e. Napoleon Doret had seen the manner of the stranger's surrender
of his gun, and, realizing too late what it meant, had acted. At the
very instant of the fellow's treachery, Doret struck with his bottle
just in time to knock the weapon from his hand, but not in time to
prevent its discharge. The bullet was lodged in the wall a foot from
where Gale stood. As the stranger staggered back, the Frenchman vaulted
the bar, but, though swift as a cat, the soldier, who had also leaped,
was before him. Aiming a sweeping downward blow with his Colt, Burrell
clipped the Skagway man just above the ear, and he reeled; then as he
fell the officer struck wickedly again at his opponent's skull, but
Doret seized him by the arm.

"Ba Gar, don't kill 'im twice!"

Burrell wrenched his arm free and turned on Doret a face that remained
long in the Frenchman's memory, a face suffused with fury and convulsed
like that of a sprinter at the finish of a race. The two men stared at
each other over the fallen figure for a brief moment, until the soldier
gained mastery of himself and sheathed his weapon, when Poleon smiled.

"I spoil' a quart of good w'iskee on you. Dat's wort' five dollar."

The Lieutenant wiped the liquor from his face.

"Quick work, Doret," he said. "I owe you one."

Gale's face was hidden as he bent over the prostrate man, fingering a
long and ragged cut which laid the fellow's scalp open from back of the
ear to the temple, but he mumbled something unintelligible.

"Is he hurt badly?"

"No, you chipped him too low," said the trader. "I told you he was bad."

"He's goin' have nice birt'-mark, anyhow," said Doret, going back of
the bar for some water. They revived the man, then bound up his injury
hastily, and as the steamer cast off they led him to the bank and
passed his grip-sacks to a roustabout. He said no word as he walked
unsteadily up the plank, but turned and stared malignantly at them from
the deck; then, as the craft swung outward into the stream, he grinned
through the trickle of blood that stole down from beneath his wide hat,
if the convulsive grimace he made could be termed a grin, and cried:

"I'd like to introduce myself, for I'm coming back to winter with you,
Lieutenant! My name is Runnion." And until the steamer was hidden
behind the bend below they saw him standing there gazing back at them
fixedly.

As Burrell left the two men at the store, he gave his hand frankly to
the French-Canadian, and said