I am ashamed."
Ernestine blushed; again several men had laughed. He had said "hell"
and had apologised to her . . .
"We'll let it go this time," she laughed a trifle awkwardly. "And as for
not drinking anything. . . . Look out or you'll spill what Papa Marquette
is bringing you now."
"We are all frien's, m'sieu," said Papa Marquette courteously, offering a
brimming glass. "You, too. And it is wrong that one should thirst
to-night."
The other took the glass with another of his graceful bows.
"May you have other fifty years of happiness with your señora," he said
warmly. "Your health and her health, señor." The glass, at his lips,

halted and came away for a moment while he thought to introduce
himself. "I am Ramon Garcia."
He said it as one might have said, "I am the King of Spain." Simply
enough but with a proud simplicity. Then he put back his head and
drank.
After that Ramon Garcia needed no coaxing to remain. He fitted into
the throng