damned if I do.' There were chuckles, throttled in gurgling
throats, and winks brushed away with the frost which rimed the
eyelashes, as the men climbed the ice-notched bank and started
across the street to the Post. But the long howl had drawn
nearer, invested with a new note of menace. A woman screamed
round the corner. There was a cry of, 'Here he comes!' Then an
Indian boy, at the head of half a dozen frightened dogs, racing
with death, dashed into the crowd. And behind came Yellow Fang, a
bristle of hair and a flash of gray. Everybody but the Yankee
fled.

The Indian boy had tripped and fallen. Bettles stopped long
enough to grip him by the slack of his furs, then headed for a
pile of cordwood already occupied by a number of his comrades.
Yellow Fang, doubling after one of the dogs, came leaping back.
The fleeing animal, free of the rabies, but crazed with fright,
whipped Bettles off his feet and flashed on up the street.
Malemute Kid took a flying shot at Yellow Fang. The mad dog
whirled a half airspring, came down on his back, then, with a
single leap, covered half the distance between himself and
Bettles.

But the fatal spring was intercepted. Lon McFane leaped from the
woodpile, countering him in midair. Over they rolled, Lon holding
him by the throat at arm's length, blinking under the fetid
slaver which sprayed his face. Then Bettles, revolver in hand and
coolly waiting a chance, settled the combat.

''Twas a square game, Kid,' Lon remarked, rising to his feet and
shaking the snow from out his sleeves; 'with a fair percentage to