“Good,” Prentiss said. “Anyone who doesn’t like my style is welcome to try to change it⁠—or to try to replace me. With knives or clubs, rifles or broken hatchets, Bemmon⁠—any way you want it and any time you want it.”

“I⁠—” Bemmon’s eyes went from the hatchet in his half raised hand to the long knife in Prentiss’s belt. He swallowed with a convulsive jerk of his Adam’s apple and his hatchet-bearing arm suddenly wilted. “I don’t want to fight⁠—to replace you⁠—”

He swallowed again and his face forced itself into a sickly attempt at an ingratiating smile. “I didn’t mean to imply any disrespect for you or the good job you’re doing. I’m very sorry.”

Then he hurried away, like a man glad to escape, and began to chop stakes with amazing speed.

But the sullen hatred had not been concealed by the ingratiating smile; and Prentiss knew Bemmon was a man who would always be his enemy.