t occupy the same space at the same time, one must get out."

"And you're that one," Womble announced grimly. "It's a ten-mile pull to
the next camp, but you can make it all right."

"And that's the first flaw in your reasoning," the other objected. "Why,
necessarily, should I be the one to get out? I found this cabin first."

"But Tess can't get out," Womble explained. "Her lungs are already
slightly chilled."

"I agree with you. She can't venture ten miles of frost. By all means
she must remain."

"Then it is as I said," Womble announced with finality.

Messner cleared his throat. "Your lungs are all right, aren't they?"

"Yes, but what of it?"

Again the other cleared his throat and spoke with painstaking and
judicial slowness. "Why, I may say, nothing of it, except, ah, according
to your own reasoning, there is nothing to prevent your getting out,
hitting the frost, so to speak, for a matter of ten miles. You can make
it all right."

Womble looked with quick suspicion at Theresa and caught in her eyes a
glint of pleased surprise.

"Well?" he demanded of her.

She hesitated, and a surge of anger darkened his face. He turned upon
Messner.

"Enough of this. You can't stop here."

"Yes, I can."

"I won't let you." Womble squared his shoulders. "I'm running things."

"I'll stay anyway," the other persisted.

"I'll put you out."

"I'll come back."

Womble stopped a moment to steady his voice and control himself. Then he
spoke slowly, in a low, tense voice.

"Look here, Messner, if you refuse to get out, I'll thrash you. This
isn't California. I'll beat you to a jelly with my two fists."

Messner shrugged his shoulders. "If you do, I'll call a miners' meeting
and see you strung up to the nearest tree. As you said, this is not
California. They're a simple folk, these miners, and all I'll have to do
will be to show them the marks of the beating, tell them the truth about
you, and present my claim for my wife."

The woman attempted to speak, but Womble turned upon her fiercely.

"You keep out of this," he cried.

In marked contrast was Messner's "Please don't intrude, Theresa."

What of her anger and pent feelings, her lungs were irritated into the
dry, hacking cough, and with blood-suffused face and one hand clenched
against her chest, she waited for the paroxysm to pass.

Womble looked gloomily at her, noting her cough.

"Something must be done," he said. "Yet her lungs ca