Aiming a sweeping downward blow with his Colt, Burrell clipped the Skagway man just above the ear, and he reeled; then as he fell the officer struck wickedly again at his opponent's skull, but Doret seized him by the arm.
"Ba Gar, don't kill 'im twice!" Burrell wrenched his arm free and turned on Doret a face that remained long in the Frenchman's memory, a face suffused with fury and convulsed like that of a sprinter at the finish of a race.

The two men stared at each other over the fallen figure for a brief moment, until the soldier gained mastery of himself and sheathed his weapon, when Poleon smiled.
"I spoil' a quart of good w'iskee on you.

Dat's wort' five dollar." The Lieutenant wiped the liquor from his face.
"Quick work, Doret," he said.

"I owe you one." Gale's face was hidden as he bent over the prostrate man, fingering a long and ragged cut which laid the fellow's scalp open from back of the ear to the temple, but he mumbled something unintelligible.
"Is he hurt badly ?" "No, you chipped him too low," said the trader.

"I told you he was bad." "He's goin' have nice birt'-mark, anyhow," said Doret, going back of the bar for some water.