“The McCaskeys swear I did.  You see, I had no outfit of my own—­”

“Are you broke?”

“N—­no!  I wasn’t yesterday.  I am now.”  In a few sentences Pierce made known the facts of his recent loss, and pointed to Jim McCaskey’s bandaged head.

When the elder brother had concluded, the Countess again addressed the meeting.  “You men take it for granted that Phillips did the stealing because he needed grub,” said she.  “As a matter of fact he wasn’t broke, he had a thousand dollars, and—­”

“Say!  Who hired you to argue this case?” It was Jim McCaskey speaking.  He had edged his way forward and was scowling darkly at the woman.  “What’s the idea, anyhow?  Are you stuck on this kid?”

The Countess Courteau eyed her interrogator coolly, her cheeks maintained their even coloring, her eyes were as icy blue as ever.  It was plain that she was in no wise embarrassed by his insinuation.

Very quietly she said:  “I’ll tell you whether I am if you’ll tell me who got his thousand dollars.  Was it your brother?” Jim McCaskey recoiled; his face whitened.  “Who hit you over the head?” the woman persisted.  “Did he?”

“That’s none of your business,” Jim shouted.  “I want to know what you’re doing in this case.  You say the kid was in Linderman last night.  Well, I say—­you’re a—!  How d’you know he was there?  How d’you know he didn’t steal that rice before he left, for that matter?”

“I know he was in Linderman because I was with him.”

“With him?  All night?” The speaker grinned insultingly.

“Yes, all night.  I slept in the same tent with him and—­”

“Now I’ve got your number,” the younger McCaskey cried, in triumph.

“Bah!” The Countess shrugged unconcernedly.  “As for the rice being stolen before he—­”

“‘Countess.’  Ha!” Jim burst forth again.  “Swell countess you are!  The Dyea dance-halls are full of ‘countesses’ like you—­counting percentage checks.  Boys, who are you going to believe?  She slept all night—­”

McCaskey got no further, for with a cry of rage Pierce Phillips set his muscles and landed upon him.  It was a mighty blow and it found lodgment upon the side of its victim’s face.

Jim McCaskey went down and his assailant, maddened completely by the feel of his enemy’s flesh, lunged forward to stamp him beneath his heels.  But stout arms seized him, bodies intervened, and he was hurled backward.  A shout arose; there was a general scramble for the raised platform.  There were yells of: 

“Shame!”

“Hang on to him!”

“Stretch him up!”

“Dirty ingrate!”

Phillips fought with desperation; his struggles caused the structure to creak and to strain; men piled over it and joined in the fight.  He was whining and sobbing in his fury.

Meanwhile ready hands had rescued Jim from the trampling feet and now held his limp body erect.