"Lon! It 's a long while since you first knew me?"
"Many 's the day."
"And you, Bettles?"
"Five year next June high water."
"And have you once, in all that time, known me to break my word? Or heard of me breaking it?"
Both men shook their heads, striving to fathom what lay beyond.
"Well, then, what do you think of a promise made by me?"
"As good as your bond," from Bettles.
"The thing to safely sling yer hopes of heaven by," promptly indorsed Lon McFane.
"Listen! I, Malemute Kid, give you my word—and you know what that means—that the man who is not shot stretches rope within ten minutes after the shooting." He stepped back as Pilate might have done after washing his hands.
A pause and a silence came over the men of Forty-Mile. The sky drew still closer, sending down a crystal flight of frost,—little geometric designs, perfect, evanescent as a breath, yet destined to exist till the returning sun had covered half its northern journey.
