Kent agreed, and they lapsed into silence.  The thongs about Cardegee’s wrists were slowly stretching, and he had begun to work them over his hands.

“Say, ’ow close is the shadows?”

“One inch.”

The sailor wriggled slightly to assure himself that he would topple over at the right moment, and slipped the first turn over his hands.

“’Ow close?”

“Half an inch.”  Just then Kent heard the jarring churn of the runners and turned his eyes to the trail.  The driver was lying flat on the sled and the dogs swinging down the straight stretch to the cabin.  Kent whirled back, bringing his rifle to shoulder.

“It ain’t eight bells yet!” Cardegee expostulated.  “I’ll ’aunt you, sure!”

Jacob Kent faltered.  He was standing by the sun-dial, perhaps ten paces from his victim.  The man on the sled must have seen that something unusual was taking place, for he had risen to his knees, his whip singing viciously among the dogs.

The shadows swept into line.  Kent looked along the sights.

“Make ready!” he commanded solemnly.  “Eight b—­”

But just a fraction of a second too soon, Cardegee rolled backward into the hole.  Kent held his fire and ran to the edge.  Bang!  The gun exploded full in the sailor’s face as he rose to his feet.  But no smoke came from the muzzle; instead, a sheet of flame burst from the side of the barrel near its butt, and Jacob Kent went down.  The dogs dashed up the bank, dragging the sled over his body, and the driver sprang off as Jim Cardegee freed his hands and drew himself from the hole.

“Jim!” The new-comer recognized him.  “What’s the matter?”

“Wot’s the matter?  Oh, nothink at all.  It jest ’appens as I do little things like this for my ‘ealth.  Wot’s the matter, you bloomin’ idjit?  Wot’s the matter, eh?  Cast me loose or I’ll show you wot!  ’Urry up, or I’ll ’olystone the decks with you!”

“Huh!” he added, as the other went to work with his sheath-knife.  “Wot’s the matter?  I want to know.  Jes’ tell me that, will you, wot’s the matter?  Hey?”

Kent was quite dead when they rolled him over.  The gun, an old-fashioned, heavy-weighted muzzle-loader, lay near him.  Steel and wood had parted company.  Near the butt of the right-hand barrel, with lips pressed outward, gaped a fissure several inches in length.  The sailor picked it up, curiously.  A glittering stream of yellow dust ran out through the crack.  The facts of the case dawned upon Jim Cardegee.

“Strike me standin’!” he roared; “’ere’s a go!  ’Ere’s ‘is bloomin’ dust!  Gawd blime me, an’ you, too, Charley, if you don’t run an’ get the dish-pan!”

JAN, THE UNREPENTANT

   “For there’s never a law of God or man
   Runs north of Fifty-three.”

Jan rolled over, clawing and kicking.  He was fighting hand and foot now, and he fought grimly, silently.  Two of the three men who hung upon him, shouted directions to each other, and strove to curb the short, hairy devil who would not curb.  The third man howled.  His finger was between Jan’s teeth.