'I'll Put the Liquor on the Table,' He Said.

Mac murdo's coat had been brought to him, but before putting it on he examined his right arm. On the flesh of the forearm was a circle with a triangle within it, deep and red as the branding iron had left it. One or two of his neighbors pulled up their sleeves and showed their own lodge marks. We've all had it, said one, but not all as brave as you over it tut. It was nothing, said he. But it burned and ached all the same.