“Do you take this chunk of meat,” he directed Tillie, “and go down to the saloon and get another bottle of hooch. Yes, yes; I know I have destroyed one bottle. You are not to ask questions but to obey my commands. Go down and trade the meat for hooch. Do not stop to speak to the white men. Come, back at once. Go!” But down in Raftery’s the assemblage had no hint of these swift changes, and they laughed merrily at Black Pete’s remarks. “What d’you reckon his lay is, Jack?” asked one. “Booze,” replied Raftery instantly. “Nothing else. When you see a man who’s sure been as good a man in his day as this relic, trailing ’round with squaw folks, you can jest nacherlly whittle a little marker for him and paint on it, ‘’Nother white man as the hooch hez got.’ Sabbe? I trace him out as some prospector who’s got crippled up and been laying out ’mongst the Indians with a good supply of the ol’ frost-bite cure ’longside of ’im. Nothin’ to do but tuh hit the jug offen enough to keep from gettin’ sober and remembering what he used to was. Sabbe? Been layin’ out sucking the neck of a jug till his ol’ thinker’s got twisted. “I’ve seen dozens of ’em. You can’t fool me when I see one, and I saw him when he was comin’ through the door. Ran out o’ hooch and was afraid he’d get sober, so he comes down here to get soaked up some more. Brings his load o’ meat ‘long to trade in, an’ these two brown dolls to make sure in case the caribou have been down this way, which they ain’t. Bet the drinks against two bits that he’ll be chasin’ one o’ the squaws down here for another bottle before an hour’s gone. They all do. I’ve seen his kind before.” Black Pete took the bet. “Because I’m onlucky, moi, lately, an’ I want to lose this bet,” he explained. Raftery laughed homerically. “What’s on you’ chest, Jack?” demanded one of his friends. “I was just thinking,” gurgled the saloonist, “what ’ud happen in case this stiff gent, Iron Hair, was to run in ’bout this time.” “By Gar!” laughed Pete. “An’ Iron Hair, he’s just ’bout due.” At that moment Tillie came waddling in, laid down her bundle of meat before Raftery and said— “One bottle.” “What’d I tell you?” chuckled Raftery, handing over the liquor. “Boss him get laid out, eh?” he said to Tillie. But Tillie did not pause for conversation. She whipped the bottle under her blanket and waddled out without a word. “Well, I’m a son-of-a-gun!” proclaimed Raftery. “That ol’ bum has got ’em well trained, anyhow.” Black Pete pulled his beard reflectively. “Come to theenk,” he mused aloud, “dere was wan rifle on those sledge. I theenk mebbe I no go viseet thees ol’ bum, he’s camp, teel she’s leetle better acquaint’ weeth moi.” CHAPTER XXXII—THE SCORN OF A PURE WOMAN