"Ain't no harm done," conciliated Claw, "An' I guess they ain't no call to fight over 'em. How about that drink?"
"Git it!" ordered the Captain, and as the cowering Dog Rib slunk from the room, he snatched the knife from the pinioned hand of the girl and hurled it under the bunk:
"An', now you hell-cat!" he rasped, pushing her from him, "You set to an' git supper! An' don't go tryin' no more monkey business, er I'll break ye in two! They seems to be grub enough here without usin' none of my own," he added, eying the supplies ranged along the opposite wall, "Who owns this shack, anyhow?"
"Carter Brent owns it," cried the girl, drawing herself erect and glaring into the man's eyes. It was as though the very mention of his name, nerved her to defiance. "And when he returns, he will kill you both—kill you! Do you hear?"
"It's a lie!" roared Claw, then paused, abruptly. "I wonder—maybe it is his shack. He come straight from the Yukon, an' that accounts fer the burnin' in."
"Know him?" asked the Captain.
"Know him!" growled Claw, "Yes, I know him—an' so do you. That's Ace-In-The-Hole's real name."
"The hell it is!" cried the Captain, and laughed uproariously. "So that's the way the wind blows! An' the breed's be'n livin' here with him! Things
is sure comin' my way! That's most too good to be true—an' you misrepresentin' her to be a virgin, fresh from a school—ho, ho, ho!"
"What'd you mean?" snarled Claw, "How was I to know——"