’Listen!  I, Malemute Kid, give you my word—­and you know what that means that the man who is not shot stretches rope within ten minutes after the shooting.’  He stepped back as Pilate might have done after washing his hands.

A pause and a silence came over the men of Forty-Mile.  The sky drew still closer, sending down a crystal flight of frost—­little geometric designs, perfect, evanescent as a breath, yet destined to exist till the returning sun had covered half its northern journey.

Both men had led forlorn hopes in their time—­led with a curse or a jest on their tongues, and in their souls an unswerving faith in the God of Chance.  But that merciful deity had been shut out from the present deal.  They studied the face of Malemute Kid, but they studied as one might the Sphinx.  As the quiet minutes passed, a feeling that speech was incumbent on them began to grow.  At last the howl of a wolf-dog cracked the silence from the direction of Forty-Mile.  The weird sound swelled with all the pathos of a breaking heart, then died away in a long-drawn sob.

‘Well I be danged!’ Bettles turned up the collar of his mackinaw jacket and stared about him helplessly.

‘It’s a gloryus game yer runnin’, Kid,’ cried Lon McFane.  ’All the percentage of the house an’ niver a bit to the man that’s buckin’.  The Devil himself’d niver tackle such a cinch—­and damned if I do.’  There were chuckles, throttled in gurgling throats, and winks brushed away with the frost which rimed the eyelashes, as the men climbed the ice-notched bank and started across the street to the Post.  But the long howl had drawn nearer, invested with a new note of menace.  A woman screamed round the corner.  There was a cry of, ‘Here he comes!’ Then an Indian boy, at the head of half a dozen frightened dogs, racing with death, dashed into the crowd.  And behind came Yellow Fang, a bristle of hair and a flash of gray.  Everybody but the Yankee fled.

The Indian boy had tripped and fallen.  Bettles stopped long enough to grip him by the slack of his furs, then headed for a pile of cordwood already occupied by a number of his comrades.  Yellow Fang, doubling after one of the dogs, came leaping back.  The fleeing animal, free of the rabies, but crazed with fright, whipped Bettles off his feet and flashed on up the street.  Malemute Kid took a flying shot at Yellow Fang.  The mad dog whirled a half airspring, came down on his back, then, with a single leap, covered half the distance between himself and Bettles.

But the fatal spring was intercepted.  Lon McFane leaped from the woodpile, countering him in midair.  Over they rolled, Lon holding him by the throat at arm’s length, blinking under the fetid slaver which sprayed his face.  Then Bettles, revolver in hand and coolly waiting a chance, settled the combat.

‘’Twas a square game, Kid,’ Lon remarked, rising to his feet and shaking the snow from out his sleeves; ’with a fair percentage to meself that bucked it.’  That night, while Lon McFane sought the forgiving arms of the Church in the direction of Father Roubeau’s cabin, Malemute Kid talked long to little purpose.