man the world over. Their talk was fragmentary. None gave any sign of
alertness toward any possible approaching danger.

No longer wary, West broke through the last of the bushes and
straddled into the open.

"Well, boys, hope you got some grub left for yore boss," he jeered,
triumph riding voice and manner heavily.

He waited for the startled dismay he expected. None came. The drama of
the moment did not meet his expectation. The teamsters looked at him,
sullenly, without visible fear or amazement. None of them rose or
spoke.

Sultry anger began to burn in West's eyes. "Thought you'd slip one
over on the old man, eh? Thought you could put over a raw steal an'
get away with it. Well, lemme tell you where you get off at. I'm gonna
whale every last one of you to a frazzle. With a big club. An'
I'm gonna drive you back to Faraway like a bunch of whipped curs.
Understand?"

Still they said nothing. It began to penetrate the thick skull of
the trader that there was something unnatural about their crouched
silence. Why didn't they try to explain? Or make a break for a
getaway?

He could think of nothing better to say, after a volley of curses,
than to repeat his threat. "A thunderin' good wallopin', first off.
Then we hit the trail together, you-all an' me."