He caught up the bottle and turned out half a glass of liquor, swaying unsteadily: 

“Drink, Mac?”

David shook his head.

“Not now.  Let’s go to your shack if you’ve got one.  Lots to talk about—­old times—­Kicking Horse, you know.  And this girl?  I can’t believe it!  If it’s true, you’re a lucky dog.”

He was not thinking of consequences—­of to-morrow.  To-night was all he asked for—­alone with Brokaw.  That mountain of flesh, stupefied with liquor, was no match for him now.  To-morrow he might hold the whip hand, if Hauck did not return too soon.

“Lucky dog!  Lucky dog!” He kept repeating that.  It was like music in Brokaw’s ears.  And such a girl!  An angel!  He couldn’t believe it!  Brokaw’s face was like a red fire in his exultation, his lustful joy, his great triumph.  He drank the liquor he had proffered David, and drank a second time, rumbling in his thick chest like some kind of animal.  Of course she was an angel!  Hadn’t he, and Hauck, and that woman who had died, made her grow into an angel—­just for him?  She belonged to him.  Always had belonged to him, and he had waited a long time.  If she had ever called any other man that name—­Sakewawin—­he would have killed him.  Certain.  Killed him dead.  This was the first time she had ever called him that.  Lucky dog?  You bet he was.  They’d go to his shack—­and talk.  He drank a third time.  He rolled heavily as they entered the hall, David praying that they would not meet Hauck.  He had his victim.  He was sure of him.  And the hall was empty.  He picked up his gun and pack, and held to Brokaw’s arm as they went out into the night.  Brokaw staggered guidingly into a wall of darkness, talking thickly about lucky dogs.  They had gone perhaps a hundred paces when he stopped suddenly, very close to something that looked to David like a section of tall fence built of small trees.  It was the cage.  He jumped at that conclusion before he could see it clearly in the clouded starlight.  From it there came a growling rumble, a deep breath that was like air escaping from a pair of bellows, and he saw faintly a huge, motionless shape beyond the stripped and upright sapling trunks.

“Grizzly,” said Brokaw, trying to keep himself on an even balance.  “Big bear-fight to-morrow, Mac.  My bear—­her bear—­a great fight!  Everybody in to see it.  Nothing like a bear-fight, eh?  S’prise her, won’t it—­pretty little wench!  When she sees her bear fighting mine?  Betchu hundred dollars my bear kills Tara!”

“To-morrow,” said David.  “I’ll bet to-morrow.  Where’s the shack?”

He was anxious to reach that, and he hoped it was a good distance away.  He feared every moment that he would hear Hauck’s voice or his footsteps behind them, and he knew that Hauck’s presence would spoil everything.  Brokaw, in his cups, was talkative—­almost garrulous.  Already he had explained the mystery of the cage, and the Indians.  The big fight was to take place in the