that even in the darkness he could see his face. It was Johnnie Claw, and Brent saw that the recognition was mutual. Claw's thick lips writhed back in a grin of hate, and Brent could hear his breath sucking heavily between his clenched teeth. Eye to eye they stared as Brent's lips moved in a sneer: "Well—you—damned—pimp—why don't you shoot?" To his intense surprise, the gun wavered, dropped to the man's side and, jamming it into the pocket of his fur coat, Claw pushed past him toward the street, mumbling thick curses.
Later, that night, when business was a little slack during a dance Malone motioned him aside: "Say, what the hell be you buttin' in on other folks business fer?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean. What did you go knockin' Johnnie Claw down fer, when he was givin' that damn Violet what was comin' to her, fer holdin' out on him?"
"Giving her what was coming! My God, man, he would have kicked her to death there in the snow—that's what he would have done!"
"Well, what if he did—she's hisn, ain't she?"
A surge of swift anger almost overcame Brent. His fists clenched, and it was with difficulty that he refrained from striking Malone down where he stood. Instead, he leaned a trifle closer to the man: "Just let this stick to you, Malone," he said, "What passes between me and Claw, or me and anyone
else, when it isn't on your premises and on your time, is my business—see?"
Malone laughed, shortly, and with a shrug, turned away, while Brent served drinks to a couple who had left the dance and sauntered to the bar. The couple were Kitty, and a strapping young chechako called Moosehide Charlie, the name referring to an incident that had occurred early in the winter when he had skinned out a moose and, finding himself far from camp and no blankets, had wrapped himself in the green hide and gone to sleep. In the morning he awoke to find himself encased in an iron-hard coffin of frozen moosehide unable to move hand or foot. Luckily a party of hunters found him and spent half a day thawing him out over a roaring fire.
Said Kitty to Moosehide Charlie, as she sipped at the liquid that by courtesy was called port wine: "That's Johnnie Claw over there by the door. He's one-two-three with Cuter Malone—some say they're pardners."