So he rode slowly and thought of many things he might have done which would have been better than what he did do; and wondered what the girl thought about it and if she blamed him for not doing something different.  And for every mile of the way he cursed the Pilgrim anew.

In that unfriendly mood he opened the door of the cabin, stood a minute just inside, then closed it after him with a slam.  The cabin, in contrast with the bright light of sun shining on new-fallen snow, was dark and so utterly cheerless and chill that he shrugged shoulders impatiently at its atmosphere, which was as intangibly offensive as had been the conduct of the Pilgrim.

The Pilgrim was sprawled upon the bunk with his face in his arms, snoring in a peculiarly rasping way that Billy, heavy-eyed as he was, resented most unreasonably.  Also, the untidy table showed that the Pilgrim had eaten unstintedly—­and Billy was exceedingly hungry.  He went over and lifted a snowy boot to the ribs of the sleeper and commanded him bluntly to “Come alive.”

“What-yuh-want?” mumbled the Pilgrim thickly, making one word of the three and lifting his red-rimmed eyes to the other.  He raised to an elbow with a lazy doubling of his body and stared dully for a space before he grinned unpleasantly.  “Took ’er home all right, did yuh?” he leered, as if they two were in possession of a huge joke of the kind which may not be told in mixed company.

If Charming Billy Boyle had needed anything more to stir him to the fighting point, that one sentence admirably supplied the lack.  “Yuh low-down skunk!” he cried, and struck him full upon the insulting, smiling mouth.  “If I was as rotten-minded as you are, I’d go drown myself in the stalest alkali hole I could find.  I dunno why I’m dirtying my hands on yuh—­yuh ain’t fit to be clubbed to death with a tent pole!” He was, however, using his hands freely and to very good purpose, probably feeling that, since the Pilgrim was much bigger than he, there was need of getting a good start.

But the Pilgrim was not the sort to lie on his bunk and take a thrashing.  He came up after the second blow, pushing Billy back with the very weight of his body, and they were fighting all over the little cabin, surging against the walls and the table and knocking the coffee-pot off the stove as they lurched this way and that.  Not much was said after the first outburst of Billy’s, save a panting curse now and then between blows, a threat gasped while they wrestled.

It was the dog, sneaking panther-like behind Billy and setting treacherous teeth viciously into his leathern chaps, that brought the crisis.  Billy tore loose and snatched his gun from the scabbard at his hip, held the Pilgrim momentarily at bay with one hand while he took a shot at the dog, missed, kicked him back from another rush, and turned again on the Pilgrim.

“Get that dawg outdoors, then,” he panted, “or I’ll kill him sure.”  The Pilgrim, for answer, struck a blow that staggered Billy, and tried to grab the gun.  Billy, hooking a foot around a table-leg, threw it between them, swept the blood from his eyes and turned his gun once more on the dog that was watching treacherously for another chance.