When it came tune to hear the defense, the McCaskeys stared at Pierce coolly; therefore he climbed to the tent platform and faced his accusers.

He made known his name, his birthplace, the ship which had borne him north.  He told how he had landed at Dyea, how he had lost his last dollar at the gambling-table, how he had appealed to the McCaskey boys, and how they had given him shelter.  That chance association, he took pains to explain, had continued, but had never ripened into anything more, anything closer; it was in no wise a partnership; he had nothing to do with them and they had nothing to do with him.  Inasmuch as the rice had been stolen during the previous night, he argued that he could have had no hand in the theft, for he had spent the night in Linderman, which fact he offered to prove by two witnesses.

“Produce them,” ordered the chairman.

“One of them is still at Linderman, the other was here in Sheep Camp an hour ago.  She has probably started for Dyea by this time.”

“A woman?”

“Yes, sir.  I brought her across.”

“What is her name?”

Phillips hesitated.  “The Countess Courteau,” said he.  There was a murmur of interest; the members of the committee conferred with one an other.

“Do you mean to tell us that you’ve got a titled witness?” the self-appointed spokesman inquired.  His face wore a smile of disbelief; when the prisoner flushed and nodded he called out over the heads of the crowd: 

“Countess Courteau!” There was no answer.  “Do any of you gentlemen know the Countess Courteau?” he inquired.

His question was greeted by a general laugh.

“Don’t let him kid you,” cried a derisive voice.

“Never heard of her, but I met four kings last night,” yelled another.

“Call the Marquis of Queensberry,” shouted still a third.

“Countess Courteau!” repeated the chairman, using his hands for a megaphone.

The cry was taken up by other throats.  “Countess Courteau!  Countess Courteau!” they mocked.  “Come, Countess!  Nice Countess!  Pretty Countess!” There was a ribald note to this mockery which caused Phillips’ eyes to glow.

“She and the count have just left the palace.  Let’s get along with the hangin’,” one shrill voice demanded.

“You won’t hang me!” Phillips retorted, angrily.

“Be not so sure,” taunted the acting judge.  “Inasmuch as your countess appears to be constituted of that thin fabric of which dreams are made; inasmuch as there is no such animal—­”

“Hol’ up!” came a peremptory challenge.  “M’sieu Jodge!” It was the big French Canadian whom Pierce had met on the crest of the divide; he came forward now, pushing his resistless way through the audience.  “Wat for you say dere ain’t nobody by dat name, eh?” He turned his back to the committee and addressed the meeting.  “Wat for you hack lak dis, anyhow?  By gosh!  I heard ’bout dis lady!  She’s ol’-timer lak me.”