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Updated: May 6, 2025
But there was a gentle sound of heavy breathing, and I knew Lon McFane was asleep. "It is the judgment of this court that you vamose the camp . . . in the customary way, sir, in the customary way." Judge Marcus O'Brien was absent-minded, and Mucluc Charley nudged him in the ribs. Marcus O'Brien cleared his throat and went on
Neither did Lon McFane, when he affirmed that anchor-ice was even more so; nor did Bettles, as he instantly disagreed, declaring the very existence of such a form to be a bugaboo. 'An' ye'd be tellin' me this, cried Lon, 'after the years ye've spint in the land! An' we atin' out the same pot this many's the day! 'But the thing's agin reasin, insisted Bettles.
All day, turn and turn about, we had spelled each other at going to the fore and breaking trail for the dogs. It was heavy snowshoe work, and did not tend to make a man voluble, yet Lon McFane might have found breath enough at noon, when we stopped to boil coffee, with which to tell me. But he didn't. Surprise Lake? it was Surprise Cabin to me. I had never heard of it before.
I looked for Lon to introduce us, and was vexed that he did not, for they were evidently old friends. "You are Lon McFane, aren't you?" I heard her ask him. "Why, I remember you now. The last time I saw you it was on a steamboat, wasn't it? I remember . . . "
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.
It was a mere Northland nuance, which none but the Northland adventurer may understand. 'I reckon you kin take it that way, was his deliberate affirmation. The next instant Lon McFane had stretched him on the floor, the circle was broken up, and half a dozen men had stepped between. Bettles came to his feet, wiping the blood from his mouth.
It was early to bed, for we faced a long day on the morrow; and as Lon crawled in beside me under the blankets, I ventured a question. "That woman's crazy, isn't she?" "Crazy as a loon," he answered. And before I could formulate my next question, Lon McFane, I swear, was off to sleep.
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.
While their rough-hewn, obsolete ethics recognized the individual prerogative of wiping out blow with blow, they could not bear to think of two good comrades, such as Bettles and McFane, meeting in deadly battle. Deeming the man who would not fight on provocation a dastard, when brought to the test it seemed wrong that he should fight.
After looking at her steadfastly for five minutes, I was compelled to come back to the real world and to glance at Lon McFane. This enabled me to know, without discussion, that the woman, too, was real. At first I had taken her for the wife of Dave Walsh; but if Dave Walsh were dead, as Lon had said, then she could be only his widow.
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