Morse leaped like a crouched cat. Both hands caught at West's arm. The
old hunter was scarcely an instant behind him. His fingers closed on
the wrist just above the weapon.

"Hands off," he ordered Morse. "This is no' your quarrel."

The youngster's eyes met the blazing blue ones of the Scot. His
fingers loosened their hold. He stepped back.

The two big men strained. One fought with every ounce of power in him
to twist the arm from him till the cords and sinews strained; the
other to prevent this and to free the wrist. It was a test of sheer
strength.

Each labored, breathing deep, his whole energy centered on coördinated
effort of every muscle. They struggled in silence except for the
snarling grunts of the whiskey-runner.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the wrist began to turn from
McRae. Sweat beads gathered on West's face. He fought furiously to
hold his own. But the arm turned inexorably.

The trader groaned. As the cords tightened and shoots of torturing
pain ran up the arm, the huge body of the man writhed. The revolver
fell from his paralyzed fingers. His wobbling knees sagged and
collapsed.

McRae's fingers loosened as the man slid down and caught the bull-like
throat. His grip tightened. West fought savagely to break it. He could