Winnie, arms folded so tight as to lock her hands away from any possible contamination, flounced back into the front rank of the dance-crowd and remained there standing on her dignity and her high heels.
For a little the other woman gazed fixedly at her scorner. Then her flushed face, still handsome in spite of the marring frontier life, began to quiver and work. Her hands clenched upon the breast of her parka, and tears splashed down and hissed upon the stove.
“You—you—vixen!” she choked.
For revelation as well as inexpressible hurt was White-Pass-City Winnie’s opinion of her social status.
Yet her shame and her tears had no weakening effect upon those about her. Bassett was gazing significantly at Cantine.
“No good, Jose!” he shrugged. “Seein’ as I’m an all-fired, welded and cemented pardner of Sark’s, I figgered you wouldn’t be anyways partial to my views; I figgered you’d be hard-bent on disputin’ my identification if ever I spotted you. So I ain’t standin’ on my own identification. I’m standin’ on the identification of these here six men as knowed you along the White Pass Trail. I’m standin’ on the identification of White-Pass-City Winnie, who was a close friend of Blera Sark’s. What’s more, I’ll bet a thousand ounces thar ain’t a person present as doubts yon evidence. If thar is let him speak up for you!”
Bassett’s challenging glance traveled swiftly round the Saxon. The dancing-floor was empty, the bar deserted, every faro, stud-poker, draw-poker, crap and roulette table idle. To a man the stakers had left their stiffest games to hear the controversy in the middle of the room. And to a man they stood with Tom Bassett. No one spoke for Cantine.
“It’s settled!” decided Bassett, whirling upon Jose. “And lemme tell you you’re gittin’ outa Happy Camp pretty safe. I know many’s the camp as would give you twenty lashes for stealin’ a rind of bacon. And for stealin’ a man’s wife and home and hopes and honor—say, Cantine, liquid hell-fire ain’t a squirt on what they’d do to you. You’re lucky to be goin’ so safe. Now git!”
“We won’t!” defied Jose recklessly. “We’ve come twenty-odd miles, climbed nigh four thousand feet, and it’s forty-one below zero by the thermometer on the door. You can’t turn us out on a night like this.”
“Kin’t?” growled Bassett. With a quick jerk he flipped his watch from his pocket on to his open palm. “Sixty seconds I’m givin’ you,” he announced. “Walk through that door before then or git thrown through arter!”