Despite his tremendous virility, Malemute Kid was possessed of a softer, womanly element, which could win the confidence of a snarling wolf-dog or draw confessions from the most wintry heart.  Nor did he seek them.  Hearts opened to him as spontaneously as flowers to the sun.  Even the priest, Father Roubeau, had been known to confess to him, while the men and women of the Northland were ever knocking at his door—­a door from which the latch-string hung always out.  To Madeline, he could do no wrong, make no mistake.  She had known him from the time she first cast her lot among the people of her father’s race; and to her half-barbaric mind it seemed that in him was centered the wisdom of the ages, that between his vision and the future there could be no intervening veil.

There were false ideals in the land.  The social strictures of Dawson were not synonymous with those of the previous era, and the swift maturity of the Northland involved much wrong.  Malemute Kid was aware of this, and he had Cal Galbraith’s measure accurately.

He knew a hasty word was the father of much evil; besides, he was minded to teach a great lesson and bring shame upon the man.  So Stanley Prince, the young mining expert, was called into the conference the following night as was also Lucky Jack Harrington and his violin.  That same night, Bettles, who owed a great debt to Malemute Kid, harnessed up Cal Galbraith’s dogs, lashed Cal Galbraith, Junior, to the sled, and slipped away in the dark for Stuart River.

II

’So; one—­two—­three, one—­two—­three.  Now reverse!  No, no!  Start up again, Jack.  See—­this way.’  Prince executed the movement as one should who has led the cotillion.

’Now; one—­two—­three, one—­two—­three.  Reverse!  Ah! that’s better.  Try it again.  I say, you know, you mustn’t look at your feet.  One—­two—­three, one—­two—­three.  Shorter steps!  You are not hanging to the gee-pole just now.  Try it over.

‘There! that’s the way.  One—­two—­three, one—­two—­three.’  Round and round went Prince and Madeline in an interminable waltz.  The table and stools had been shoved over against the wall to increase the room.  Malemute Kid sat on the bunk, chin to knees, greatly interested.  Jack Harrington sat beside him, scraping away on his violin and following the dancers.

It was a unique situation, the undertaking of these three men with the woman.

The most pathetic part, perhaps, was the businesslike way in which they went about it.

No athlete was ever trained more rigidly for a coming contest, nor wolf-dog for the harness, than was she.  But they had good material, for Madeline, unlike most women of her race, in her childhood had escaped the carrying of heavy burdens and the toil of the trail.  Besides, she was a clean-limbed, willowy creature, possessed of much grace which had not hitherto been realized.  It was this grace which the men strove to bring out and knock into shape.