The sleds were singing their eternal to the creaking of the harness and the bells of the leaders; but the men and dogs were tired and made no sound. The trail was heavy with new-fallen snow, and they had come far, and the runners, burdened with flint-like quarters of frozen moose, clung to the surface and held back with a stubbornness almost human.  
Darkness was coming on, but there was no camp to pitch that night. The snow fell gently through the pulseless air, not in , but in tiny frost crystals of delicate design. It was very warm—barely ten below zero—and the men did not mind. Meyers and Bettles had raised their ear flaps, while Malemute Kid had even taken off his .
 
The dogs had been fagged out early in the after noon, but they now began to show new . Among the more there was a certain restlessness—an at the restraint of the traces, an indecisive quickness of movement, a of snouts and of ears. These became at their more brothers, urging them on with numerous sly nips on their hinder quarters. Those, thus chidden, also contracted and helped spread the . At last the leader of the foremost sled uttered a sharp of satisfaction, lower in the snow and throwing himself against the collar. The rest followed suit.
 
There was an ingathering of back hands, a of traces; the sleds leaped forward, and the men clung to the poles, violently accelerating the uplift of their feet that they might escape going under the runners. The weariness of the day fell from them, and they encouragement to the dogs. The animals responded with . They were swinging through the darkness at a .
 
'Gee! Gee!' the men cried, each in turn, as their sleds left the main trail, heeling over on single runners like luggers on the wind.
 
Then came a hundred yards' dash to the lighted parchment window, which told its own story of the home cabin, the roaring Yukon stove, and the steaming pots of tea. But the home cabin had been invaded. Threescore huskies chorused , and as many forms themselves upon the dogs which drew the first sled. The door was flung open, and a man, clad in the of the Northwest Police, knee-deep among the furious , calmly and justice with the end of a dog whip. After that the men shook hands; and in this wise was Malemute Kid welcomed to his own cabin by a stranger.
 
Stanley Prince, who should have welcomed him, and who was responsible for the Yukon stove and hot tea aforementioned, was busy with his guests. There were a dozen or so of them, as nondescript a crowd as ever served the Queen in the enforcement of her laws or the delivery of her mails. They were of many breeds, but their common life had formed of them a certain type—a lean and wiry type, with trail-hardened muscles, and sun-browned faces, and untroubled souls which gazed , clear-eyed and steady.
 
They drove the dogs of the Queen, fear in the hearts of her enemies, ate of her fare, and were happy. They had seen life, and done deeds, and lived romances; but they did not know it.
 
And they were very much at home. Two of them were upon Malemute Kid's , singing chansons which their French forebears sang in the days when first they entered the Northwest land and mated with its Indian women. Bettles' bunk had suffered a similar invasion, and three or four lusty voyageurs worked their toes among its blankets as they listened to the tale of one who had served on the boat brigade with Wolseley when he fought his way to Khartoum.
 
And when he tired, a cowboy told of courts and kings and lords and ladies he had seen when Bill toured the capitals of Europe. In a corner two half-breeds, ancient comrades in a lost campaign, mended harnesses and talked of the days when the Northwest flamed with insurrection and Louis Riel was king.
 
Rough jests and rougher jokes went up and down, and great hazards by trail and river were spoken of in the light of commonplaces, only to be recalled by of some grain of humor or ludicrous happening. Prince was led away by these uncrowned heroes who had seen history made, who regarded the great and the romantic as but the ordinary and the incidental in the routine of life. He passed his precious tobacco among them with disregard, and chains of reminiscence were loosened, and forgotten resurrected for his especial benefit.
 
When conversation dropped and the travelers filled the last pipes and their tight-rolled sleeping furs. Prince fell back upon his comrade for further information.
 
'Well, you know what the cowboy is,' Malemute Kid answered, beginning to unlace his moccasins; 'and it's not hard to guess the British blood in his bed partner. As for the rest, they're all children of the coureurs du bois, with God knows how many other bloods. The two turning in by the door are the regulation 'breeds' or Boisbrules. That lad with the worsted breech scarf—notice his and the turn of his —shows a Scotchman wept in his mother's smoky tepee. And that handsome looking fellow putting the capote under his head is a French half-breed—you heard him talking; he doesn't like the two Indians turning in next to him. You see, when the 'breeds' rose under the Riel the full-bloods kept the peace, and they've not lost much love for one another since.' 'But I say, what's that glum-looking fellow by the stove? I'll swear he can't talk English. He hasn't opened his mouth all night.' 'You're wrong. He knows English well enough. Did you follow his eyes when he listened? I did. But he's neither kith nor to the others. When they talked their own you could see he didn't understand. I've been wondering myself what he is. Let's find out.' 'Fire a couple of sticks into the stove!'
 
Malemute Kid commanded, raising his voice and looking squarely at the man in question.
 
He obeyed at once.
 
'Had discipline knocked into him somewhere.' Prince commented in a low tone.
 
Malemute Kid nodded, took off his socks, and picked his way among recumbent men to the stove. There he hung his damp footgear among a score or so of mates.
 
'When do you expect to get to Dawson?' he asked tentatively.
 
The man studied him a moment before replying. 'They say seventy-five mile. So? Maybe two days.' The very slightest accent was perceptible, while there was no awkward hesitancy or groping for words.
 
'Been in the country before?' 'No.' 'Northwest Territory?' 'Yes.' 'Born there?' 'No.'
 
'Well, where the devil were you born? You're none of these.' Malemute Kid swept his hand over the dog drivers, even including the two policemen who had turned into Prince's bunk. 'Where did you come from? I've seen faces like yours before, though I can't remember just where.' 'I know you,' he replied, at once turning the drift of Malemute Kid's questions.
 
'Where? Ever see me?' 'No; your partner, him priest, Pastilik, long time ago. Him ask me if I see you, Malemute Kid. Him give me grub. I no stop long. You hear him speak ' me?' 'Oh! you're the fellow that traded the skins for the dogs?' The man nodded, knocked out his pipe, and signified his disinclination for conversation by rolling up in his furs. Malemute Kid blew out the slush lamp and crawled under the blankets with Prince.
 
'Well, what is he?' 'Don't know—turned me off, somehow, and then shut up like a .
 
'But he's a fellow to your curiosity. I've heard of him. All the coast wondered about him eight years ago. Sort of mysterious, you know. He came down out of the North in the dead of winter, many a thousand miles from here, skirting Bering Sea and traveling as though the devil were after him. No one ever learned where he came from, but he must have come far. He was badly travel-worn when he got food from the Swedish on Golovin Bay and asked the way south. We heard of all this . Then he abandoned the shore line, heading right across Norton Sound. Terrible weather, snowstorms and high winds, but he pulled through where a thousand other men would have died, missing St. Michaels and making the land at Pastilik. He'd lost all but two dogs, and was nearly gone with starvation.
 
'He was so anxious to go on that Father Roubeau fitted him out with grub; but he couldn't let him have any dogs, for he was only waiting my arrival, to go on a trip himself. Mr. Ulysses knew too much to start on without animals, and around for several days. He had on his sled a bunch of beautifully cured otter skins, sea , you know, worth their weight in gold. There was also at Pastilik an old Shylock of a Russian trader, who had dogs to kill. Well, they didn't dicker very long, but when the Strange One headed south again, it was in the rear of a dog team. Mr. Shylock, by the way, had the otter skins. I saw them, and they were magnificent. We figured it up and found the dogs brought him at least five hundred apiece. And it wasn't as if the Strange One didn't know the value of sea otter; he was an Indian of some sort, and what little he talked showed he'd been among white men.
 
'After the ice passed out of the sea, word came up from Nunivak Island that he'd gone in there for grub. Then he dropped from sight, and this is the first heard of him in eight years. Now where did he come from? and what was he doing there? and why did he come from there? He's Indian, he's been nobody knows where, and he's had discipline, which is unusual for an Indian. Another mystery of the North for you to solve, Prince.' 'Thanks , but I've got too many on hand as it is,' he replied.
 
Malemute Kid was already breathing heavily; but the young mining engineer gazed straight up through the thick darkness, waiting for the strange orgasm which stirred his blood to die away. And when he did sleep, his brain worked on, and for the nonce he, too, wandered through the white unknown, struggled w............