He began to discount his joy lest she do it instead.  His arm fell away from her waist.

“I ’most wrecked the house,” he said with a humorous glance at the door.  “I don’t always bring one o’ the walls with me when I come into a room.”

“He bolted the door,” she explained rather needlessly.  “He wouldn’t let me out.”

“I heard you call,” he answered, without much more point.

She glanced at the man lying on the floor.  “You don’t think he might be—­” She stopped, unwilling to use the word.

Tom knelt beside him and felt his heart.

“It’s beating,” he said.  And added quickly, “His eyes are open.”

It was true.  The cold, fishy eyes had flickered open and were taking stock of the situation.  The gambler instantly chose his line of defense.  He spoke, presently.

“What in the devil was bitin’ you, Morse?  Just because I was jokin’ the girl, you come rampagin’ in and knock me galley west with a big club.  I’ll not stand for that.  Soon as I’m fit to handle myself, you and I’ll have a settlement.”

“Get up and get out,” ordered the younger man.

“When I get good and ready.  Don’t try to run on me, young fellow.  Some other fools have found that dangerous.”

Whaley sat up, groaned, and pressed his hands upon the abdomen at the point where he had been struck.

The reddish-brown glint in the eyes of Morse advertised the cold rage of the Montanan.  He caught the gambler by the collar and pulled him to his feet.

“Get out, you yellow wolf!” he repeated in a low, savage voice.

The white-faced trader was still wobbly on his feet.  He felt both sore and sick at the pit of his stomach, in no mood for any further altercation with this hard-hitting athlete.  But he would not go without saving his face.

“I don’t know what business you’ve got to order me out—­unless—­” His gaze included the girl for a moment, and the insult of his leer was unmistakable.

Morse caught him by the scruff of the neck, ran him out of the room, and flung him down the steps into the road.  The gambler tripped on the long buffalo coat he was wearing and rolled over in the snow.  Slowly he got to his feet and locked eyes with the other.

Rage almost choked his words.  “You’ll be sorry for this one o’ these days, Morse.  I’ll get you right.  Nobody has ever put one over on Poker Whaley and nobody ever will.  Don’t forget that.”

Tom Morse wasted no words.  He stood silently on the steps, a splendid, supple figure of menacing power, and watched his foe pass down the road.  There was in him a cruel and passionate desire to take the gambler and break him with his hands, to beat him till he crawled away a weak and wounded creature fit for a hospital.  He clamped his teeth hard and fought down the impulse.

Presently he turned and walked slowly back into the house.  His face was still set and his hands clenched.  He knew that if Whaley had hurt Jessie, he would have killed him with his naked fingers.