The Saxon was very still. Bristling like a malamute at bay, Jose Cantine half-crouched in front of Bassett, who intently held the watch on him.
“One, two, three, four, five—ten—fifteen—” rasped Bassett’s deep voice monotonously counting off the seconds.
Cantine’s coal-black eyes shifted appealingly round the room, but the crowd of men gazed back at him stolidly.
“Twenty—thirty—forty—fifty—sixty!”
Bassett flipped his watch into his pocket and jumped.
As he jumped, Cantine’s hand again dived under his parka. He had the Colt out this time before Tom grasped his arm. Two shots went wild through the stovepipe, but, his wrist twisted with a violent wrench, Cantine felt the weapon slipping from his fingers, felt himself lifted like a doll in Bassett’s powerful hands and bundled to the door.
In the doorway Bassett poised a second. Suddenly he kicked. Cantine hurtled down the slope like a football, gaining momentum every second, and plunged into a snowdrift one hundred yards below.
“Now, missus—”
But the woman who had been Blera Sark fled past Bassett after Jose.
“Mebbe you think you’ve run ag’in a pretty hard snag in me!” Bassett called down the slope to them. “You haven’t. I’m a gentle, ministerin’, velvet-fingered angel of mercy to what you’ll strike before you make Dawson City!”