‘And the man census, too.’  ‘How’s that?  Who’s in trouble now?’ ’Oh, Bettles and Lon McFane had an argument, and they’ll be down by the waterhole in a few minutes to settle it.’  The incident was repeated for his benefit, and Malemute Kid, accustomed to an obedience which his fellow men never failed to render, took charge of the affair.  His quickly formulated plan was explained, and they promised to follow his lead implicitly.

‘So you see,’ he concluded, ’we do not actually take away their privilege of fighting; and yet I don’t believe they’ll fight when they see the beauty of the scheme.  Life’s a game and men the gamblers.  They’ll stake their whole pile on the one chance in a thousand.

‘Take away that one chance, and—­they won’t play.’  He turned to the man in charge of the Post.  ’Storekeeper, weight out three fathoms of your best half-inch manila.

’We’ll establish a precedent which will last the men of Forty-Mile to the end of time,’ he prophesied.  Then he coiled the rope about his arm and led his followers out of doors, just in time to meet the principals.

‘What danged right’d he to fetch my wife in?’ thundered Bettles to the soothing overtures of a friend. ‘’Twa’n’t called for,’ he concluded decisively. ‘’Twa’n’t called for,’ he reiterated again and again, pacing up and down and waiting for Lon McFane.

And Lon McFane—­his face was hot and tongue rapid as he flaunted insurrection in the face of the Church.  ‘Then, father,’ he cried, ’it’s with an aisy heart I’ll roll in me flamy blankets, the broad of me back on a bed of coals.  Niver shall it be said that Lon McFane took a lie ‘twixt the teeth without iver liftin’ a hand!  An’ I’ll not ask a blessin’.  The years have been wild, but it’s the heart was in the right place.’  ’But it’s not the heart, Lon,’ interposed Father Roubeau; ’It’s pride that bids you forth to slay your fellow man.’  ‘Yer Frinch,’ Lon replied.  And then, turning to leave him, ‘An’ will ye say a mass if the luck is against me?’ But the priest smiled, thrust his moccasined feet to the fore, and went out upon the white breast of the silent river.  A packed trail, the width of a sixteen-inch sled, led out to the waterhole.  On either side lay the deep, soft snow.  The men trod in single file, without conversation; and the black-stoled priest in their midst gave to the function the solemn aspect of a funeral.  It was a warm winter’s day for Forty-Mile—­a day in which the sky, filled with heaviness, drew closer to the earth, and the mercury sought the unwonted level of twenty below.  But there was no cheer in the warmth.  There was little air in the upper strata, and the clouds hung motionless, giving sullen promise of an early snowfall.  And the earth, unresponsive, made no preparation, content in its hibernation.

When the waterhole was reached, Bettles, having evidently reviewed the quarrel during the silent walk, burst out in a final ‘’Twa’n’t called for,’ while Lon McFane kept grim silence.  Indignation so choked him that he could not speak.