laugh hysterically, trying to check herself.

"I didn't mean you enny harm," said Lund slowly, addressing Peggy. "Why,
I wouldn't harm you, gal. You're my woman. You come to me. I was
jest--jest sorter swept off my bearin's. Why," he turned to Rainey, his
voice down-pitching to a growl of angry contempt, "you pen-shovin'
whippersnapper, I c'ud break you in ha'f with one hand. You ain't her
breed. But"--his voice changed again--"if it's a show-down, all right.

"If I was to fight you, over her, I'd kill you. D'ye think I don't
respect a good gal? D'ye think I don't know how to love a gal right?
She's _my_ mate. Not yours. But it's up to you, Peggy Simms. I didn't
mean to insult you. An' if you want him--why, it's up to you to choose
between the two of us."

She went by Rainey as if he had not existed, straight into Lund's arms,
her face radiant, upturned.

"It's you I love, Jim Lund," she said. "A man. _My_ man."

As her arms went round his neck she gave a little cry.

"I wounded you," she said, and the tender concern of her struck Rainey
to the quick. "Quick, let me see."

"Wounded, hell!" laughed Lund. "D'ye think that popgun of yores c'ud
stop me? The pellet's somewheres in my shoulder. Let it bide. By God,
yo're my woman, after all. Lund's Luck!"

Rainey went up on deck with that ringing in his ears. His humiliation
wore off swiftly as he crossed back toward the beach. By the time he
crossed the promontory he even felt relieved at the outcome. He was not
in love with her. He had known that when he intervened. He had not even
told her so. His chivalry had spoken--not his heart. And his thoughts
strayed back to California. The other girl, Diana though she was, would
never, in almost one breath, have shot and kissed the man she loved. A
lingering vision of Peggy Simms' beauty as she had gone to Lund remained
and faded.

"Lund's right," he told himself. "She's not of my breed."

CHAPTER XVIII

LUND'S LUCK

Lund glanced at the geyser of spray where the shell from the pursuing
gunboat had fallen short, and then at the bank of mist ahead. They were
in the narrows of Bering Strait, between the Cape of Charles and Prince
Edward's Point, the gold aboard, a full wind in their sails, making
eleven knots to the gunboat's fifteen.

It was mid-afternoon, three hours since they had seen smoke to the north
and astern of them. Either the patrol had found them gone from the
island, freed by blasting from the fl