As they breasted the swirling snowflakes Doret told himself that, pending Sam Kirby’s return to sanity, this sick girl needed a woman’s care quite as much as a doctor’s; naturally his thoughts turned to the Countess Courteau.  Of all the women in White Horse, the Countess alone was qualified to assume charge of an innocent child like this, and he determined to call upon her as soon as he had summoned medical assistance.

When, without protest, Rouletta followed him into his snug living-quarters, Doret thought again of the ruffian from whom he had rescued her and again he breathed a malediction.  The more fully he became aware of the girl’s utter helplessness the angrier he grew, and the more criminal appeared her father’s conduct.  White Horse made no pretense at morality; it was but a relay station, a breathing-point where the mad rush to the Klondike paused; there was neither law nor order here; the women who passed through were, for the most part, shameless creatures; the majority of the men were unruly, unresponsive to anything except an appeal to their animal appetites.  Sympathy, consideration, chivalry had all but vanished in the heat of the great stampede.  That Sam Kirby should have abandoned his daughter to such as these was incredible, criminal.  Mere intoxication did not excuse it, and ’Poleon vowed he would give the old man a piece of his mind at the first opportunity.

His tent was still warm; a few sticks of dry spruce caused the little stove to grow red; he helped Rouletta to lie down upon his bed, then he drew his blankets over her.

“You stay here li’l while, eh?” He rested a comforting hand upon her shoulder. “‘Poleon goin’ find your papa now.  Bimeby you goin’ feel better.”

He was not sure that she understood him, for she continued to mutter under her breath and began to roll her head as if in pain.  Then he summoned all the persuasiveness he could.  “Dere now, you’re safe in ‘Poleon’s house; he mak’ you well dam’ queeck.”

A good many people were stirring when the pilot climbed once more to the stumpy clearing where the village stood, and whomsoever he met he questioned regarding Sam Kirby; it did not take him long to discover the latter’s whereabouts.  But ’Poleon’s delay, brief as it had been, bore tragic consequences.  Had he been a moment or two earlier he might have averted a catastrophe of far-reaching effect, one that had a bearing upon many lives.

The Gold Belt Saloon had enjoyed a profitable all-night patronage; less than an hour previously Morris Best had rounded up the last of his gay song-birds and put an end to their carnival.  The poker game, however, was still in progress at the big round table.  Already numerous early risers were hurrying in to fortify themselves against the raw day just breaking, and among these last-named, by some evil whim of fate, chanced to be the man for whom Sam Kirby had so patiently waited.  The fellow had not come seeking trouble—­no one who knew the one-armed gambler’s reputation sought trouble with him—­but, learning that Kirby was still awake and in a dangerous mood, he had entered the Gold Belt determined to protect himself in case of eventualities.