"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 cage, and the Indians had come in to see it. He found
himself wondering, as they went through the darkness, how it had all
been kept from the girl, and why Brokaw should deliberately lower
himself still more in her esteem by allowing the combat to occur. He
asked him about it when they entered the shack to which Brokaw guided
him, and after they had lighted a lamp. It was a small, gloomy,
whisky-smelling place. Brokaw went directly to a box nailed against the
wall and returned with a quart flask that resembled an army canteen,
and two tin cups. He sat down at a small table, his bloated, red face in
the light of the lamp, that queer animal-like rumbling in his throat, as
he turned out the liquor. David had heard porcupines make something like
the same sound. He pulled his hat lower over his eyes to hide the gleam
of them as Brokaw told him what he and Hauck had planned.
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