ude. Though they
did not know it, they were as beclouded as he in the matter of mutual
understanding. To them, he was a selfish brute; to him, they were
selfish brutes.

When the rope was brought, Long Bill Haskell, Fat Olsen, and the
craps-player, with much awkwardness and angry haste, got the slip-noose
around the Indian's neck and rove the rope over a rafter. At the other
end of the dangling thing a dozen men tailed on, ready to hoist away.

Nor had Cultus George resisted. He knew it for what it was--bluff. The
whites were strong on bluff. Was not draw-poker their favorite game? Did
they not buy and sell and make all bargains with bluff? Yes; he had seen
a white man do business with a look on his face of four aces and in his
hand a busted straight.

"Wait," Smoke commanded. "Tie his hands. We don't want him climbing."

More bluff, Cultus George decided, and passively permitted his hands to
be tied behind his back.

"Now it's your last chance, George," said Smoke. "Will you take out the
team?"

"How much?" said Cultus George.

Astounded at himself that he should be able to do such a thing, and at
the same time angered by the colossal selfishness of the Indian, Smoke
gave the signal. Nor was Cultus George any less astounded when he felt
the noose tighten with a jerk and swing him off the floor. His stolidity
broke on the instant. On his face, in quick succession, appeared
surprise, dismay, and pain.

Smoke watched anxiously. Having never been hanged himself, he felt a
tyro at the business. The body struggled convulsively, the tied hands
strove to burst the bonds, and from the throat came unpleasant noises of
strangulation. Suddenly Smoke held up his hand.

"Slack away" he ordered.

Grumbling at the shortness of the punishment, the men on the rope
lowered Cultus George to the floor. His eyes were bulging, and he was
tottery on his feet, swaying from side to side and still making a
fight with his hands. Smoke divined what was the matter, thrust violent
fingers between the rope and the neck, and brought the noose slack with
a jerk. With a great heave of the chest, Cultus George got his first
breath.

"Will you take that team out?" Smoke demanded.

Cultus George did not answer. He was too busy breathing.

"Oh, we white men are hogs," Smoke filled in the interval, resentful
himself at the part he was compelled to play. "We'd sell our souls for
gold, and all that; but once in a while we forget about it and t