Broad and Bridges listened without comment, but they exchanged glances. They put their heads together and began a low-pitched conversation. They were still murmuring when Rouletta appeared, in company with 'Poleon Doret.

'Poleon's face lighted at sight of the two gamblers. He strode forward, crying: "Hallo! I'm glad for see you some more." To the girl he said: "You 'member dese feller'. Dey he'p save you in de rapids."

Rouletta impulsively extended her hands. "Of course! Could I forget?" She saw Pierce Phillips behind the scales and nodded to him. "Why, we're all here, aren't we? I'm so glad. Everywhere I go I meet friends."

Lucky and the Kid inquired respectfully regarding her health, her journey down the river, her reasons for being here; then when they had drawn her aside the former interrupted her flow of explanations to say:

"Listen, Letty. We got just one real question to ask and we'd like a straight answer. Have you got any kick against this Frenchman?"

"Any kick of any kind?" queried Bridges. "We're your friends; you can tip us off."

The sudden change in the tone of their voices caused the girl to start and to stare at them. She saw that both men were in sober earnest; the reason behind their solicitude she apprehended.

She laid a hand upon the arm of each. Her eyes were very bright when she began: "'Poleon told me how you came to his tent that morning after—you know, and he told me what you said. Well, it wasn't necessary. He's the dearest thing that ever lived!"

"Why'd he put you to work in a place like this?" Bridges roughly demanded.

"He didn't. He begged me not to try it. He offered me all he has— his last dollar. He—"

Swiftly, earnestly, Rouletta told how the big woodsman had cared for her; how tenderly, faithfully, he had nursed her back to health and strength; how he had cast all his plans to the winds in order to bring her down the river. "He's the best, the kindest, the most generous man I ever knew," she concluded. "His heart is clean and—his soul is full of music."

"'Sta bueno!" cried Lucky Broad, in genuine relief. "We had a hunch he was right, but—you can't always trust those Asiatic races."

Ben Miller appeared and warmly greeted his new employee. "Rested up, eh? Well, it's going to be a big night. Where's Agnes—the other one? Has she got cold feet?"

"No, just a cold nose. Here she is." From a small bag on her arm Rouletta drew Sam Kirby's six-shooter. "Agnes was my father's friend. Nobody ever ran out on her."

Miller blinked, he uttered a feeble exclamation, then he burst into a mighty laugh. He was still shaking, his face was purple, there were tears of mirth in his eyes, when he followed Broad, Bridges, and Rouletta into the gambling-room.

There were several players at the faro-table when the girl took her place. Removing her gloves, she stowed them away in her bag. From this bag she extracted the heavy Colt's revolver, then opened the drawer before her and laid it inside. She breathed upon her fingers, rubbing the circulation back into them, and began to shuffle the cards. Slipping them into the box, the girl settled herself in her chair and looked up into a circle of grinning faces. Before her level gaze eyes that had been focused queerly upon her fell. The case-keeper's lips were twitching, but he bit down upon them. Gravely he said:

"Well, boys, let's go!"



CHAPTER XXI

In taking charge of a sick girl, a helpless, hopeless stranger, 'Poleon Doret had assumed a responsibility far greater than he had anticipated, and that responsibility had grown heavier every day. Having, at last, successfully discharged it, he breathed freely, his first relaxation in a long time; he rejoiced in the consciousness of a difficult duty well performed. So far as he could see there was nothing at all extraordinary, nothing in the least improper, about Rouletta's engagement at the Rialto. Any suggestion of impropriety, in fact, would have greatly surprised him, for saloons and gambling-halls filled a recognized place in the every-day social life of the Northland. Customs were free, standards were liberal in the early days; no one, 'Poleon least of all, would have dreamed that they were destined to change in a night. Had he been told that soon the country would be dry, and gambling-games and dance-halls be prohibited by law, he would have considered the idea too utterly fantastic for belief; the mere contemplation of such a dreary prospect would have proved extremely dispiriting. He—and the other pioneers of his kind— would have been tempted immediately to pack up and move on to some freer locality where a man could retain his personal liberty and pursue his happiness in a manner as noisy, as intemperate, and as undignified as suited his individual taste.

In justice to the saloons, be it said, they were more than mere drinking-places; they were the pivots about which revolved the business life of the North country. They were meeting-places, social centers, marts of trade; looked upon as evidences of enterprise and general prosperity, they were considered desirable assets to any community. Everybody patronized them; the men who ran them were, on the whole, as reputable as the men engaged in other pursuits. No particular stigma attached either to the places themselves or to the people connected with them.

These gold-camps had a very simple code. Work of any sort was praiseworthy and honorable, idleness or unproductivity was reprehensible. Mining, storekeeping, liquor-selling, gambling, steamboating, all were occupations which men followed as necessity or convenience prompted. A citizen gained repute by the manner in which he deported himself, not by reason of the nature of the commodity in which he dealt. Such, at least, was the attitude of the "old-timers."

Rouletta's instant success, the fact that she had fallen among friends, delighted a woodsman like 'Poleon, and, now that he was his own master again, he straightway surrendered himself to the selfish enjoyment of his surroundings. His nature and his training prescribed the limits of those pleasures; they were quite as simple as his everyday habits of life; he danced, he gambled, and he drank.

To-night he did all three, in the reverse order. To him Dawson was a dream city; its lights were dazzling, its music heavenly, its games of chance enticing, and its liquor was the finest, the smoothest, the most inspiriting his tongue had ever tested. Old friends were everywhere, and new ones, too, for that matter. Among them were alluring women who smiled and sparkled. Each place 'Poleon entered was the home of carnival.

By midnight he was gloriously drunk. Ere daylight came he had sung himself hoarse, he had danced two holes in his moccasins, and had conducted three fist-fights to a satisfactory if not a successful conclusion. It had been a celebration that was to live in his memory. He strode blindly off to bed, shouting his complete satisfaction with himself and with the world, retired without undressing, and then sang himself to sleep, regardless of the protests of the other lodgers.

"Say! That Frenchman is a riot," Kid Bridges declared while he and Lucky Broad were at breakfast. "He's old General Rough-houser, and he set an altogether new mark in disorderly conduct last night. Letty 'most cried about it."

"Yeah? Those yokels are all alike—one drink and they declare a dividend." Lucky was only mildly concerned. "I s'pose the vultures picked him clean."

"Nothin' like it," Bridges shook his head. "He gnawed 'em naked, then done a war-dance with their feathers in his hat. He left 'em bruised an' bleedin'."

For a time the two friends ate in silence, then Broad mused, aloud: "Letty 'most cried, eh? Say, I wonder what she really thinks of him?"

"I don't know. Miller told me she was all broke up, and I was goin' to take her home and see if I could fathom her true feelin's, but—Phillips beat me to it."

"Phillips! He'll have to throw out the life-line if Laure gets onto that. She'll take to Letty just like a lone timber-wolf."

"Looks like she'd been kiddin' us, don't it? She calls him her 'brother' and he says she's his masseur—you heard him, didn't you?" There was another pause. "What's a masseur, anyhow?"

"A masseur," said Mr. Broad, "is one of those women in a barber- shop that fixes your fingernails. Yes, I heard him, and I'm here to say that I didn't like the sound of it. I don't yet. He may mean all right, but—them foreigners have got queer ideas about their women. Letty's a swell kid and she's got a swell job. What's more, she's got a wise gang riding herd on her. It's just like she was in a church—no danger, no annoyance, nothing. If Doret figures to start a barber-shop with her for his masseur, why, we'll have to lay him low with one of his own razors."

Mr. Bridges nodded his complete approval of this suggestion. "Right-o! I'll bust a mirror with him myself. Them barber-shops is no place for good girls."

Broad and Bridges pondered the matter during the day, and that evening they confided their apprehensions to their fellow-workers. The other Rialto employees agreed that things did not look right, and after a consultation it was decided to keep a watch upon the girl. This was done. Prompted by their pride in her, and a genuinely unselfish interest in her future, the boys made guarded attempts to discover the true state of her feelings for the French Canadian, but they learned little. Every indirect inquiry was met with a tribute to 'Poleon's character so frank, so extravagant, as to completely baffle them. Some of the investigators declared that Rouletta was madly in love with him; others were equally positive that this extreme frankness in itself proved that she was not. All agreed, however, that 'Poleon was not in love with her—he was altogether too enthusiastic over her growing popularity for a lover. Had the gamblers been thoroughly assured of her desires in the matter, doubtless they would have made some desperate effort to marry 'Poleon to her, regardless of his wishes-they were men who believed in direct action—but under the circumstances they could only watch and wait until the uncertainty was cleared up.

Meanwhile, as 'Poleon continued his celebration, Rouletta grew more and more miserable; at last he sobered up—sufficiently to realize he was hurting her. He was frankly puzzled at this; he met her reproaches with careless good-nature, brushing aside the remonstrances of Lucky Broad and his fellows by declaring that he was having the time of his life, and arguing that he injured nobody. In the end the girl prevailed upon him to stop drinking, and then bound him to further sobriety by means of a sacred pledge. When, perhaps a week later, he disappeared into the hills Rouletta and her corps of self-appointed guardians breathed easier.

But the boys did not relax their watchfulness; Rouletta was their charge and they took good care of her. None of the Rialto's patrons, for instance, was permitted to follow up his first acquaintance with "the lady dealer." Some member of the clan was always on hand to frown down such an attempt. Broad or Bridges usually brought her to work and took her home, the Snowbird and the Mocha Kid made it a practice to take her to supper, and when she received invitations from other sources one or the other of them firmly declined, in her name, and treated the would-be host with such malevolent suspicion that the invitation was never repeated. Far from taking offense at this espionage, Rouletta rather enjoyed it; she grew to like these ruffians, and that liking became mutual. Soon most of them took her into their confidence with a completeness that threatened to embarrass her, as, for instance, when they discussed in her hearing incidents in their colorful lives that the Mounted Police would have given much to know. The Mocha Kid, in particular, was addicted to reminiscence of an incriminating sort, and he totally ignored Rouletta's protests at sharing the secrets of his guilty past. As for the Snowbird, he was fond of telling her fairy-stories. They were queer fairy-stories, all beginning in the same way:

"Once upon a time there was a beautiful Princess and her name was Rouletta."

All the familiar characters figured in these narratives, the Wicked Witch, the Cruel King, the Handsome Prince; there were other characters, too, such as the Wise Guy, the Farmer's Son, the Boob Detective, the Tough Mary Ann and the Stony-hearted Jailer.

The Snowbird possessed a fertile fancy but it ran in crooked channels; although he launched his stories according to Grimm, he sailed them through seas of crime, of violence, and of bloodshed too realistic to be the product of pure imagination. The adventures of the beautiful Princess Rouletta were blood-curdling in the extreme, and the doings of her criminal associates were unmistakably autobiographic. Naturally Rouletta never felt free to repeat these stories, but it was not long before she began to look forward with avid interest to her nightly entertainment.

Inasmuch as Pierce Phillips went off shift at the same time as did Rouletta, they met frequently, and more than once he acted as her escort. He offered such a marked contrast to the other employees of the Rialto, his treatment of her was at such total variance with theirs, that he interested her in an altogether different way. His was an engaging personality, but just why she grew so fond of him she could not tell; he was neither especially witty and accomplished nor did he lay himself out to be unusually agreeable. He was quiet and reserved; nevertheless, he had the knack of making friends quickly. Rouletta had known men like Broad and Bridges and the Mocha Kid all her life, but Pierce was of a type quite new and diverting. She speculated considerably regarding him.

Their acquaintance, while interesting, had not progressed much beyond that point when Rouletta experienced a disagreeable shock. She had strolled into the theater one evening and was watching the performance when Laure accosted her. As Rouletta had not come into close contact with any of the dance-hall crowd, she was surprised at the tone this girl assumed.

"Hello! Looking for new conquests?" Laure began.

Miss Kirby shook her head in vague denial, but the speaker eyed her with open hostility and there was an unmistakable sneer behind her next words:

"What's the matter? Have you trimmed all the leading citizens?"

"I've finished my work, if that's what you mean."

"Now you're going to try your hand at box-rustling, eh?"

Rouletta's expression altered; she regarded her inquisitor more intently. "You know I'm not," said she. "What are you driving at?"

"Well, why don't you? Are you too good?"

"Yes." The visitor spoke coldly. She turned away, but Laure stepped close and cried, in a low, angry voice:

"Oh no, you're not! You've fooled the men, but you can't fool us girls. I've got your number. I know your game."

"My game? Then why don't you take a shift in the gambling-room? Why work in here?"

"You understand me," the other persisted. "Too good for the dance- hall, eh? Too good to associate with us girls; too good to live like us! YOU stop at the Courteau House, the RESPECTABLE hotel! Bah! Miller fell for you, but—you'd better let well enough alone."

"That's precisely what I do. If there were a better hotel than the Courteau House I'd stop there. But there isn't. Now, then, suppose you tell me what really ails you."

Laure's dusky eyes were blazing, her voice was hoarse when she answered:

"All right. I'll tell you. I want you to mind your own business. Yes, and I'm going to see that you do. You can't go home alone, can you? Afraid of the dark, I suppose, or afraid some man will speak to you. My goodness! The airs you put on—YOU! Sam Kirby's girl, the daughter of a gambler, a—"

"Leave my father out of this!" There was something of Sam Kirby's force in this sharp command, something of his cold, forbidding anger in his daughter's face. "He's my religion, so you'd better lay off of him. Speak out. Where did I tread on your toes?"

"Well, you tread on them every time you stop at the gold-scales, if you want to know. I have a religion, too, and it's locked up in the cashier's cage."

There was a pause; the girls appraised each other with mutual dislike.

"You mean Mr. Phillips?" "I do. See that you call him 'Mister,' and learn to walk home alone."

"Don't order me. I can't take orders."

Laure was beside herself at this defiance. She grew blind with rage, so much so that she did not notice Phillips himself; he had approached within hearing distance. "You've got the boss; he's crazy about you, but Pierce is mine—"

"What's that?" It was Phillips who spoke. "What are you saying about me?" Both girls started. Laure turned upon him furiously.

"I'm serving notice on this faro-dealer, that's all. But it goes for you, too—"

Phillips' eyes opened, his face whitened with an emotion neither girl had before seen. To Rouletta he said, quietly:

"The other boys are busy, so I came to take you home."

Laure cried, wildly, hysterically: "Don't do it! I warn you!"

"Are you ready to go?"

"All ready," Rouletta agreed. Together they left the theater.

Nothing was said as the two trod the snow-banked streets; not until they halted at the door of the Courteau House did Rouletta speak; then she said:

"I wouldn't have let you do this, only—I have! a temper."

"So have I," Pierce said, shortly. "It's humiliating to own up."

"I was wrong. I have no right to hurt that girl's feelings."

"Right?" He laughed angrily. "She had no right to make a scene."

"Why not? She's fighting for her own, isn't she? She's honest about it, at least." Noting Pierce's expression of surprise, Rouletta went on: "You expect me to be shocked, but I'm not, for I've known the truth in a general way. You think I'm going to preach. Well, I'm not going to do that, either. I've lived a queer life; I've seen women like Laure—in fact, I was raised among them—and nothing they do surprises me very much. But I've learned a good many lessons around saloons and gambling-places. One is this: never cheat. Father taught me that. He gave everybody a square deal, including himself. It's a good thing to think about— a square deal all around, even to yourself."

"That sounds like an allopathic sermon of some sort," said Pierce, "but I can't see just how it applies to me. However, I'll think it over. You're a brick, Miss Kirby, and I'm sorry if you had an unpleasant moment." He took Rouletta's hand and held it while he stared at her with a frank, contemplative gaze. "You're an unusual person, and you're about the nicest girl I've met. I want you to like me."

As he walked back down-town Pierce pondered Rouletta's words, "a square deal all around, even to yourself." They were a trifle puzzling. Whom had he cheated? Surely not Laure. From the very first he had protested his lack of serious interest in her, and their subsequent relations were entirely the result of her unceasing efforts to appropriate him to herself. He had resisted, she had persisted. Nor could he see that he had cheated—in other words, injured—himself. This was a liberal country; its code was free and it took little account of a man's private conduct. Nobody seriously blamed him for his affair with Laure; he had lost no standing by reason of it. It was only a part of the big adventure, a passing phase of his development, an experience such as came to every man. Since it had left no mark upon him, and had not seriously affected Laure, the score was even. He dismissed Rouletta's words as of little consequence. In order, however, to prevent any further unpleasant scenes he determined to put Laure in her place, once for all.

Rouletta went to her room, vaguely disturbed at her own emotions. She could still feel the touch of Phillips' hand, she could still feel his gaze fixed earnestly, meditatively, upon hers, and she was amazed to discover the importance he had assumed in her thoughts. Importance, that was the word. He was a very real, a very interesting, person, and there was some inexplicable attraction about him that offset his faults and his failings, however grave. For one thing, he was not an automaton, like the other men; he was a living, breathing problem, and he absorbed Rouletta's attention.

She was sitting on the edge of her bed, staring at the wall, when the Countess Courteau knocked at her door and entered. The women had become good friends; frequently the elder one stopped to gossip. The Countess flung herself into a chair, rolled and lit a cigarette, then said:

"Well, I see you and Agnes saved the bankroll again."

Rouletta nodded. "Agnes is an awful bluff. I never load her. But of course nobody knows that."

"You're a queer youngster. I've never known a girl quite like you. Everybody is talking about you."

"Indeed? Not the nice people?"

"Nice people?" The Countess lifted her brows. "You mean those at the Barracks and up on the hill? Yes, they're talking about you, too."

"I can imagine what they say." Rouletta drew her brows together in a frown. "No doubt they think I'm just like the dance-hall girls. I've seen a few of them—at a distance. They avoid me as if I had measles."

"Naturally. Do you care?"

"Certainly I care. I'd like to be one of them, not a—a specimen. Wouldn't you?"

"Um-m, perhaps. I dare say I could be one of them if it weren't for Courteau. People forget things quickly in a new country."

"Why did you take him back? I'm sure you don't care for him."

"Not in the least. He's the sort of man you can't love or hate; he's a nine-spot. Just the same, he protects me and—I can't help being sorry for him."

Rouletta smiled. "Fancy you needing protection and him giving—"

"You don't understand. He protects me from myself. I mean it. I'm as unruly as the average woman and I make a fool of myself on the slightest provocation. Henri is a loafer, a good-for-nothing, to be sure, but, nevertheless, I have resumed his support. It was easier than refusing it. I help broken miners. I feed hungry dogs. Why shouldn't I clothe and feed a helpless husband? It's a perfectly feminine, illogical thing to do."

"Other people don't share your opinion of him. He can be very agreeable, very charming, when he tries."

"Of course. That's his stock in trade; that's his excuse for being. Women are crazy about him, as you probably know, but—give me a man the men like." There was a pause. "So you don't enjoy the thing you're doing?"

"I hate it! I hate the whole atmosphere—the whole underworld. It's-unhealthy, stifling."

"What has happened?"

Slowly, hesitatingly, Rouletta told of her encounter with Laure. The Countess listened silently.

"It was an unpleasant shock," the girl concluded, "for it brought me back to my surroundings. It lifted the curtain and showed me what's really going on. It's a pity Pierce Phillips is entangled with that creature, for he's a nice chap and he's got it in him to do big things. But it wasn't much use my trying to tell him that he was cheating himself. I don't think he understood. I feel almost—well, motherly toward him."

Hilda nodded gravely. "Of course you do. He has it."

"Has it? What?"

"The call—the appeal—the same thing that lets Henri get by."

"Oh, he's nothing like the Count!" Rouletta protested, quickly.

The elder woman did not argue the point. "Pierce has more character than Henri, but a man can lose even that in a gambling- house. I was very fond of him—fonder than I knew. Yes, it's a fact. I'm jealous of Laure, jealous of you—"

"JEALOUS? of ME? You're joking!"

"Of course. Don't take me seriously. Nevertheless, I mean it." The Countess smiled queerly and rose to her feet. "It's improper for a married woman to joke about such things, even a woman married to a no-good count, isn't it? And it's foolish, too. Well, I'm going to do something even more foolish—I'm going to give you some advice. Cut out that young man. He hasn't found himself yet; he's running wild. He's light in ballast and he's rudderless. If he straightens out he'll make some woman very happy; otherwise—he'll create a good deal of havoc. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about, for I collided with Henri and—look at the result!"



CHAPTER XXII

Pierce Phillips possessed the average young American's capacities for good or evil. Had he fallen among healthy surroundings upon his arrival at Dawson, in all probability he would have experienced a healthy growth. But, blown by the winds of chance, he took root where he dropped—in the low grounds. Since he possessed the youthful power of quick and vigorous adaptation, he assumed a color to match his environment. Of necessity this alteration was gradual; nevertheless, it was real; without knowing it he suffered a steady deterioration of moral fiber and a progressive change in ideals.

His new life was easy; hours at the Rialto were short and the pay was high. Inasmuch as the place was a playground where cares were forgotten, there was a wholly artificial atmosphere of gaiety and improvidence about it. When patrons won at the gambling-games, they promptly squandered their winnings at the bar and in the theater; when they lost, they cheerfully ignored their ill- fortune. Even the gamblers themselves shared this recklessness, this prodigality; they made much money; nevertheless, they were usually broke. Most of them drank quite as freely as did the customers.

This was not a temperance country. Although alcohol was not considered a food, it was none the less regarded as a prime essential of comfort and well-being. It was inevitable, therefore, that Pierce Phillips, a youth in his growing age, should adopt a good deal the same habits, as well as the same spirit and outlook, as the people with whom he came in daily contact.

Vice is erroneously considered hideous; it is supposed to have a visage so repulsive that the simplest stranger will shudder at sight of it and turn of his own accord to more attractive Virtue. If that were only true! More often than not it is the former that wears a smile and masquerades in agreeable forms, while the latter repels. This is true of the complex life of the city, where a man has landmarks and guide-posts of conduct to go by, and it is equally true of the less complicated life of the far frontier where he must blaze his own trail. Along with the strength and vigor and independence derived from the great outdoors, there comes also a freedom of individual conduct, an impatience at irksome restraints, that frequently offsets any benefits that accrue from such an environment.

So it was in Pierce's case. He realized, subconsciously, that he was changing, had changed; on the whole, he was glad of it. It filled him with contemptuous amusement, for instance, to look back upon his old puritanical ideas. They seemed now very narrow, very immature, very impractical, and he was gratified at his broader vision. The most significant alteration, however, entirely escaped his notice. That alteration was one of outlook rather than of inlook. Bit by bit he had come to regard the general crowd—the miners, merchants, townspeople—as outsiders, and him self as an insider—one of the wise, clever, ease-loving class which subsisted without toil and for whom a freer code of morals existed. Those outsiders were stupid, hard-working; they were somehow inferior. He and his kind were of a higher, more advanced order of intelligence; moreover, they were bound together by the ties of a common purpose and understanding and therefore enjoyed privileges denied their less efficient brethren.

If jackals were able to reason, doubtless they would justify their existence and prove their superiority to the common herd by some such fatuous argument.

Pierce's complacency received its first jolt when he discovered that he had lost caste in the eyes of the better sort of people— people such as he had been accustomed to associate with at home. This discovery came as the result of a chance meeting with a stranger, and, but for it, he probably would have remained unaware of the truth, for his newly made friends had treated him with consideration and nothing had occurred to disturb his complacency. He had acquired a speaking acquaintance with many of the best citizens, including the Mounted Police and even the higher Dominion officials, all of whom came to the Rialto. These men professed a genuine liking for him, and, inasmuch as his time was pretty full and there was plenty of amusement close at hand, he had never stopped to think that the side of Dawson life which he saw was merely the under side—that a real social community was forming, with real homes on the back streets, where already women of the better sort were living. Oblivious of these facts, it never occurred to Pierce to wonder why these men did not ask him to their cabins or why he did not meet their families.

He had long since become a night-hawk, mainly through a growing fondness for gambling, and he had arrived at the point where daylight impressed him as an artificial and unsatisfactory method of illumination. Recently, too, he had been drinking more than was good for him, and he awoke finally to the unwelcome realization that he was badly in need of fresh air and outdoor exercise.

After numerous half-hearted attempts, he arose one day about noon; then, having eaten a tasteless breakfast and strengthened his languid determination by a stiff glass of "hootch," he strolled out of town, taking he first random trail that offered itself. It was a wood trail, leading nowhere in particular, a fact which precisely suited his resentful mood. His blood moved sluggishly, he was short of breath, the cold was bitter. Before long he decided that walking was a profitless and stultifying occupation, a pastime for idiots and solitaire-players; nevertheless, he continued in the hope of deriving some benefit, however indirect or remote.

It was a still afternoon. A silvery brightness beyond the mountain crests far to the southward showed where the low winter sun was sweeping past on its flat arc. The sky to the north was empty, colorless. There had been no wind for some time, and now the firs sagged beneath burdens of white; even the bare birch branches carried evenly balanced inch-deep layers of snow. Underfoot, the earth was smothered in a feathery shroud as light, as clean as the purest swan's-down, and into it Pierce's moccasins sank to the ankles. He walked as silently as a ghost. Through this queer, breathless hush the sounds of chopping, of distant voices, of an occasional dog barking followed him as he went deeper into the woods.

Time was when merely to be out in the forest on such a day would have pleased him, but gone entirely was that pleasure, and in its place there came now an irritation at the physical discomfort it entailed. He soon began to perspire freely, too freely; nevertheless, there was no glow to his body; he could think only of easy-chairs and warm stoves. He wondered what ailed him. Nothing could be more abhorrent than this, he told himself. Health was a valuable thing, no doubt, and he agreed that no price was too high to pay for it—no price, perhaps, except dull, uninteresting exercise of this sort. He was upon the point of turning back when the trail suddenly broke out into a natural clearing and he saw something which challenged his attention.

To the left of the path rose a steep bank, and beyond that the bare, sloping mountain-side. In the shelter of the bank the snow had drifted deep, but, oddly enough, its placid surface was churned up, as if from an explosion or some desperate conflict that had been lately waged. It had been tossed up and thrown down. What caused him to stare was the fact that no footprints were discernible—nothing except queer, wavering parallel streaks that led downward from the snowy turmoil to the level ground below. They resembled the tracks of some oddly fashioned sled.

Pierce halted, and with bent head was studying the phenomenon, when close above him he heard the rush of a swiftly approaching body; he looked up just in time to behold an apparition utterly unexpected, utterly astounding. Swooping directly down upon him with incredible velocity was what seemed at first glance to be a bird-woman, a valkyr out of the pages of Norse mythology. Wingless she was, yet she came like the wind, and at the very instant Pierce raised his eyes she took the air almost over his head— quite as if he had startled her into an upward flight. Upon her feet was a pair of long, Norwegian skees, and upon these she had scudded down the mountain-side; where the bank dropped away she had leaped, and now, like a meteor, she soared into space. This amazing creature was clad in a blue-and-white toboggan suit, short skirt, sweater jacket, and knitted cap. As she hung outlined against the wintry sky Pierce caught a snap-shot glimpse of a fair, flushed, youthful face set in a ludicrous expression of open-mouthed dismay at sight of him. He heard, too, a high-pitched cry, half of warning, half of fright; the next instant there was a mighty upheaval of snow, an explosion of feathery white, as the human projectile landed, then a blur of blue-and-white stripes as it went rolling down the declivity.

"Good Lord!" Pierce cried, aghast; then he sped after the apparition. Only for the evidence of that undignified tumble, he would have doubted the reality of this flying Venus and considered her some creature of his imagination. There she lay, however, a thing of flesh and blood, bruised, broken, helpless; apprehensively he pictured himself staggering back to town with her in his arms.

He halted, speechless, when the girl sat up, shook the snow out of her hair, gingerly felt one elbow, then the other, and finally burst into a peal of ringing laughter. The face she lifted to his, now that it wore a normal expression, was wholly charming; it was, in fact, about the freshest, the cleanest, the healthiest and the frankest countenance he had ever looked into.

"Glory be!" he stammered. "I thought you were—completely spoiled."

"I'm badly twisted," the girl managed to gasp, "but I guess I'm all here. Oh! What a bump!"

"You scared me. I never dreamed—I didn't hear a thing until— Well, I looked up and there you were. The sky was full of you. Gee! I thought I'd lost my mind. Are you quite sure you're all right?"

"Oh, I'll be black and blue again, but I'm used to that. That's the funniest one I've had, the very funniest. Why don't you laugh?"

"I'm—too rattled, I suppose. I'm not accustomed to flying girls. Never had them rain down on me out of the heavens."

The girl's face grew sober. "You're entirely to blame," she cried, angrily. "I was getting it beautifully until you showed up. You popped right out of the ground. What are you doing in the Queen's Park, anyhow? You've no business at the royal sports."

"I didn't mean to trespass."

"I think I'll call the guards."

"Call the court physician and make sure—"

"Pshaw! I'm not hurt." Ignoring his extended hand, she scrambled to her feet and brushed herself again. Evidently the queenly anger was short-lived, for she was beaming again, and in a tone that was boyishly intimate she explained:

"I'd made three dandy jumps and was going higher each time, but the sight of you upset me. Think of being upset by a perfectly strange man. Shows lack of social training, doesn't it? It's a wonder I didn't break a skee."

Pierce glanced apprehensively at the bluff overhead. "Hadn't we better move out of the way?" he inquired. "If the royal family comes dropping in, we'll be ironed out like a couple of handkerchiefs. I don't want to feel the divine right of the king, or his left, either."

"There isn't any king-nor any royal family. I'm just the Queen of Pretend."

"You're skee-jumping, alone? Is that what you mean?"

The girl nodded.

"Isn't that a dangerous way to amuse self? I thought skees were— tricky."

"Have you ever ridden them?" the girl inquired, quickly.

"Never."

"You don't know what fun is. Here—" The speaker stooped and detached her feet from the straps. "Just have a go at it." Pierce protested, but she insisted in a business-like way. "They're long ones—too long for me. They'll just suit you."

"Really, I don't care to—"

"Oh yes, you do. You must."

"You'll be sorry," Pierce solemnly warned her. "When my feet glance off and leave me sticking up in the snow to starve, you'll- -Say! I can think of a lot of things I want to do, but I don't seem to find skee-jumping on the list."

"You needn't jump right away." Determination was in the girl's tone; there was a dancing light of malice in her eyes. "You can practise a bit. Remember, you laughed at me."

"Nothing of the sort. I was amazed, not amused. I thought I'd flushed a very magnificent pheasant with blue-and-white stripes, and I was afraid it was going to fly away before I got a good look at it. Now, then—"He slowly finished buckling the runners to his feet and looked up interrogatively. "What are your Majesty's orders?"

"Walk around. Slide down the hill."

"What on?"

The girl smothered a laugh and waved him away. She looked on while he set off with more or less caution. When he managed to maintain an upright position despite the antics of his skees her face expressed genuine disappointment.

"It's not so hard as I thought it would be," he soon announced, triumphantly. "A little awkward at first, but—" he cast an eye up at the bank. "You never know what you can do until you try."

"You've been skeeing before," she accused him, reproachfully.

"Never."

"Then you pick it up wonderfully. Try a jump."

Her mocking invitation spurred him to make the effort, so he removed the skees and waded a short distance up the hill. When he had secured his feet in position for a second time he called down:

"I'm going to let go and trust to Providence. Look out."

"The same to you," she cried. "You're wonderful, but—men can do anything, can't they?"

There was nothing graceful, nothing of the free abandon of the practised skee-runner in Pierce's attitude; he crouched apelike, with his muscles set to maintain an equilibrium, and this much he succeeded in doing—until he reached the jumping, off place. At that point, however, gravity, which he had successfully defied, wreaked vengeance upon him; it suddenly reached forth and made him its vindictive toy. He pawed, he fought, he appeared to be climbing an invisible rope. With a mighty flop he landed flat upon his back, uttering a loud and dismayed grunt as his breath left him. When he had dug himself out he found that the girl, too, was breathless. She was rocking in silent ecstasy, she hugged herself gleefully, and there were tears in her eyes.

"I'm—so—sorry!" she exclaimed, in a thin, small voice. "Did you- -trip over something?"

The young man grinned. "Not at all. I was afraid of a sprained ankle, so I hit on my head. We meet on common ground, as it were."

Once again he climbed the grade, once again he skidded downward, once again he went sprawling. Nor were his subsequent attempts more successful. After a final ignominious failure he sat where he had fetched up and ruefully took stock of the damage he had done himself. Seriously he announced:

"I was mistaken. Women are entitled to vote—they're entitled to anything. I've learned something else, too—Mr. Newton's interesting little theory is all wrong; falling bodies travel sixteen miles, not sixteen feet, the first second."

The girl demanded her skees, and, without rising, Pierce surrendered them; then he looked on admiringly while she attached them to her feet and went zigzagging up the hill to a point much higher than the one from which he had dared to venture. She made a very pretty picture, he acknowledged, for she was vivid with youth and color. She was lithe and strong and confident, too; she was vibrant with the healthy vigor of the out-of-doors.

She descended with a terrific rush, and this time she took the air with grace and certainty. She cleared a very respectable distance and ricocheted safely down the landing-slope.

Pierce applauded her with enthusiasm. "Beautiful! My sincere congratulations, O Bounding Fawn!"

"That's the best I've done," she crowed. "You put me on my mettle. Now you try it again."

Pierce did try again; he tried manfully, but with a humiliating lack of success. He was puffing and blowing, his face was wet with perspiration, he had lost all count of time, when his companion finally announced it was time for her to be going.

"You're not very fit, are you?" said she.

Pierce colored uncomfortably. "Not very," he confessed. He was relieved when she did not ask the reason for his lack of fitness. Just why he experienced such relief he hardly knew, but suddenly he felt no great pride in himself nor in the life that had brought him to such a state of flabbiness. Nor did he care to have this girl know who or what he was. Plainly she was one of those "nice people" at whom Laure and the other denizens of the Rialto were wont to sneer with open contempt; probably that was why he had never chanced to meet her. He felt cheated because they had not met, for she was the sort of girl he had known at home, the sort who believed in things and in whom he believed. Despite all his recently acquired wisdom, in this short hour she had made him over into a boy again, and somehow or other the experience was agreeable. Never had he seen a girl so cool, so candid, so refreshingly unconscious and unaffected as this one. She was as limpid as a pool of glacier water; her placidity, he imagined, had never been stirred, and in that fact lay much of her fascination.

With her skees slung over her shoulder, the girl strode along beside Phillips, talking freely on various topics, but with no disposition to chatter. Her mind was alert, inquisitive, and yet she had that thoughtful gravity of youth, wisdom coming to life. That Pierce had made a good impression upon her she implied at parting by voicing a sincere hope that they would meet again very soon.

"Perhaps I'll see you at the next dance," she suggested.

"Dance!" The word struck Pierce unpleasantly.

"Saturday night, at the Barracks."

"I'd love to come," he declared.

"Do. They're loads of fun. All the nice people go."

With a nod and a smile she was gone, leaving him to realize that he did not even know her name. Well, that was of no moment; Dawson was a small place, and—Saturday was not far off. He had heard about those official parties at the Barracks and he made up his mind to secure an invitation sufficiently formal to permit him to attend the very next one.

His opportunity came that night when one of the younger Mounted Police officers paused to exchange greetings with him. Lieutenant Rock was a familiar figure on the streets of Dawson and on the trails near by, a tall, upstanding Canadian with a record for unfailing good humor and relentless efficiency. He nodded at Pierce's casual reference to the coming dance at Headquarters.

"Great sport," said he. "It's about the only chance we fellows have to play."

When no invitation to share in the treat was forthcoming Pierce told of meeting a most attractive girl that afternoon, and, having obtained his hearer's interest, he described the youthful goddess of the snows with more than necessary enthusiasm. He became aware of a peculiar expression upon Rock's face.

"Yes. I know her well," the latter said, quietly. "D'you mean to say she invited you to the ball?"

"It wasn't exactly an invitation—"

"Oh! I see. Well"—Rock shook his head positively—"there's nothing doing, old man. It isn't your kind of a party. Understand?"

"I—don't understand," Pierce confessed in genuine surprise.

The officer eyed him with a cool, disconcerting directness. "We draw the lines pretty close—have to in a camp like this. No offense, I trust." With a smile and a careless wave of the hand he moved on, leaving Pierce to stare after him until he was swallowed up by the crowd in the gambling-room.

A blow in the face would not have amazed Pierce Phillips more, nor would it have more greatly angered him. So, he was ostracized! These men who treated him with such apparent good-fellowship really despised him; in their eyes he was a renegade; they considered him unfit to know their women. It was incredible!

This was the first deliberate slight the young man had ever received. His face burned, his pride withered under it; he would have bitten out his tongue rather than subject himself to such a rebuff. Who was Rock? How dared he? Rock knew the girl, oh yes! But he refused to mention her name—as if that name would be sullied by his, Pierce's, use of it. That hurt most of all; that was the bitterest pill. Society! Caste! On the Arctic Circle! It was to laugh!

But Phillips could not laugh. He could more easily have cried, or cursed, or raved; even to pretend to laugh off such an affront was impossible. It required no more than this show of opposition to fan the embers of his flickering desire into full flame, and, now that he was forbidden to meet that flying goddess, it seemed to him that he must do so at whatever cost. He'd go to that dance, he decided, in spite of Rock; he'd go unbidden; he'd force his way in if needs be.

This sudden ardor died, however, as quickly as it had been born, leaving him cold with apprehension. What would happen if he took the bit in his teeth? Rock knew about Laure—those detestable redcoats knew pretty much everything that went on beneath the surface of Dawson life—and if Pierce ran counter to the fellow's warning he would probably speak out. Rock was just that sort. His methods were direct and forceful. What then? Pierce cringed inwardly at the contemplation. That snow-girl was so clean, so decent, so radically different from all that Laure stood for, that he shrank from associating them together even in his thoughts.

Well, he was paying the fiddler, and the price was high. Even here on the fringe of the frontier society exacted penalty for the breach of its conventions. Pierce's rebellion at this discovery, his resentment at the whole situation, prevented him from properly taking the lesson to heart. The issue was clouded, too, by a wholly natural effort at self-justification. The more he tried this latter, however, the angrier he became and the more humiliating seemed his situation.

He was in no mood to calmly withstand another shock, especially when that shock was administered by Joe McCaskey, of all persons; nevertheless, it came close upon the heels of Rock's insult.

Pierce had not seen either brother since their departure for Hunker Creek, therefore Joe's black visage leering through the window of the cashier's cage was an unwelcome surprise.

"Hello, Phillips! How are you making it?" the man inquired.

"All right."

Despite this gruffness, Joe's grin widened. There was nothing of pleasure at the meeting, nor of friendliness behind it, however. On the contrary, it masked both malice and triumph, as was plain when he asked:

"Did you hear about our strike?"

"What strike?"

"Why, it's all over town! Frank and I hit pay in our first shaft— three feet of twenty-cent dirt."

"Really?" Pierce could not restrain a movement of surprise.

Joe nodded and chuckled, meanwhile keeping his malignant gaze focused upon the younger man's face. "It's big. We came to town to buy grub and a dog-team and to hire a crew of hands. We've got credit at the A. C. Company up to fifty thousand dollars."

There was a brief pause which Pierce broke by inquiring, as casually as he could:

"Did Tom and Jerry have any luck?"

"Sure thing! They've hit it, the same as us. You tossed off a home-stake, kid. Don't believe it, eh? Well, here's the proof- coarse gold from Hunker." With an ostentatious flourish the speaker flung down a half-filled poke, together with a bar check. "Cash me in, and don't let any of it stick to your fingers."

Pierce was impelled to hurl the gold sack at Joe's head, but he restrained himself. His hands were shaky, however, and when he untied the thongs he was mortified at spilling some of the precious yellow particles. Mortification changed to anger when the owner cried, sharply:

"Hey! Got cashier's ague, have you? Just cut out the sleight-of- hand!"

Pierce smothered a retort; silently he brushed the dust back into the blower and set the weights upon his scales. But McCaskey ran on with an insulting attempt at banter:

"I'm onto you short-weighers. Take your bit out of the drunks; I'm sober."

When Pierce had retied the sack and returned it he looked up and into Joe's face. His own was white, his eyes were blazing.

"Don't pull any more comedy here," he said, quietly. "That short- weight joke doesn't go at the Rialto."

"Oh, it don't? JOKE!" McCaskey snorted. "I s'pose it's a joke to spill dust—when you can't get away with it. Well, I've spotted a lot of crooked cashiers in this town."

"No doubt. It takes a thief to catch a thief." McCaskey started. His sneer vanished. "Thief! Say—" he blustered, angrily. "D'you mean—" The clash, brief as it had been, had excited attention. Noting the fact that an audience was gathering, the speaker lowered his voice and, thrusting his black, scowling countenance closer to the cage opening, he said: "You needn't remind me of anything. I've got a good memory. Damn' good!" After a moment he turned his back and moved away.

When Pierce went off shift he looked up Lars Anderson and received confirmation of the Hunker strike. Lars was in a boisterous mood and eager to share his triumph.

"I knew that was a rich piece of ground," he chuckled, "and I knew I was handing those boys a good thing. But a fellow owes something to his friends, doesn't he?"

"I thought you said it was low grade?"

"Low grade!" Big Lars threw back his head and laughed loudly. "I never said nothing of the kind. Me knock my own ground? Why, I'd have banked my life on Hunker!"

Here was luck, Pierce told himself. A fortune had been handed him on a silver platter, and he had shoved it aside. He was sick with regret; he was furious with himself for his lack of wisdom; he hated Laure for the deception she had practised upon him. The waste he had made of this opportunity bred in him a feeling of desperation.

Toward the close of the show Laure found him braced against the bar; the face he turned upon her was cold, repellent. When she urged him to take her to supper he shook his head.

"What's the matter?" she inquired.

"Big Lars never told you Hunker was low grade," he declared.

The girl flushed; she tossed her dark head defiantly. "Well, what of it?"

"Simply this—Tom and Jerry and the McCaskeys have struck rich pay."

"Indeed?"

"You lied to me."

Laure's lips parted slowly in a smile. "What did you expect? What would any girl do?" She laid a caressing hand upon his arm. "I don't care how much they make or how poor you are—"

Pierce disengaged her grasp. "I care!" he cried, roughly. "I've lost my big chance. They've made their piles and I'm—well, look at me."

"You blame me?"

He stared at her for a moment. "What's the difference whether I blame you or myself? I'm through. I've been through for some time, but—this is curtain."

"Pierce!"

Impatiently he flung her off and strode out of the theater.

Laure was staring blindly after him when Joe McCaskey spoke to her. "Have a dance?" he inquired.

She undertook to answer, but her lips refused to frame any words; silently she shook her head.

"What's the idea? A lovers' quarrel?" McCaskey eyed her curiously, then he chuckled mirthlessly. "You can come clean with me. I don't like him any better than you do."

"Mind your own business," stormed the girl in a sudden fury.

"That's what I'm doing, and minding it good. I've got a lot of business—with that rat." Joe's sinister black eyes held Laure's in spite of her effort to avoid them; it was plain that he wished to say more, but hesitated. "Maybe it would pay us to get acquainted," he finally suggested. "Frank and me and the Count are having a bottle of wine upstairs. Better join us."

"I will," said Laure, after a moment. Together they mounted the stairs to the gallery above.



CHAPTER XXIII

"Wal, w'at I tol' you?" 'Poleon Doret exclaimed, cheerfully. "Me, I'm cut off for poor man. If one dose El Dorado millionaire' give me his pay-dump, all de gold disappear biffore I get him in de sluice-box. Some people is born Jonah." Despite this melancholy announcement 'Poleon was far from depressed. On the contrary, he beamed like a boy and his eyes were sparkling with the joy of again beholding his "sister."

He had returned from the hills late this evening and now he had come to fetch Rouletta from her work. This was his first opportunity for a word with her alone.

The girl was not unmoved by his tale of blighted expectations; she refused, nevertheless, to accept it as conclusive. "Nonsense!" she said, briskly. "You know very well you haven't prospected your claim for what it's worth. You haven't had time."

"I don' got to prospec' him," 'Poleon asserted. "Dat's good t'ing 'bout dat claim. Some Swede fellers above me cross-cut de whole dam' creek an' don' fin' so much as one color. Sapre! Dat's fonny creek. She 'ain't got no gravel." The speaker threw back his head and laughed heartily. "It's fac'! I'scover de only creek on all de Yukon wit'out gravel. Muck! Twenty feet of solid frozen muck! It's lucky I stake on soch bum place, eh? S'pose all winter I dig an' don' fin' 'im out?"

For a moment Rouletta remained silent; then she said, wearily:

"Everything is all wrong, all upside down, isn't it? The McCaskeys struck pay; so did Tom and Jerry. But you—why, in all your years in this country you've never found anything. Where's the justice— "

"No, no! I fin' somet'ing more better as dem feller. I fin' a sister; I fin' you. By Gar! I don't trade you for t'ousan' pay- streak!" Lowering his voice, 'Poleon said, earnestly, "I don' know how much I love you, ma soeur, until I go 'way and t'ink 'bout it."

Rouletta smiled mistily and touched the big fellow's hand, whereupon he continued:

"All dese year I look in de mos' likely spot for gold, an' don' fin' him. Wal, I mak' change. I don' look in no more creek-bottom; I'm goin' hit de high spot!"

Reproachfully the girl exclaimed, "You promised me to cut that out."

With a grin the woodsman reassured her: "No, no! I mean I'm goin' dig on top de mountains."

"Not—really? Why, 'Poleon, gold is heavy! It sinks. It's deep down in the creek-beds."

"It sink, sure 'nough," he nodded, "but where it sink from, eh? I don' lak livin' in low place, anyhow—you don' see not'in'. Me, I mus' have good view."

"What are you driving at?"

"I tell you: long tam ago I know old miner. He's forever talk 'bout high bars, old reever-bed, an' soch t'ing. We call him 'High Bar.' He mak' fonny story 'bout reever dat used to was on top de mountain. By golly! I laugh at him! But w'at you t'ink? I'm crossin' dose hill 'bove El Dorado an' I see place where dose miner is shoot dry timber down into de gulch. Dose log have dug up de snow an' I fin'—what?" Impressively the speaker whispered one word, "GRAVEL!"

Much to his disappointment, Rouletta remained impassive in the face of this startling announcement. Vaguely she inquired: "What of it? There's gravel everywhere. What you want is gold—"

"Mon Dieu!" 'Poleon lifted his hands in despair. "You're worse as cheechako. Where gravel is dere you fin' gold, ain't you?"

"Why—not always."

With a shrug the woodsman agreed. "Of course, not always, but—"

"On top of a hill?"

"De tip top."

"How perfectly absurd! How could gold run uphill?"

"I don' know," the other confessed. "But, for dat matter, how she run downhill? She 'ain't got no legs. I s'pose de book hexplain it somehow. Wal! I stake two claim—one for you, one for me. It's dandy place for cabin! You look forty mile from dat spot. Mak' you feel jus' lak bird on top of high tree. Dere's plenty dry wood, too, an' down below is de Forks—nice town wit' saloon an' eatin'- place. You can hear de choppin' an' de win'lass creakin' and smell de smoke. It's fine place for singin' songs up dere."

"'Poleon!" Rouletta tried to look her sternest. "You're a great, overgrown boy. You can't stick to anything. You're merely lonesome and you want to get in where the people are."

"Lonesome! Don' I live lak bear when I'm trappin'? Some winter I don' see nobody in de least."

"Probably I made a mistake in bringing you down here to Dawson," the girl continued, meditatively. "You were doing well up the river, and you were happy. Here you spend your money; you gamble, you drink—the town is spoiling you just as it is spoiling the others."

"Um-m! Mebbe so," the man confessed. "Never I felt lak I do lately. If I don' come in town to-day I swell up an' bus'. I'm full of t'ing' I can't say."

"Go to work somewhere."

"For wages? Me?" Doret shook his head positively. "I try him once- -cookin' for gang of rough-neck'—but I mak' joke an' I'm fire'. Dem feller kick 'bout my grub an' it mak' me mad, so one day I sharpen all de table-knife. I put keen edge on dem—lak razor." The speaker showed his white teeth in a flashing smile. "Dat's meanes' trick ever I play. Sapre! Dem feller cut deir mouth so fast dey mos' die of bleedin'. No, I ain't hired man for nobody. I mus' be free."

"Very well," Rouletta sighed, resignedly, "I won't scold you, for- -I'm too glad to see you." Affectionately she squeezed his arm, whereupon he beamed again in the frankest delight. "Now, then, we'll have supper and you can take me home."

The Rialto was crowded with its usual midnight throng; there was the hubbub of loud voices and the ebb and flow of laughter. From midway of the gambling-hall rose the noisy exhortations of some amateur gamester who was breathing upon his dice and pleading earnestly, feelingly, with "Little Joe"; from the theater issued the strains of a sentimental ballad. As Rouletta and her companion edged their way toward the lunch-counter in the next room they were intercepted by the Snowbird, whose nightly labors had also ended.

"All aboard for the big eats," the latter announced. "Mocha's buttoned up in a stud game where he dassen't turn his head to spit. He's good for all night, but I'm on the job."

"I'm having supper with 'Poleon," Rouletta told him.

The Snowbird paused in dismay. "Say! You can't run out on a pal," he protested. "You got to O.K. my vittles or they won't harmonize."

"But 'Poleon has just come in from the creeks and we've a lot to talk about."

"Won't it keep? I never seen talk spoil overnight." When Rouletta smilingly shook her head Mr. Ryan dangled a tempting bait before her. "I got a swell fairy-story for you. I bet you'd eat it up. It's like this: Once upon a time there was a beautiful Princess named Rouletta and she lived in an old castle all covered with ivy. It was smothered up in them vines till you'd vamp right by and never see it. Along came a busted Prince who had been spendin' his vacation and some perfectly good ten-dollar bills in the next county that you could scarcely tell from the real thing. He was takin' it afoot, on account of the jailer's daughter, who had slipped him a file along with his laundry, but she hadn't thought to put in any lunch. See? Well, it's a story of how this here hungry Prince et the greens off of the castle and discovered the sleepin' Princess. It's a knockout. I bet you'd like it."

"I'm sure I would," Rouletta agreed. "Save it for to-morrow night."

The Snowbird was reluctant in yielding; he eyed 'Poleon darkly, and there was both resentment and suspicion in his somber glance when he finally turned away.

Not until Rouletta and her companion were perched upon their high stools at the oilclothcovered lunch-counter did the latter speak; then he inquired, with a frown:

"Tell me, is any dese feller mak' love on you, ma soeur?"

"Why, no! They're perfectly splendid, like you. Why the terrible black look?"

"Gamblers! Sure-t'ing guys! Boosters! Bah! Better dey lef you alone, dat's all. You're nice gal; too nice for dem feller."

Rouletta smiled mirthlessly; there was an expression in her eyes that the woodsman had never seen. "'Too nice!' That's almost funny when you think about it. What sort of men would make love to me, if not gamblers, fellows like Ryan?"

'Poleon breathed an exclamation of astonishment at this assertion. "Wat you sayin'?" he cried. "If dat loafer mak' fresh talk wit' you I—pull him in two piece wit' dese fingers. Dere's plenty good man. I—you—" He paused uncertainly; then his tone changed to one of appeal. "You won't marry wit' nobody, eh? Promise me dat."

"That's an easy promise, under the circumstances."

"Bien! I never t'ink 'bout you gettin' married. By gosh! dat's fierce t'ing, for sure! Wat I'll do if—" 'Poleon shook his massive shoulders as if to rid himself of such unwelcome speculations.

"No danger!"

Rouletta's crooked smile did not go unnoticed. 'Poleon studied her face intently; then he inquired:

"Wat ail' you, li'l sister?"

"Why—nothing."

"Oh yes! I got eye lak fox. You seeck?"

"The idea!" Miss Kirby pulled herself together, but there was such genuine concern in her companion's face that her chin quivered. She felt the need of saying something diverting; then abruptly she turned away.

'Poleon's big hand closed over hers; in a voice too low for any but her ears he said: "Somet'ing is kill de song in your heart, ma petite. I give my life for mak' you happy. Sometam you care for tell me, mebbe I can he'p li'l bit."

The girl suddenly bowed her head; her struggling tears overflowed reluctantly; in a weary, heartsick murmur she confessed:

"I'm the most miserable girl in the world. I'm so—unhappy."

Some instinct of delicacy prompted the woodsman to refrain from speaking. In the same listless monotone Rouletta continued:

"I've always been a lucky gambler, but—the cards have turned against me. I've been playing my own stakes and I've lost."

"You been playing de bank?" he queried, in some bewilderment.

"No, a gambler never plays his own game. He always bucks the other fellow's. I've been playing—hearts."

'Poleon's grasp upon her hand tightened. "I see," he said. "Wal, bad luck is boun' to change."

In Rouletta's eyes, when she looked up, was a vision of some glory far beyond the woodsman's sight. Her lips had parted, her tears had dried. "I wonder—" she breathed. "Father's luck always turned. 'Don't weaken; be a thoroughbred!' That's what he used to tell me. He'd be ashamed of me now, wouldn't he? I've told you my troubles, 'Poleon, because you're all I have left. Forgive me, please, big brother."

"Forgive? Mon Dieu!" said he.

Their midnight meal was set out; to them it was tasteless, and neither one made more than a silent pretense of eating it. They were absorbed in their own thoughts when the sound of high voices, a commotion of some sort at the front of the saloon, attracted their attention. Rouletta's ears were the first to catch it; she turned, then uttered a breathless exclamation. The next instant she had slid down from her perch and was hurrying away. 'Poleon strode after her; he was at her back when she paused on the outskirts of a group which had assembled near the cashier's cage.

Pierce Phillips had left his post behind the scales; he, Count Courteau, and Ben Miller, the proprietor, were arguing hotly. Rock, the Police lieutenant, was listening to first one then another. The Count was deeply intoxicated; nevertheless, he managed to carry himself with something of an air, and at the moment he was making himself heard with considerable vehemence.

"I have been drinking, to be sure," he acknowledged, "but am I drunk? No. Damnation! There is the evidence." In his hand he was holding a small gold-sack, and this he shook defiantly under the officer's nose. "Do you call that eight hundred dollars? I ask you. Weigh it! Weigh it!"

Rock took the little leather bag in his fingers; then he agreed. "It's a lot short of eight hundred, for a fact, but—"

In a strong voice Phillips cried: "I don't know what he had. That's all there was in the sack when he paid his check."

The Count lurched forward, his face purple with indignation. "For shame!" he cried. "You thought I was blind. You thought I was like these other—cattle. But I know to a dollar—" He turned to the crowd. "Here! I will prove what I say. McCaskey, bear me out."

With a show of some reluctance Frank, the younger and the smaller of the two brothers, nodded to the Police lieutenant. "He's giving you the straight goods. He had eight hundred and something on him. when he went up to the cage."

Rock eyed the speaker sharply. "How do you know?" said he.

"Joe and I was with him for the last hour and a half. Ain't that right, Joe?" Joe verified this statement. "Understand, this ain't any of our doings. We don't want to mix up in it, but the Count had a thousand dollars, that much I'll swear to. He lost about a hundred and forty up the street and he bought two rounds of drinks afterward. I ain't quick at figures—"

Pierce uttered a threatening cry. He moved toward the speaker, but Rock laid a hand on his arm and in a tone of authority exclaimed: "None of that, Phillips. I'll do all the fighting."

Ben Miller, who likewise had bestirred himself to forestall violence, now spoke up. "I'm not boosting for the house," said he, "but I want more proof than this kind of chatter. Pierce has been weighing here since last fall, and nobody ever saw him go south with a color. If he split this poke he must have the stuff on him. Let Rock search you, Pierce."

Phillips agreed readily enough to this suggestion, and assisted the officer's search of his pockets, a procedure which yielded nothing.

"Dat boy's no t'ief," 'Poleon whispered to Rouletta. "M'sieu' le Comte has been frisk' by somebody." The girl did not answer. She was intently watching the little drama before her.

During the search Miller forced his way out of the ring of spectators, unlocked the gate of the cashier's cage, and passed inside. "We keep our takin's in one pile, and I'll lay a little eight to five that they'll balance up with the checks to a pennyweight," said he. "Just wait till I add up the figgers and weigh—" He paused; he stooped; then he rose with something he had picked up from the floor beneath his feet.

"What have you got, Ben?" It was Rock speaking.

"Dam' if I know! There it is." The proprietor shoved a clean, new moose-skin gold-sack through the wicket.

Rock examined the bag, then he lifted an inquiring gaze to Pierce Phillips. There was a general craning of necks, a shifting of feet, a rustle of whispers.

"Ah!" mockingly exclaimed Courteau. "I was dreaming, eh? To be sure!" He laughed disagreeably.

"Is this 'house' money?" inquired the redcoat.

Miller shook his head in some bewilderment. "We don't keep two kitties. I'll weigh it and see if it adds up with the Count's—"

"Oh, it will add up!" Phillips declared, his face even whiter than before. "It's a plant, so of course it will add up."

Defiantly he met the glances that were fixed upon him. As his eyes roved over the faces turned upon him he became conscious for the first tune of 'Poleon's and Rouletta's presence, also that Laure had somehow appeared upon the scene. The latter was watching him with a peculiar expression of hostility frozen upon her features; her dark eyes were glowing, she was sneering faintly. Of all the bystanders, perhaps the two McCaskeys seemed the least inclined to take part in the affair. Both brothers, in fact, appeared desirous of effacing themselves as effectively as possible.

But Courteau's indignation grew, and in a burst of excitement he disclaimed the guilt implied in Pierce's words. "So! You plead innocence! You imply that I robbed myself, eh? Well, how did I place the gold yonder? I ask you? Am I a magician?" He waved his arms wildly, then in a tone of malevolence he cried: "This is not the first time you have been accused of theft. I have heard that story about Sheep Camp."

"Sheep Camp, yes!" Phillips' eyes ignored the speaker; his gaze flew to Joe McCaskey's face and to him he directed his next words: "The whole thing is plain enough to me. You tried something like this once before, Joe, and failed. I suppose your back is well enough now for the rest of those forty lashes. Well, you'll get 'em—"

The Count came promptly to the rescue of his friend. "Ho! Again you lay your guilt upon others. Those miners at Sheep Camp let you off easy. Well, a pretty woman can do much with a miners' meeting, but here there will be no devoted lady to the rescue—no skirt to hide behind, for—"

Courteau got no further. Ignoring Rock's previous admonition, Pierce knocked the fellow down with a swift, clean blow. He would have followed up his attack only for the lieutenant, who grappled with him.

"Here! Do you want me to put you in irons?"

Courteau raised himself with difficulty; he groped for the bar and supported himself dizzily thereon, snarling from the pain. With his free hand he felt his cheek where Pierce's knuckles had found lodgment; then, as a fuller realization of the indignity his privileged person had suffered came home to him, he burst into a torrent of frenzied abuse.

"Shut up!" the officer growled, unsympathetically. "I know as much about that trial at Sheep Camp as you do, and if Phillips hadn't floored you I would. That's how you stand with me. You, too!" he shot at the McCaskeys. "Let me warn you if this is a frame-up you'll all go on the woodpile for the winter. D'you hear me? Of course, if you want to press this charge I'll make the arrest, but I'll just take you three fellows along so you can do some swearing before the colonel, where it'll go on the records."

"Arrest? But certainly!" screamed the Count. "The fellow is a thief, a pig. He struck me. ME! You saw him. I—"

"Sure, I saw him!" the officer grinned. "I was afraid he'd miss you. Stop yelling and come along." With a nod that included the McCaskeys as well as the titled speaker he linked arms with Pierce Phillips and led the way out into the night.

"W'at fool biznesse!" Doret indignantly exclaimed. "Dat boy is hones' as church."

He looked down at the sound of Rouletta's voice; then he started. The girl's face was strained and white and miserable; her hands were clasped over her bosom; she was staring horrified at the door through which Phillips had been taken. She swayed as if about to fall. 'Poleon half dragged, half carried her out into the street; with his arm about her waist he helped her toward her hotel.

The walk was a silent one, for Rouletta was in a state bordering upon collapse; gradually she regained control of herself and stumbled along beside him.

"They're three to one," she said, finally. "Oh, 'Poleon! They'll swear it on him. The Police are strict; they'll give him five years. I heard the colonel say so."

"Dere's been good deal of short-weighin', but—" Doret shook his head. "Nobody goin' believe Courteau. And McCaskey is dam' t'ief."

"If—only I—could help him. You'll go to him, 'Poleon, won't you? Promise."

Silently the Canadian assented. They had reached the door of the hotel before he spoke again; then he said slowly, quietly:

"You been playin' 'hearts' wit' HIM, ma soeur? You—you love him? Yes?"

"Oh—yes!" The confession came in a miserable gasp.

"Bien! I never s'pect biff ore. Wal, dat's all right."

"The Police are swift and merciless," Rouletta persisted, fearfully. "They hate the Front Street crowd; they'd like to make an example."

"Go in your li'l bed an' sleep," he told her, gently. "Dis t'ing is comin' out all right. 'Poleon fix it, sure; he's dandy fixer."

For some time after the door had closed upon Rouletta the big fellow stood with bent head, staring at the snow beneath his feet. The cheer, the sympathy, had left his face; the smile had vanished from his lips; his features were set and stony. With an effort he shook himself, then, murmured:

"Poor li'l bird! Wal, I s'pose now I got to bus' dat jail!"



CHAPTER XXIV

Although 'Poleon had spoken with confidence, he found, upon arriving at Police Headquarters, that the situation was by no means as simple as it had appeared, and that something more than a mere word regarding Phillips' character would be required to offset the very definite accusation against him. Courteau, he learned, had pressed his charge with vigor, and although the two McCaskeys had maintained their outward show of reluctance at being dragged into the affair, they had, nevertheless, substantiated his statements with a thoroughness and a detail that hinted more than a little at vindictiveness. Pierce, of course, had denied his guilt, but his total inability to explain how the gold-dust in dispute came to be concealed in the cashier's cage, to which no one but he had access, had left the Police no alternative except to hold him. By the time 'Poleon arrived Pierce had been locked up for the night.

Drawing Rock aside, Doret put in an earnest plea for his young friend. The lieutenant answered him with some impatience:

"I admit it looks fishy, but what is there to do? The colonel likes Pierce, as we all do, but—he had no choice."

"It's dirty frame-up."

"I imagine he believes so. And yet—how the deuce did that sack get where it was? I was standing alongside the McCaskeys when Courteau went up to pay his check, and I'm sure they had no part in it."

"M'sieu' le Comte is sore," 'Poleon asserted. "Me, I savvy plenty. Wal, how we goin' get dat boy from out of jail, eh? By Gar! I bet I don' sleep none if I'm lock up."

"Get bail for him."

'Poleon was frankly puzzled at this suggestion, but when its nature had been explained his face lit up.

"Ho! Dat's nice arrangements, for sure. Come! I fix it now."

"Have you got enough money?"

"I got 'bout t'irty dollar, but dat ain't mak' no differ. I go to workin' somewhere. Me, I'm good for anyt'ing."

"That won't do," Rock smiled. "You don't understand." Laboriously he made more plain the mysteries of court procedure, whereupon his hearer expressed the frankest astonishment.

"Sacre!" the latter exclaimed. "What for you say two, free T'OUSAN' dollar? Courteau 'ain't lose but six hundred, an' he's got it back. No! I'm t'inkin' you Policemans is got good sense, but I lak better a miners' meetin'. Us 'sour-dough' mak' better law as dem feller at Ottawa."

"Morris Best was willing to go his bail," Rock informed him, "but Miller wouldn't allow it. Ben is sore at having the Rialto implicated—there's been so much short-weighing going on. Understand?"

'Poleon wagged his head in bewilderment. "I don' savvy dis new kin' of law you feller is bring in de country. S'pose I say, 'M'sieu' Jodge, I know dis boy long tam; he don' steal dat gold.' De Jodge he say, 'Doret, how much money you got? T'ousand dollar?' I say, 'Sure! I got 'bout t'ousand dollar.' Den he tell me, 'Wal, dat ain't 'nough. Mebbe so you better gimme two t'ousan' dollar biffore I b'lieve you.' Bien! I go down-town an' win 'noder t'ousan' on de high card, or mebbe so I stick up some feller, den I come back and m'sieu' le jodge he say: 'Dat's fine! Now we let Phillips go home. He don' steal not'in'.' Wat I t'ink of dem proceedin's? Eh? I t'ink de jodge is dam' grafter!"

Rock laughed heartily. "Don't let Colonel Cavendish hear you," he cautioned. "Seriously now, he'd let Pierce go if he could; he told me so. He'll undoubtedly allow him the freedom of the Barracks, so he'll really be on parole until his trial."

"Trial? You goin' try him again?" The woodsman could make little of the affair. "If you try him two tam, dose crook is mak' t'ief of Pierce for sure. One trial is plenty. I s'pose mebbe I better kill dem feller off an' settle dis t'ing."

"Don't talk like that," Rock told him. "I'm not saying they don't need killing, but—nobody gets away with that stuff nowadays."

"No?" 'Poleon was interested and a trifle defiant. "For why? You never catch me, M'sieu'. Nobody is able for doin' dat. I'm good traveler."

Rock eyed the stalwart speaker meditatively. "I'd hate to take your trail, that's a fact, but I'd have to do it. However, that would be a poor way to help Pierce. If he's really innocent, Courteau will have a hard job to convict him. I suggest that you let matters rest as they are for a day or so. We'll treat the kid all right."

On the way to her room Rouletta met the Countess Courteau, and in a few words made known the facts of Pierce's arrest. The elder woman listened in astonishment.

"Arrested? For theft? Absurd! Who made the charge?"

"Count Courteau."

"COURTEAU? Where did he get a thousand dollars?" The speaker's face was set in an expression of utter incredulity.

"I don't know. It's all too wretched, too terrible—" Rouletta's voice broke; she hid her face in her hands. For a moment there was silence; then the elder woman exclaimed, harshly, peremptorily:

"Tell me everything. Quick! There's a reason why I must know all about it."

Drawing Rouletta into her room, she forced her into a chair, then stood over her while the latter repeated the story in greater detail.

"So! That's it!" the Countess cried, at last. "The McCaskeys backed him up. Of course! And he referred to Sheep Camp—to me. He's the sort to do a thing like that. God! What a dog!" After a time she went on: "I'm sorry Pierce struck him; he'll never get over that and it will make it harder—much harder."

"You think it can be straightened out?" Rouletta s face was strained; her eyes searched the former speaker's face eagerly.

"It's GOT to be straightened out. It would be monstrous to allow— " The Countess shook her head, then, with a mirthless smile, exclaimed: "But what a situation! Henri, of all persons! It's pleasant for me, isn't it? Well, somebody planted that poke— probably one of the McCaskeys. They'd like to railroad the boy. Joe is as vindictive as an Indian and he blames Pierce and me for his brother's death."

In desperation Rouletta cried: "I'll pay the Count back his money- -I'll double it."

"HIS money?" sneered the woman. "He hasn't a cent, except what I give him. That was McCaskey's dust." She stared at the apprehensive figure crouched upon the edge of the chair, and slowly her expression softened. In a gentler tone she said, "I see you didn't take my advice; you didn't heed my warning."

"Who ever heeds a warning like yours?"

"Does Pierce know that you—feel this way about him?"

Rouletta sighed wearily. "I didn't know myself, although I more than half suspected. I didn't permit myself to think, it made me so unhappy."

"It ought to satisfy me somewhat to learn that he doesn't care for you, but—somehow it doesn't. He didn't care for me, either. But I cared for him. I love him now, just as you love him—better, probably. Oh, why conceal it? I've spent a good many black hours thinking about it and trying to fight it. Mind you, it wasn't his fault; it was just fate. There are some fellows who go smiling and singing along through life—clean, decent fellows, too—attending to their own affairs in a perfectly proper manner, but leaving a trail of havoc behind them. It isn't so true of women—they're usually flirts—their smiles don't last and the echo of their songs dies out. He's perfectly impossible for me. I wouldn't marry him if I were free and if he asked me. But that has nothing whatever to do with the case."

"I had no idea!" Rouletta said. "I suppose there's no hope for me, either. I'm not his kind. He's told me about his life, his people. I wouldn't fit in."

"It isn't that—people are adaptable, they make themselves fit, for a while at least—it's a question of identities. As much a matter of family histories as anything else. You're his antithesis in every respect and—like should mate with like. Now then, about this other trouble. I must work in my own way, and I see but one. I'll have to pay high, but—" The speaker lifted her shoulders as if a cold wind had chilled her. "I've paid high, up to date, and I suppose I shall to the end. Meanwhile, if you can get him out of jail, do so by all means. I can't. I daren't even try."

When, at a late hour, Count Henri Courteau entered the establishment that bore his name he was both surprised and angered to find his wife still awake. The guests of the hotel were asleep, the place was quiet, but the Countess was reading in an easy-chair beside the office stove. She was in negligee, her feet were resting upon the stove fender. She turned her head to say:

"Well, Henri, you look better than I thought you would."

The Count passed a caressing hand over his swollen cheek and his discolored left eye. "You heard about the fight, eh?" he inquired, thickly.

"Yes—if you'd call it that."

Courteau grimaced, but there was a ring of triumph and of satisfaction in his voice when he cried:

"Well, what do you think of that fellow? It was like him, wasn't it, after I had caught him red-handed?"

"To punch you? Quite like him," agreed the woman.

"Pig! To strike a defenseless man. Without warning, too. It shows his breeding. And now"—the speaker sneered openly—"I suppose you will bail him out."

"Indeed! Why should I?"

"Oh, don't pretend innocence!" the Count stormed. "Don't act so unconcerned. What's your game, anyhow? Whatever it is, that fellow will cut cord-wood for the rest of the winter where the whole of Dawson can see him and say, 'Behold the lover of the Countess Courteau!'"

"There's some mistake. He isn't a thief."

"No?" The husband swayed a few steps closer, his face working disagreeably. "Already it is proved. He is exposed, ruined. Bah! He made of me a laughing-stock. Well, he shall suffer! A born thief, that's what he is. What have you to say?"

"Why—nothing. I hoped it was a mistake, that's all."

"You HOPED! To be sure!" sneered the speaker. "Well, what are you going to do about it?" When his wife said nothing the man muttered, in some astonishment: "I didn't expect you to take it so quietly. I was prepared for a scene. What ails you?"

Hilda laid down her book. She turned to face her accuser. "Why should I make a scene?" she asked. "I've had nothing to do with Phillips since we parted company at White Horse. I've scarcely spoken to him, and you know it."

"You don't deny there was something between you?"

The woman shrugged non-committally, her lips parted in a faint, cheerless smile. "I deny nothing. I admit nothing."

Although Courteau's brain was fogged, he experienced a growing surprise at the self-possession with which his wife had taken this blow which he had aimed as much at her as at Pierce Phillips; he studied her intently, a mingling of suspicion, of anger, and of admiration in his uncertain gaze. He saw, for one thing, that his effort to reach her had failed and that she remained completely the mistress of herself. She reclined at ease in her comfortable chair, quite unstirred by his derision, his jubilation. He became aware, also, of the fact that she presented an extremely attractive picture, for the soft white fur of the loose robe she wore exposed an alluring glimpse of snowy throat and bosom; one wide sleeve had fallen back, showing a smoothly rounded arm; her silken ankles, lifted to the cozy warmth of the stove, were small and trim; her feet were shod in neat high-heeled slippers. The Count admired neatly shod ladies.