that Hank fought like a trapped bobcat, with snarls and kicks and
gouging claws. He scratched Jack's neck with his grimy fingernails,
and he tried to set his unwashed teeth into Jack's left ear while the
two of them rolled over and over on the slippery mat of squaw-carpet.
And for that he was pummeled unmercifully before Jack tore himself
loose and got up.

"Now, you beat it!" Jack finished, panting. "And after this you keep
your tongue off the subject of women. Don't dare to mention even a
squaw to me, or I'll pitch you clean off the peak!"

Hank mumbled an insult, and Jack went after him again. All the misery,
all the pent-up bitterness of the past three months rose within him in
a sudden storm that clouded his reason. He fought Hank like a crazy
man--not so much because Hank was Hank and had spoken slightingly of
that slim girl, but because Hank was something concrete, something
which Jack could beat with his fists and that could give back blow for
blow. Too long had he waged an unequal conflict with his own thoughts,
his aloneness; with regrets and soul hunger and idleness. When he had
spent his strength and most of his rage together, he let Hank go and
felt tenderly his own bruised knuckles.

He never knew how close he was to death in the next five minutes,
while Hank was saddling up to go. For Hank's fingers went several
times to his rifle and hovered there, itching to do murder, while
Hank's mind revolved the consequences. Murder would be
madness--suicide, practically. The boy would be missed when he did not
answer the telephone. Some one would be sent up from the Forest
Service and the murder would be discovered, unless--unless Hank could
hide the body. There was the lake--but the lake was so clear! Besides,