“So?” ’Poleon was puzzled.

“I’m not going ‘outside.’  I’m going to Dawson.  ’Be a thoroughbred.  Don’t weaken.’  That’s what he always said.  Sam Kirby followed the frontier and he made his money there.  Well, I’m his girl, his blood is in me.  I’m going through.”

’Poleon’s brow was furrowed in deep thought; it cleared slowly.  “Dawson she’s bad city, but you’re brave li’l gal and—­badness is here,” he tapped his chest with a huge forefinger.  “So long de heart she’s pure, not’in’ goin’ touch you.”  He nodded in better agreement with Rouletta’s decision.  “Mebbe so you’re right.  For me, I’m glad, very glad, for I t’ink my bird is goin’ spread her wing’ an’ fly away south lak all de res’, but now—­bien!  I’m satisfy!  We go to Dawson.”

“Your work is here,” the girl protested.  “I can’t take you away from it.”

“Fonny t’ing ’bout work,” ’Poleon said, with a grin.  “Plenty tam I try to run away from him, but always he catch up wit’ me.”

“You’re a poor man.  I can’t let you sacrifice too much.”

“Poor?” The pilot opened his eyes in amazement.  “Mon Dieu!  I’m reech feller.  Anybody is reech so long he’s well an’ happy.  Mebbe I sell my claim.”

“Your claim?  Have you a claim?  At Dawson?”

The man nodded indifferently.  “I stake him las’ winter.  He’s pretty claim to look at—­plenty snow, nice tree for cabin, dry wood, everyt’ing but gold.  Mebbe I sell him for beeg price.”

“Why doesn’t it have any gold?” Rouletta was genuinely curious.

“Why?  Biccause I stake him,” ’Poleon laughed heartily.  “Dose claim I stake dey never has so much gold you can see wit’ your eye.  Not one, an’ I stake t’ousan’.  Me, I hear dose man talk ’bout million dollar; I’m drinkin’ heavy so I t’ink I be millionaire, too.  But bimeby I’m sober ag’in an’ my money she’s gone.  I’m res’less feller; I don’ stop long no place.”

“What makes you think it’s a poor claim?”

’Poleon shrugged.  “All my claim is poor.  Me, I’m onlucky.  Mebbe so I don’ care enough for bein’ reech.  W’at I’ll do wit’ pile of money, eh?  Drink him up?  Gamble?  Dat’s fun for while.  Every spring I sell my fur an’ have beeg tam; two weeks I’m drunk, but—­dat’s plenty.  Any feller dat’s drunk more ’n two weeks is bum.  No!” He shook his head and exposed his white teeth in a flashing smile.  “I’m cut off for poor man.  I mak’ beeg soccess of dat.”

Rouletta studied the speaker silently for a moment.  “I know.”  She nodded her complete understanding of his type.  “Well, I’m not going to let you do that any more.”

“I don’ hurt nobody,” he protested.  “I sing plenty song an’ fight li’l bit.  A man mus’ got some fun.”  “Won’t you promise—­for my sake?”

’Poleon gave in after some hesitation; reluctantly he agreed.  “Eh bien!  Mos’ anyt’ing I promise for you, ma soeur.  But—­she’s goin’ be mighty poor trip for me.  S’pose mebbe I forget dose promise?”