The Fanchets had come from the dance halls of Alaska.
They were bad, both of them. At least, so they had judged Carmin
Fanchet--along with her brother. And Boulain--
His hand, in dropping to his side, fell upon the butt of his
pistol. Neither Bateese nor the girl had thought of disarming him.
It was careless of them, unless Bateese was keeping a good eye on
him from behind.
A new sort of thrill crept into Carrigan's blood. He began to see
where he had made a huge error in not playing his part more
cleverly. It was this girl Jeanne who had shot him. It was Jeanne
who had stood over him in that last moment when he had made an
effort to use his pistol. It was she who had tried to murder him
and who had turned faint-hearted when it came to finishing the
job. But his knowledge of these things he should have kept from
her. Then, when the proper moment came, he would have been in a
position to act. Even now it might be possible to cover his
blunder. He leaned toward her again, determined to make the
effort.
"I want to ask your pardon," he said. "May I?"
His voice startled her. It was as if the stinging tip of a whip-
lash had touched her bare neck.
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