The partners watched him go, then Grant turned to Johnny, and repeated: "Fake! By God! MacDonald stung you."
Cantwell's face went as white as the snow behind him, his eyes blazed. "Why did you tell him I bit?" he demanded, harshly.
"Hunh! Didn't you bite? Two thousand miles afoot; three months of hell; for nothing. That's biting some."
"Well!" The speaker's face was convulsed, and Grant's flamed with an answering anger. They glared at each other for a moment. "Don't blame me. You fell for it, too."
"I—" Mort checked his rushing words.
"Yes, you! Now, what are you going to do about it? Welch?"
"I'm going through to Nome." The sight of his partner's rage had set Mort to shaking with a furious desire to fly at his throat, but, fortunately, he retained a spark of sanity.
"Then shut up, and quit chewing the rag. You—talk too damned much."
Mort's eyes were bloodshot; they fell upon the carbine under the sled lashings, and lingered there, then wavered. He opened his lips, reconsidered, spoke softly to the team, then lifted the heavy dog-whip and smote the malamutes with all his strength.
The men resumed their journey without further words, but each was cursing inwardly.