broad of me back on a bed of coals. Niver shall it be said that
Lon McFane took a lie 'twixt the teeth without iver liftin' a
hand! An' I'll not ask a blessin'. The years have been wild, but
it's the heart was in the right place.' 'But it's not the heart,
Lon,' interposed Father Roubeau; 'It's pride that bids you forth
to slay your fellow man.' 'Yer Frinch,' Lon replied. And then,
turning to leave him, 'An' will ye say a mass if the luck is
against me?' But the priest smiled, thrust his moccasined feet to
the fore, and went out upon the white breast of the silent river.
A packed trail, the width of a sixteen-inch sled, led out to the
waterhole. On either side lay the deep, soft snow. The men trod
in single file, without conversation; and the black-stoled priest
in their midst gave to the function the solemn aspect of a
funeral. It was a warm winter's day for Forty-Mile--a day in
which the sky, filled with heaviness, drew closer to the earth,
and the mercury sought the unwonted level of twenty below. But
there was no cheer in the warmth. There was little air in the
upper strata, and the clouds hung motionless, giving sullen
promise of an early snowfall. And the earth, unresponsive, made
no preparation, content in its hibernation.

When the waterhole was reached, Bettles, having evidently
reviewed the quarrel during the silent walk, burst out in a final
''Twa'n't called for,' while Lon McFane kept grim silence.
Indignation so choked him that he could not speak.

Yet deep down, whenever their own wrongs were not uppermost, both
men wondered at their comrades. They had expected opposition, and
this tacit acquiescence hurt them. It seemed more was due them
from the men they had been so close with, and they felt a vague