gabbling in the Chinook jargon to a _klootchman_ and a wizen-featured
old Siwash. The Indian woman was drunk beyond any mistaking, affably
drunk. She looked up at Benton out of vacuous eyes, grinned, and
extended to him a square-faced bottle of Old Tim gin. The logger rose to
his feet.

"H'lo, Benton," he greeted thickly. "How's every-thin'?"

Benton's answer was a quick lurch of his body and a smashing jab of his
clenched fist. The blow stretched the logger on his back, with blood
streaming from both nostrils. But he was a hardy customer, for he
bounced up like a rubber ball, only to be floored even more viciously
before he was well set on his feet. This time Benton snarled a curse and
kicked him as he lay.

"Charlie, Charlie!" Stella screamed.

If he heard her, he gave no heed.

"Hit the trail, you," he shouted at the logger. "Hit it quick before I
tramp your damned face into the ground. I told you once not to come
around here feeding booze to my cook. I do all the whisky-drinking
that's done in this camp, and don't you forget it. Damn your eyes, I've
got troubles enough without whisky."

The man gathered himself up, badly shaken, and holding his hand to his
bleeding nose, made off to his rowboat at the float.

"G'wan home," Benton curtly ordered the Siwashes. "Get drunk at your own
camp, not in mine. _Sabe?_ Beat it."