Rouletta came hurrying forth with the others, and to her ’Poleon made known his intention of accompanying the fleet-footed Rock.

“Nobody is able to catch dem feller but him an’ me,” he explained.  “Dey got too long start.”

“You think they may get across?” she queried, apprehensively.

“Five, six hour, dat’s beeg edge.  But me—­” The speaker shrugged.  “Forty Mile, Circle, Fort Yukon, Rampart, it mak’ no differ.  I get ‘em some place, if I go plumb to St. Michael’s.  When I get goin’ fas’ it tak’ me long tam for run down.”

Rouletta’s eyes opened.  “But, ’Poleon—­you can’t!  There’s the Boundary.  You’re not an officer; you have no warrant.”

“Dem t’ing is dam’ nuisance,” he declared.  “I don’ savvy dis law biznesse.  You say get ’em.  Bien!  I do it.”

Rouletta stared curiously, wonderingly into the big fellow’s face; she was about to put her thoughts into words when a shout arose from the crowd as the Police team streamed into view.  Down the street it came at a great pace, flashing through shadows and past glaring lighted fronts, snatching the light hickory sled along behind as if it were a thing of paper.  Rock balanced himself upon the runner heels until, with a shout, he put his weight upon the sharp-toothed sled brake and came to a pause near ’Poleon.  The rival teams plunged into their collars and set up a pandemonium of yelping, but willing hands held them from flying at one another’s throats.  Meanwhile, saloon doors were opening, the street was filling; dance-hall girls, white-aproned bartenders, bleary-eyed pedestrians, night-owls—­all the queerly assorted devotees of Dawson’s vivid and roisterous nocturnal life hastened thither; even the second-story windows framed heads, for this clamor put slumber to flight without delay.

The wind was no longer strong, and already a clearing sky was evidenced by an occasional winking star; nevertheless, it was bitterly cold and those who were not heavily clad were forced to stamp their feet and to whip their arms in order to keep their blood in motion.

Nothing is more exciting, more ominous, than a man-hunt; doubly portentous was this one, the hasty preparations for which went forward in the dead of night.  Dawson had seen the start of more than one race for the Boundary and had awaited the outcome with breathless interest.  Most of the fugitives overtaken had walked back into town, spent, famished, frost-blackened, but there were some who had returned on their backs, wrapped in robe or canvas and offering mute testimony to the speedy and relentless efficiency of the men from the Barracks.  Of that small picked corps Lieutenant Rock was by long odds the favorite.  Now, therefore, he was the center of attention, and wagers were laid that he would catch his men, however rapidly they traveled, however great their start.  Only a few old-timers—­“sour-doughs” from the distant reaches of the Yukon—­knew ’Poleon Doret, but those few drew close to him and gave the lieutenant little notice.  This French Canadian they regarded as the most tireless traveler in all the North; about him, therefore, they assembled, and to him they addressed their questions and offered their advice.