Wolf Breed | Page 7

would swallow his words now and swallow with them No-luck
Drennen's vicious "You're a liar, Blunt Rand." Even if Drennen slapped
his face he would merely crawl 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
stubbornness sprang 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. The
big hands at his sides had clenched swiftly with knotting muscles. At
last 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 them you
lied."
"Messieurs, messieurs," cried poor old Marquette imploringly. "For the
love of God! Tonight all mus' be gay, all mus' be frien's. It is the night
Mamma Jeanne an' me we are marry fifty year . . ."
Drennen snarled at him, shaking the thin old hand away angrily. Rand
was 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 harsh
voice of Drennen.
"I don't want no trouble to-night, Dave," he said swiftly. "It's old Papa
Marquette's weddin' night. I . . . I was jus' joshin', Dave." And then as
Ernestine laughed again, he spat out, "Jus' joshin' to tease Ernestine
here."
"Sangre de dios!" murmured Ramon Garcia gently, his black eyes
liquid fire. "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
his head up, swinging toward the Mexican.
"You little Greaser!" he cried shrilly. "You dirty breed, you!" He
pushed through the crowd to Garcia's table. "Coward, am I? I'll show
you."

Ramon Garcia's laughter greeting the hot words was a clear burst of
unaffected, boyish merriment. He tilted his chair back against the wall
and turned a delighted face up to Rand's flushed one.
"Señor," he chided softly, shaking a slender white finger very close to
Rand's nose, "have you forgot it is the gala night of our good host, the
Papa Français? That you don't care for trouble to-night? Mama mia!
You are a comic--no?"
Then bringing his hand away and hooking both thumbs impudently into
the armholes 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,
corazón!)"
With men laughing at him Blunt Rand struck. The young Mexican was
still in his chair. Like a cat he slipped from it now, avoiding the heavy,
swinging blow, moving to one side with swift gracefulness, standing
with the table between him and Rand. As he moved his right hand slid
into his pocket.
"You dago!" Rand shouted at him, lunging forward while men
scrambled out of the way. "Call me coward an' then go for your knife!
Fight with your hands, damn you."
Again Garcia avoided him easily, calm and quick eyed, offering
pantherine swiftness against the blind fury of Rand.
"Si, señor," he answered lightly. "With the hands. But the hands I mus'
keep without dirt, señor!"
His hand came away from his pocket and he made a sudden gesture,
still laughing, toward Rand's face. The trapper jerked back quickly.
Then a great booming swell of laughter went up, even the slow rumble
of Kootanie George's voice and the tinkling tremulo of Ernestine
Dumont's joining it Ramon Garcia had brought out his gloves and had
drawn them on before Rand had understood.

In size and physique Rand was the average there. The young Mexican
was the shortest, slightest man in the house. But none knows better than
the dwellers in the North Woods that it is unwise to judge men by mere
size 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 burned
and 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 loud
that I am Ramon Garcia."
Bellowing curses Rand charged at him again. Garcia avoided and
seemed to have no difficulty whatever in so doing.
"Will you open the door, señor?" he called to a man