Wolf Breed | Page 8

standing near the
entrance.
"He wants to have an open trail to run," jeered Rand. And again
striking heavily his blow found the empty air and a second resounding
slap reddened his other cheek.
"For calling me a breed," taunted Garcia, so that all might hear the
words 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 Frank
Marquette . . . obeyed Garcia's command silently and promptly. Rand,
his rage flaring ever higher as men drawing chairs and tables out of the
way laughed at him and as the Mexican's sallies taunted him, hurled
himself 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 feet
in his little boots carried him much as the fabled winged sandals bore
the hero Perseus in his encounter with the dragon. Not once had Rand
landed a square blow; not once had Garcia been where the big red fists
looked for him. And while Rand breathed heavily, Ramon Garcia,
whose soul was as deeply steeped in the dramatic as Père Marquette's
in colour, sang maddening little snatches of love songs and stole swift

glances 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 great
gasp went up at it, followed by a shout of applause and a roar of
laughter. Garcia had tantalised his antagonist, but beyond slapping his
face twice had not touched him. He skipped about him like a French
dancing master and so allowed Rand to make a fool of himself for the
moment. Presently, so had the Mexican engineered it, they were not
five steps from the open door and the way was clear. One instant he had
seemed about to draw back again, to avoid Rand as he had avoided him
so many times.
"You little monkey-man!" Rand was shouting at him. "Stand still
and . . ."
That was all that he said. Garcia had leaped forward; his two gloved
hands had sped like lightning to Rand's wrists, he had seized the bigger
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
had thrown Rand out through the open door, and as the trapper plunged
forward 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 are
spoil! Bah. Pig!"
Rand was back at the threshold, his face blood red, his hands dripping
the mud from the slushy road. But young Frank Marquette had stepped
out to meet him and had closed the door.
For a little all eyes in the room rested intent upon Ramon Garcia. The
first estimate, founded upon dandified clothes and manner, had changed
swiftly. He was a man even though he wore gloves and was overfond
of posing. Even though everything he did was overdone, whether it be
the bowing over an old Frenchman's hand, the wide sweep of his hat in
a flourish of slow gracefulness, the tender love making to a woman for
whom he did not care the snap of his little white fingers, upon occasion

his soft eyes knew how to grow keen and hard and he carried himself
with the assurance of fearlessness. It was as though he had worn a lace
cloak over a capable, muscled body; as though the cloak had been
blown aside by a sudden gust and men had seen the true man
underneath.
In Kootanie George's eyes where there had come to be a widening of
slow astonishment 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, señor, whom I thought a clown are a gentleman," he
answered, a trifle of impudence in the gaze which swept the big man
from head to heel. Kootanie grinned a bit, passed over the innuendo in
silence and went back to his chair. Garcia, giving an added twist of
fierceness to his 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. For one
thing he had packed off on a lonely prospecting trip two weeks before,
impatient at the delayed thaw,