“Mr. Chairman!” A stranger claimed general attention.  “I’ve listened to the evidence and it’s strong enough for me.  The grub didn’t get up and walk away by itself; somebody took it.  Grub is more than grub in this country; it’s more than money; it’s a man’s life, that’s what it is.  Now, then, the McCaskeys had an outfit when they landed; they didn’t need to steal; but this fellow, this dirty ingrate, he hadn’t a pound.  I don’t swallow his countess story and I don’t care a hoot where he was last night.  Let’s decide first what punishment a thief gets, then let’s give it to him.”

“Hear!  Hear!” came the cry.

“Hanging is good enough for thieves!” shouted the choleric individual who had so pointedly made known his distrust of Lucky Broad.  “I say stretch ’em.”

“Right!  Let’s make an example!”

“Hang him!” There rose a hoarse chorus of assent to this suggestion, whereupon the chairman stepped forward.

“All those in favor of hanging—­” he began.  But again he was interrupted by ’Poleon Doret, who once more bored his way into the crowd, crying: 

“Wait!  I got somet’ing to say.”  He was breathing heavily, as if from a considerable exertion; perspiration stood upon his face; his eyes were flashing.  He vaulted lightly to the platform, then flung out his long arms, crying:  “You hack lak crazee mans.  Wat talk is dis ‘bout hangin’?  You ain’t wild hanimals!”

The red-faced advocate of the noose who had spoken a moment before answered him in a loud voice: 

“I paid hard money for my grub and I’ve packed every pound of it on my back.  You can take a mark’s life by stealing his matches the same as by shooting him.  I want to see thieves on the end of a rope.”

Doret bent down to him.  “All right, m’sieu!  You want blood; we give it to you.  Bring on dat rope.  I’ll put it on dis boy’s neck if you’ll do de pullin’.  For me, I ain’t care ‘bout killin’ no-body, but you—­you’re brave man.  You hang on tight w’ile dis boy he keeck, an’ strangle, an’ grow black in de face.  It’s goin’ mak you feel good all over!”

“Rats! I won’t do the trick, but—­”

“Somebody mus’ do de pullin’.”  ‘Poleon grinned.  “He ain’t goin’ hang himse’f.  Mebbe you got pardner w’at lak give you hand, eh?” He raised his head and laughed at the crowd.  “Messieurs, you see how ‘tis.  It tak’ brave man to hang a feller lak dis.  Some day policeman’s goin’ come along an’ say:  ‘By Gar, I been lookin’ for you long tarn.  De new jodge at Dyea he tell me you murder a boy at Sheep Camp.  S’pose you come wit’ me an’ do little hangin’ yourse’f.’  No, messieurs!  We ain’t Hinjuns; we’re good sensible peoples, eh?”

A member of the committee, one who had hitherto acted a passive part, now stepped forward.

“Frenchy has put it right,” he acknowledged.  “We’ll have courts in this country some day, and we’ll have to answer to them.  Miners’ law is all right, so far as it goes, but I won’t be a party to a murder.  That’s what this would be, murder.  If you’re going to talk hanging, you can take me off of your committee.”