‘Still got that 38-55?’ Lon nodded.

’But you’d better git a more likely caliber.  Mine’ll rip holes through you the size of walnuts.’

’Niver fear; it’s me own slugs smell their way with soft noses, an’ they’ll spread like flapjacks against the coming out beyand.  An’ when’ll I have the pleasure of waitin’ on ye?  The waterhole’s a strikin’ locality.’ ’’Tain’t bad.  Jest be there in an hour, and you won’t set long on my coming.’  Both men mittened and left the Post, their ears closed to the remonstrances of their comrades.  It was such a little thing; yet with such men, little things, nourished by quick tempers and stubborn natures, soon blossomed into big things.

Besides, the art of burning to bedrock still lay in the womb of the future, and the men of Forty-Mile, shut in by the long Arctic winter, grew high-stomached with overeating and enforced idleness, and became as irritable as do the bees in the fall of the year when the hives are overstocked with honey.

There was no law in the land.  The mounted police was also a thing of the future.  Each man measured an offense, and meted out the punishment inasmuch as it affected himself.

Rarely had combined action been necessary, and never in all the dreary history of the camp had the eighth article of the Decalogue been violated.

Big Jim Belden called an impromptu meeting.  Scruff Mackenzie was placed as temporary chairman, and a messenger dispatched to solicit Father Roubeau’s good offices.  Their position was paradoxical, and they knew it.  By the right of might could they interfere to prevent the duel; yet such action, while in direct line with their wishes, went counter to their opinions.  While their rough-hewn, obsolete ethics recognized the individual prerogative of wiping out blow with blow, they could not bear to think of two good comrades, such as Bettles and McFane, meeting in deadly battle.  Deeming the man who would not fight on provocation a dastard, when brought to the test it seemed wrong that he should fight.

But a scurry of moccasins and loud cries, rounded off with a pistol-shot, interrupted the discussion.  Then the storm-doors opened and Malemute Kid entered, a smoking Colt’s in his hand, and a merry light in his eye.

‘I got him.’  He replaced the empty shell, and added, ’Your dog, Scruff.’  ‘Yellow Fang?’

Mackenzie asked.

‘No; the lop-eared one.’  ’The devil!  Nothing the matter with him.’  ‘Come out and take a look.’  ’That’s all right after all.  Buess he’s got ’em, too.  Yellow Fang came back this morning and took a chunk out of him, and came near to making a widower of me.  Made a rush for Zarinska, but she whisked her skirts in his face and escaped with the loss of the same and a good roll in the snow.  Then he took to the woods again.  Hope he don’t come back.  Lost any yourself?’ ’One—­the best one of the pack—­Shookum.  Started amuck this morning, but didn’t get very far.  Ran foul of Sitka Charley’s team, and they scattered him all over the street.  And now two of them are loose, and raging mad; so you see he got his work in.  The dog census will be small in the spring if we don’t do something.’