'An even two days ahead. Are you after them?' 'Yes; my team. Run
them off under my very nose, the cusses. I've gained two days on
them already--pick them up on the next run.' 'Reckon they'll show
spunk?' asked Belden, in order to keep up the conversation, for
Malemute Kid already had the coffeepot on and was busily frying
bacon and moose meat.
The stranger significantly tapped his revolvers.
'When'd yeh leave Dawson?' 'Twelve o'clock.' 'Last night?'--as a
matter of course.
'Today.' A murmur of surprise passed round the circle. And well
it might; for it was just midnight, and seventy-five miles of
rough river trail was not to be sneered at for a twelve hours'
run.
The talk soon became impersonal, however, harking back to the
trails of childhood. As the young stranger ate of the rude fare
Malemute Kid attentively studied his face. Nor was he long in
deciding that it was fair, honest, and open, and that he liked
it. Still youthful, the lines had been firmly traced by toil and
hardship.
Though genial in conversation, and mild when at rest, the blue
eyes gave promise of the hard steel-glitter which comes when
called into action, especially against odds.
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