Anyway, Lee slid to the ground as the train stopped, and went back to the car that held the consignment for the Bend. As he fumbled with the door, he got a whiff of raw spirit that nearly knocked him over. And then, right behind him, rose a chorus of appreciative “ughs!” I told you an Indian could smell whisky, but I didn’t tell you why. It’s his ruling passion. That’s straight. I’m not judging the Indian; the taste was born in him. There are some white men just as bad. I’m not judging them, either. Some drink for the same reason the Indian does, some for others, and some--some men drink because they have to. What was I saying? Oh, yes, Lee getting that whiff. Well, before he got the door unfastened, the man in the red shirt had pushed through the Indians and come up beside him. “Me name’s Clancy,” said he. “Did yez bring up any stuff for me?” “There’s three barrels for somebody,” replied Lee, and slid open the door--and the next minute he had jumped back with a yell, colliding with Clancy. “Ugh!” ejaculated the apparition that confronted him. “He’s drunk! Majestically drunk! An’ on _my_ stuff!” roared Clancy; and then, turning fiercely on Lee: “Fwhat did ye let him in there for, eh? Fwhat did ye let him in for, ye mealy-faced little----” “Let him in nothing!” retorted Lee, getting back his grip on himself. “Here, you, get out--and _quick!_” The Indian blinked gravely, but never moved. He sat cross-legged on the floor, exactly in the middle of the car between the doors, swaying slightly backward and forward. Beside him, up-ended and broached, was one of Clancy’s kegs. The car reeked with the smell of it, for of the half kegful that had gushed out what hadn’t gone into the Indian had gone on to the floor. The half-breed was raving mad. I’ve a notion sometimes the man wasn’t human at all. He had his hand on Lee’s throat when Perley came running up from the rear end. “What’s the row?” he began, and then he stopped. He was a cool devil was Perley, and he never turned a hair as he stepped between the two men. “Ah, Clancy, it’s you, is it, you copper-faced renegade?”--no loud talk, no bluster, he didn’t raise his voice; but his insult, the worst he could have laid his tongue to, cut like the sting of a lash. Clancy swung around like a flash--and stared into the muzzle of the conductor’s.45. His hands were clenching and unclenching as he recognized Perley, and the cords in his neck swelled into knotty lumps. “Ut’s your worrk, this job, is ut?” he snarled. “Some day, Perley, I’ll show you.” Queer, you say, he’d act like that--nothing to warrant it. Well, maybe. I don’t know. I don’t know what was between them before; but I do know the awful deviltry of Breed Clancy, and I know that Lee, leaning back against the car, shivered at the look that passed between the two of them.