“Just interested, just interested,” Saltman said.
“You bet your sweet life we're interested,” another voice spoke up out of the darkness.
“Say,” Shorty put in, “I wonder who's feelin' the foolishest?”
Everybody laughed nervously.
“Come on, Shorty; we'll be getting along,” Smoke said, mushing the dogs.
The crowd formed in behind and followed.
“Say, ain't you-all made a mistake?” Shorty gibed. “When we met you you was goin', an' now you're comin' without bein' anywheres. Have you lost your tag?”
“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.