'Is it the lie ye'd be givin' me?' threatened Lon. 'Ye'd better
be askin' that Siwash wife of yours. I'll lave it to her, for the
truth I spake.' Bettles flared up in sudden wrath. The Irishman
had unwittingly wounded him; for his wife was the half-breed
daughter of a Russian fur-trader, married to him in the Greek
Mission of Nulato, a thousand miles or so down the Yukon, thus
being of much higher caste than the common Siwash, or native,
wife. It was a mere Northland nuance, which none but the
Northland adventurer may understand.

'I reckon you kin take it that way,' was his deliberate
affirmation.

The next instant Lon McFane had stretched him on the floor, the
circle was broken up, and half a dozen men had stepped between.

Bettles came to his feet, wiping the blood from his mouth. 'It
hain't new, this takin' and payin' of blows, and don't you never
think but that this will be squared.' 'An' niver in me life did I
take the lie from mortal man,' was the retort courteous. 'An'
it's an avil day I'll not be to hand, waitin' an' willin' to help
ye lift yer debts, barrin' no manner of way.'

'Still got that 38-55?' Lon nodded.

'But you'd better git a more likely caliber. Mine'll rip holes
through you the size of walnuts.'

'Niver fear; it's me own slugs smell their way with soft noses,
an' they'll spread like flapjacks against the coming out beyand.