“Say,” he continued, as he noted the black frown on the other’s face. “I’ll take responsibility for that bill. Just send it up to my cabin, and then come up and try to collect it.”
The frown disappeared from the fellow’s face and he tried to force a grin.
“Guess I’d better charge it to advertising,” he said.
“Sure, advertising pays,” agreed the Kid cordially, and turning, he strode for the door where Clay was awaiting him. As they stepped outside, a strong wind smote their faces so as to almost prevent conversation. The Kid turned, his hand against his mouth. “Keep close to me,” he shouted “and no matter what trouble comes up, don’t pull your gun unless I give the word.”
Clay obeyed and kept close at the Kid’s heels. A half hour’s walk brought them to the fringe of the town, where they could see the Rambler dancing at her dock about a mile distant.
“We’re nearly there,” said the Kid, “and remember, you’re to let me handle this thing, in my own way. Just keep still and let me do the talking. He had reached a group of tents which were pitched in a kind of circle leaving a round plot of ground inclosed within. From this court yard came the sounds of laughter, hoots and cries. The Yukon Kid picked his way in between the ropes of two tents, Clay following. At this entrance they paused a minute to review the scene.
The courtyard was about one-fourth of an acre in extent. All around its sides were packed a dense crowd of men offering and taking big bets on the outcome of the battle that raged in the center.
Here, within another circle, a curious battle was going on. Ranged around in a silent circle, according to their usual code, were a dozen or more wolf-dogs, more wolf than dog, squatted on their haunches, their eyes eager, and their long white fangs dripping saliva, for to them belonged the spoils of the battle that was going on now within this inner circle. When one of the combatants died, it was their privilege to drag it outside of the circle and satisfy their hunger-warped souls on its flesh and bones. They cared not which died, only that he died quickly. Theirs was the sentiment of aching bellies.”
The Kid kicked a way through the circle of dogs and Clay followed him. Inside two men, seated on a log, were evidently refereeing the fight while on the other end of the log sat Case, tightly bound hand and foot, his face a picture of anger and helplessness.
The Kid took a seat on the log by the side of the one who appeared chief in authority and who shifted uneasily. He did not like the Yukon Kid. The Kid knew too much and had an uncanny way of learning hidden things.