Those who had set out thus late met excited travelers hastening townward, and from them obtained confirmation.  Yes, the story was true, more than true!  The half had not been told as yet.  Gold lay under the grass roots where anybody could see it; it was more plentiful than in the creeks—­this was the richest thing ever known.  “Frenchman’s Hill,” the discovery had been named, but all the ground for miles round about had been already staked and now men were going even further afield.  It was well to hurry.

A frenzy took possession of the hearers, and they pressed on more rapidly.  This was like the rush of the autumn previous, from Dyea to the Chilkoot, only here dogs flew under snapping lashes; pedestrians, when shouldered aside, abandoned their burdens and sacrificed all to speed.  At the Forks the new arrivals scattered up over the hills, and that night road-houses, cabins, tents, were crowded; men slept on chairs, on floors; they stood around open fires.

Dawson awoke, on the second morning, to behold a long queue of fur-clad miners waiting outside the Gold Commissioner’s office; the town took on an electric liveliness.  This signified big things; it gave permanence; it meant that Dawson was to be the world’s first placer camp.  Business picked up, the saloons became thronged, on every corner knots of gossiping men assembled.  There began a considerable speculation in claims on Frenchman’s Hill; merchants planned larger stocks for the next season; the price of town lots doubled.

Late that afternoon through the streets ran a cry that took every foot-free man hurrying to the river-front.  “Rock was coming!” In a jiffy the vantage-points were crowded.  Sure enough, far down the Yukon two teams were approaching; with the smoke of Dawson in their nostrils they were coming on the run, and soon the more keen-eyed spectators announced that they could make out ’Poleon Doret.  The lieutenant himself, however, was not in evidence.  Instantly speculation became rife.  Here was a sensation indeed, and when the second runner was identified beyond question as Joe McCaskey, excitement doubled.  Where was Rock?  Where was the other fugitive?  What, in the name of all that was unexpected, had occurred?

A shout of relief issued from the crowd when the teams drew in under the bank and Rock sat up, waving a mittened hand; the shout was quickly hushed as the lookers-on saw what sort of burden Joe McCaskey was driving.

Up into the main street came the cavalcade.  The crowd fell in alongside and ran with it to the Barracks, clamoring for details, pouring questions upon the returning travelers.  Joe McCaskey, of course, was speechless, this ordeal proving, as a matter of fact, scarcely less trying than that other one at Sheep Camp when he had run the gauntlet.  As for Rock and the French Canadian, neither had much to say, and as a result sensational stories soon spread through the resorts.  The Mounted Policeman had