he could see them.  That was Hauck.  David knew it.  He was almost a half smaller than the other, with round, bullish shoulders, a thick neck, and eyes wherein might lurk an incredible cruelty.  He popped half out of his seat when he saw the girl, and a stranger.  His jaws seemed to tighten with a snap.  A snap that could almost be heard.  But it was Brokaw’s face that held David’s eyes.  He was two thirds drunk.  There was no doubt about it, if he was any sort of judge of that kind of imbecility.  One of his thick, huge hands was gripping a bottle.  Hauck had evidently been reading him something out of a ledger, a Post ledger, which he held now in one hand.  David was surprised at the quiet and unemotional way in which the girl began speaking.  She said that she had wandered over into the other valley and was lost when this stranger found her.  He had been good to her, and was on his way to the settlement on the coast.  His name was....

She got no further than that.  Brokaw had taken his devouring gaze from her and was staring at David.  He lurched suddenly to his feet and leaned over the table, a new sort of surprise in his heavy countenance.  He stretched out a hand.  His voice was a bellow.

“McKenna!”

He was speaking directly at David—­calling him by name.  There was as little doubt of that as of his drunkenness.  There was also an unmistakable note of fellowship in his voice.  McKenna!  David opened his mouth to correct him when a second thought occurred to him in a mildly inspirational way.  Why not McKenna?  The girl was looking at him, a bit surprised, questioning him in the directness of her gaze.  He nodded, and smiled at Brokaw.  The giant came around the table, still holding out his big, red hand.

“Mac!  God!  You don’t mean to say you’ve forgotten....”

David took the hand.

“Brokaw!” he chanced.

The other’s hand was as cold as a piece of beef.  But it possessed a crushing strength.  Hauck was staring from one to the other, and suddenly Brokaw turned to him, still pumping David’s hand.

“McKenna—­that young devil of Kicking Horse, Hauck!  You’ve heard me speak of him.  McKenna....”

The girl had backed to the door.  She was pale.  Her eyes were shining, and she was looking straight at David when Brokaw released his hand.

“Good-night, Sakewawin!” she said.

It was very distinct, that word—­Sakewawin!  David had never heard it come quite so clearly from her lips.  There was something of defiance and pride in her utterance of it—­and intentional and decisive emphasis to it.  She smiled at him as she went through the door, and in that same breath Hauck had followed her.  They disappeared.  When David turned he found Brokaw backed against the table, his hands gripping the edge of it, his face distorted by passion.  It was a terrible face to look into—­to stand before, alone in that room—­a face filled with menace and murder.  So sudden had been the change in it that David was stunned for a moment.  In that space of perhaps a quarter of a minute neither uttered a sound.  Then Brokaw leaned slowly forward, his great hands clenched, and demanded in a hissing voice: