--Well, an accident! But that comes
in later.

As it was I was a good twenty minutes in that stable. When I waded out
into the swirling white dusk of snow and wind between me and the shack I
was just cautious enough, after the Halfway business, to stare hard
through the blinding storm at the house I was making for, though I did
not think Macartney was ripe to dare anything open against me at La
Chance. But with that stare I knew abruptly that he was! Massed just
inside the open door of Dudley's shack, that was black dark but for one
light in the living-room window, were a crowd of men that looked like
nothing in the world but our own miners, that I knew now for
Hutton's--or Macartney's--gang! How he dared have them there, instead of
in the bunk house, beat me,--but it was them, all right. The wind was
clear of snow for one second, and I saw them plainly. And they saw me.
Without one sound the whole gang jumped for me. I had my gun out, and I
could have stopped the leaders before I had to get back against the
stable door; but there was no need.

There was a shout behind me. The men checked, sprawling over each other
in the snow--ludicrously, if I had been seeing much humor in things--and
it was then it struck me that I should have had an accident if I had
bolted straight into a dark house, instead of delaying in the stable
till Macartney's gang got tired of waiting for me and bundled out
themselves to see where I was. But I only wheeled, with my gun in my
fist, to Macartney's voice.

What I had expected to see I don't know. What I did see, stumbling
through the drifts to me, was an indistinguishable figure that turned
out to be two. For it was Macartney, carrying Marcia Wilbraham. And
behind him, short-skirted to her knees, and with no coat but her
miserable little blue sweater, came my dream girl.

I forgot Macartney could not know I knew he was Hutton, or all the rest
that I did know. I said, "What hell's trick are you up to now?"

But Macartney only turned a played-out face to me. "Take her from me,
will you?" he snapped. "I'm done." He let Marcia slip down into the
snow. "Wilbraham's killed!"

CHAPTER XIV

WOLVES--AND DUDLEY

It was cleverly done. So was the desperate gesture of Macartney's hand
across his blood-shot, congested eyes. If I had not had Thompson's deuce
of hearts in my pocket I might have doubted if Macartney really were
Hutton, or had had any hand in the long tale of tragedy at La Cha