Out of the fog-bank stepped two figures, a man and a woman, fresh from the trail. Their parkas where they clung tightly over their backs and sagged on their hips were rimmed with hoarfrost, advertising body-sweat congealed, and about the close-drawn puckers of their hoods icicles hung like tusks.
Upon the two were the unmistakable signs of the Chilkoot climb. New recruits to the ranks of the strong they seemed, and the triumphant army in the Saxon acclaimed them with a thunderous cheer.
The man and the woman held their heads over the heat. The icy tusks thawed and fell to sizzle and steam upon the glowing stove-top. The two shoved back the parka hoods and nodded genially to their welcomers.
But the moment the newcomers’ faces were bared, a thick-set man in moccasins, German socks and bearskin coat stagged off at the hips, rose up on the other side of the stove and peered sharply through the steam. Next, an unspoken question in his eyes, he gazed significantly at his six companions around the fire. They likewise scrutinized the late arrivals for a keen second, looked back at the thick-set man in the stagged-off bearskin and nodded grimly.
Whereupon the bearskin-clad one raised an authoritative hand amid the bedlam of the Saxon.
At once the din lessened.
“What’s up, Bassett?” yelled an irrepressible member of the dance crowd. “Relatives of yours?”
“Maybe they come through the Chilkoot by tunnel and ain’t had the third degree of the Pass!” hazarded another facetiously. “Tom’s going to find out.”
But Tom Bassett had stepped swiftly round the stove and laid a hand upon the shoulder of the man in the parka.