sounded thin and dry as he
said:

"You beat her, that's why she did it."

Stark made no answer.

"The papers said the room showed a struggle."

When the other still kept silent, Gale insisted:

"Didn't you?"

At this Stark flamed up defiantly.

"Well, I guess I had cause enough. No woman except her was ever untrue
to me--wife or sweetheart."

"You didn't really think--?"

"Think hell! I thought so then, and I think so now. She denied it,
but--"

"And you knew her so well, too. I guess you've had some bad nights
yourself, Bennett, with that always on your mind--"

"I swore I'd have you--"

"--and so you put her blood on my head, and made me an outlaw." After
an instant: "Why did you tell me this, anyhow?"

"It's our last talk, and I wanted you to know how well my hate worked."

"Well, I guess that's all," said Gale. So far they had watched each
other with unwavering, unblinking eyes, straining at the leash and taut
in every nerve. Now, however, the trader's fingers tightened on the
knife-handle, and his knuckles whitened with the grip, at which Stark's
right hand swept to his waist, and simultaneously Gale lunged across
the table. His blade nickered in the light, and a gun spoke,
once--twice--again and again. A cry arose outside the cabin, then some
heavy thing crashed in through the door, bringing light with it, for
with his first leap Gale had carried the lamp and the table with him,
and the two had clenched in the dark.

Burrell had waited an instant too long, for the men's voices had held
so steady, their words had been so vital, that the finish found him
unprepared, but, thrusting the lantern into Poleon's hand, he had
backed off a pace and hurled himself at the door. He had learned the
knack of bunching his weight in football days, and the barrier burst
and splintered before him. He fell to his knees inside, and an instant
later found himself wrestling for his life between two raging beasts.
The Lieutenant knew Doret must have entered too, though he could not
see him, for the lantern shed a sickly gloom over the chaos. He was
locked desperately with John Gale, who flung him about and handled him
like a child, fighting like an old gray wolf, hoary with years and
terrible in his rage. Burrell had never been so battered and harried
and torn; only for the lantern's light Gale would doubtless have
sheathed his weapon in his new assailant, but the more fiercely the
trader struggled, the more tenaciou