The door was flung open, and a man, clad in the scarlet
tunic of the Northwest Police, waded knee-deep among the furious
brutes, calmly and impartially dispensing soothing justice with
the butt 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 frankly
forth, clear-eyed and steady.
They drove the dogs of the Queen, wrought fear in the hearts of
her enemies, ate of her meager 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 sprawled upon
Malemute Kid's bunk, singing chansons which their French
forebears sang in the days when first they entered the Northwest
land and mated with its Indian women.
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