“You go to the devil,” was Saltman’s courtesy.  “We go and come just as we danged feel like.  We don’t travel with tags.”

And the sled, with Smoke in the lead and Shorty at the pole, went on down Main Street escorted by three score men, each of whom, on his back, bore a stampeding-pack.  It was three in the morning, and only the all-night rounders saw the procession and were able to tell Dawson about it next day.

Half an hour later, the hill was climbed and the dogs unharnessed at the cabin door, the sixty stampeders grimly attendant.

“Good-night, fellows,” Smoke called, as he closed the door.

In five minutes the candle was put out, but before half an hour had passed Smoke and Shorty emerged softly, and without lights began harnessing the dogs.

“Hello, Smoke!” Saltman said, stepping near enough for them to see the loom of his form.

“Can’t shake you, Bill, I see,” Smoke replied cheerfully.  “Where’re your friends?”

“Gone to have a drink.  They left me to keep an eye on you, and keep it I will.  What’s in the wind anyway, Smoke?  You can’t shake us, so you might as well let us in.  We’re all your friends.  You know that.”

“There are times when you can let your friends in,” Smoke evaded, “and times when you can’t.  And, Bill, this is one of the times when we can’t.  You’d better go to bed.  Good-night.”

“Ain’t goin’ to be no good-night, Smoke.  You don’t know us.  We’re woodticks.”

Smoke sighed.  “Well, Bill, if you will have your will, I guess you’ll have to have it.  Come on, Shorty, we can’t fool around any longer.”

Saltman emitted a shrill whistle as the sled started, and swung in behind.  From down the hill and across the flat came the answering whistles of the relays.  Shorty was at the gee-pole, and Smoke and Saltman walked side by side.

“Look here, Bill,” Smoke said.  “I’ll make you a proposition.  Do you want to come in alone on this?”

Saltman did not hesitate.  “An’ throw the gang down?  No, sir.  We’ll all come in.”

“You first, then,” Smoke exclaimed, lurching into a clinch and tipping the other into deep snow beside the trail.

Shorty hawed the dogs and swung the team to the south on the trail that led among the scattered cabins on the rolling slopes to the rear of Dawson.  Smoke and Saltman, locked together, rolled in the snow.  Smoke considered himself in gilt-edged condition, but Saltman outweighed him by fifty pounds of clean, trail-hardened muscle and repeatedly mastered him.  Time and time again he got Smoke on his back, and Smoke lay complacently and rested.  But each time Saltman attempted to get off him and get away, Smoke reached out a detaining, tripping hand that brought about a new clinch and wrestle.

“You can go some,” Saltman acknowledged, panting at the end of ten minutes, as he sat astride Smoke’s chest.  “But I down you every time.”