the knees and caught for a moment at the lapel
of his coat to steady herself. Neither of them was conscious of the
fact that she was in his arms, clinging to him while she won back
self-control.

"It's all right now. Don't worry. Lucky I came back to show Blandoine
which furs to take."

"If you hadn't--" She drew a ragged breath that was half a sob.

Morse loved her the more for the strain of feminine hysteria that made
her for the moment a soft and tender child to be comforted. He had
known her competent, savage, disdainful, one in whom vital and
passionate life flowed quick. He had never before seen the weakness in
her reaching out to strength. That by sheer luck it was _his_ power to
which she clung filled him with deep delight.

He began to discount his joy lest she do it instead. His arm fell away
from her waist.

"I 'most wrecked the house," he said with a humorous glance at the
door. "I don't always bring one o' the walls with me when I come into
a room."

"He bolted the door," she explained rather needlessly. "He wouldn't
let me out."

"I heard you call," he answered, without much more point.

She glanced at the man lying on the floor. "You don't think he might
be--" She stopped, unwilling to use the word.

Tom knelt beside him and felt his heart.

"It's beating," he said. And added quickly, "His eyes are open."

It was true. The cold, fishy eyes had flickered open and were taking
stock of the situation. The gambler instantly chose his line of
defense. He spoke, presently.

"What in the devil was bitin' you, Morse? Just because I was jokin'
the girl, you come rampagin' in and knock me galley west with a big
club. I'll not stand for that. Soon as I'm fit to handle myself, you
and I'll have a settlement."

"Get up and get out," ordered the younger man.

"When I get good and ready. Don't try to run on me, young fellow. Some
other fools have found that dangerous."

Whaley sat up, groaned, and pressed his hands upon the abdomen at the
point where he had been struck.

The reddish-brown glint in the eyes of Morse advertised the cold rage
of the Montanan. He caught the gambler by the collar and pulled him to
his feet.

"Get out, you yellow wolf!" he repeated in a low, savage voice.

The white-faced trader was still wobbly on his feet. He felt both
sore and sick at the pit of his stomach, in no mood for any further
altercation with this hard-hitting athlete. But he would not go
without saving his