..."
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.
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