erision swept
through the closely seated rows. Catcalls, jeering taunts flung at
McTrigger and Harker, and angry voices demanding their money back
mingled with a tumult of growing discontent. Sandy's face was red with
mortification and rage. The blue veins in Barker's forehead had swollen
twice their normal size. He shook his fist in the face of the crowd, and
shouted:

"Wait! Give 'em a chance, you dam' fools!"

At his words every voice was stilled. Kazan had turned. He was facing
the huge Dane. And the Dane had turned his eyes to Kazan. Cautiously,
prepared for a lunge or a sidestep, Kazan advanced a little. The Dane's
shoulders bristled. He, too, advanced upon Kazan. Four feet apart they
stood rigid. One could have heard a whisper in the room now. Sandy and
Harker, standing close to the cage, scarcely breathed. Splendid in every
limb and muscle, warriors of a hundred fights, and fearless to the point
of death, the two half-wolf victims of man stood facing each other. None
could see the questioning look in their brute eyes. None knew that in
this thrilling moment the unseen hand of the wonderful Spirit God of the
wilderness hovered between them, and that one of its miracles was
descending upon them. It was _understanding_. Meeting in the
open--rivals in the traces--they would have been rolling in the throes
of terrific battle. But _here_ came that mute appeal of brotherhood. In
the final moment, when only a step separated them, and when men expected
to see the first mad lunge, the splendid Dane slowly raised his head and
looked over Kazan's back through the glare of the lights. Harker
trembled, and under his breath he cursed. The Dane's throat was open to
Kazan. But between the beasts had passed the voiceless pledge of peace.
Kazan did not leap. He turned. And shoulder to shoulder--splendid in
their contempt of man--they stood and looked through the bars of their
prison into the one of human faces.

A roar burst from the crowd--a roar of anger, of demand, of threat. In
his rage Harker drew a revolver and leveled it at the Dane. Above the
tumult of the crowd a single voice stopped him.

"Hold!" it demanded. "Hold--in the name of the law!"

For a moment there was silence. Every face turned in the direction of
the voice. Two men stood on chairs behind the last row. One was Sergeant
Brokaw, of the Royal Northwest Mounted. It was he who had spoken. He was
holding up a hand, commanding silence and attention. On the cha