Both men had led forlorn hopes in their time--led with a curse or
a jest on their tongues, and in their souls an unswerving faith
in the God of Chance. But that merciful deity had been shut out
from the present deal. They studied the face of Malemute Kid, but
they studied as one might the Sphinx. As the quiet minutes
passed, a feeling that speech was incumbent on them began to
grow. At last the howl of a wolf-dog cracked the silence from the
direction of Forty-Mile. The weird sound swelled with all the
pathos of a breaking heart, then died away in a long-drawn sob.
'Well I be danged!' Bettles turned up the collar of his mackinaw
jacket and stared about him helplessly.
'It's a gloryus game yer runnin', Kid,' cried Lon McFane. 'All
the percentage of the house an' niver a bit to the man that's
buckin'. The Devil himself'd niver tackle such a cinch--and
damned if I do.' There were chuckles, throttled in gurgling
throats, and winks brushed away with the frost which rimed the
eyelashes, as the men climbed the ice-notched bank and started
across the street to the Post. But the long howl had drawn
nearer, invested with a new note of menace. A woman screamed
round the corner.
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