got his men, as usual, but only after a desperate affray in which Frank McCaskey had fallen and the officer himself had been wounded—­so ran the first account.  Those who had gone as far as the Barracks returned with a fanciful tale of a siege in the snow and of Rock’s single-handed conquest of the two fugitives.  These conflicting reports were confusing and served to set the town so completely agog that it awaited fuller details with the most feverish impatience.  One thing only was certain—­the lieutenant had again made himself a hero; he had put a new feather in his cap.  Men lifted glasses to him and to the Force.  Such efficiency as this commanded their deepest respect and admiration.

Pierce Phillips, of course, was the most eager member of that welcoming throng.  At the earliest moment he bore ’Poleon away to his cabin, and there, when the last morbid curiosity-seeker had been shaken off and the dogs had been attended to, he heard the story.

“You don’ got no more worry,” ’Poleon told him, with a smile.  “Joe keel’ de Count.”

“He confessed?  Really?”

“Rouletta figger’ it out jus’ right.  By golly!  Dat’s de smartes’ gal!”

“She is indeed.  But Frank?  What happened?  How did you manage—?”

’Poleon hesitated.  There was a reason why he did not wish the details of that affair on the upper Forty Mile to become public.  Joe McCaskey was beginning to talk loudly about his outraged rights, his citizenship, international law, and such incomprehensible things—­but stronger by far than any fear of consequences to himself, remote at best, ’Poleon felt a desire to help his friend, the Police lieutenant.  Rock was deeply humiliated at his weak failure in living up to his reputation; he felt that he had cut a very sorry figure indeed; and, although he had undertaken to conceal that feeling from ’Poleon, the latter had read him like a book and had secretly made up his mind to give full credit to the officer, eliminating himself as much as possible.  There was no reason why the actual facts should be made public, so far as he could see, and, once an artfully colored account of the exploit had gained currency, Rock could not well contradict it.  He might, undoubtedly would, make a truthful report to his superiors, but ’Poleon determined that in the eyes of the hero-worshiping people of Dawson the fellow should still remain a hero and stand for one hundred per cent. efficiency.  That was quite as it should be.

It was not difficult to distort the story enough to reverse the roles he and the officer had played, and, when he had finished, Pierce was loud in his praise of the Mounted Policeman.