mean-visaged and swaggering, the stranger's manner was noticeable for
its repression.

Impelled by an irresistible desire to learn something about the man,
the Lieutenant loitered after Runnion and his companion, and entered
the store in time to see the latter greet "No Creek" Lee, the
prospector, who had come into town for more food. Both men spoke with
quiet restraint.

"Nine years since I saw you, Stark," said the miner. "Where you bound?"

"The diggings," replied Stark, as Lee addressed the stranger.

"Mining now?"

"No, same old thing, but I'm grub-staking a few men, as usual. One of
them stays here. I may open a house in Dawson if the camp is as good as
they say it is."

"This here's a good place for you."

Stark laughed noiselessly and without mirth. "Fine! There must be a
hundred people living here."

"Never mind, you take it from me," said the miner, positively, "and get
in now on the quiet. There's something doing." His one sharp eye
detected the Lieutenant close by, so he drew his friend aside and began
talking to him earnestly and with such evident effect as to alter
Stark's plans on the moment; for when Runnion entered the store shortly
Stark spoke to him quickly, following which they both hurried back to
the steamer and saw to the unloading of much additional freight and
baggage. From the volume and variety of this merchandise, it was
evident that Mr. Stark would in no wise be a burden to the community.

Burrell was not sufficiently versed in the ways of mining-camps to know
exactly what this abrupt change of policy meant, but that there was
something in the air he knew from the mysterious manner of "No Creek"
Lee and from the suppressed excitement of Doret and the trader. His
curiosity got the better of him finally, and he fell into talk with
Lee, inquiring about the stranger by way of an opening.

"That's Ben Stark. I knew him back in the Cassiar country," said Lee.

"Is he a mining man?"

"Well, summat. He's made and lost a bank-roll that a greyhound couldn't
leap over in the mining business, but it ain't his reg'lar graft. He
run one of the biggest places in the Northwest for years."

"Saloon, eh?"

"Saloon and variety house--seven bartenders, that's all. He's the
feller that killed the gold-commissioner. Of course, that put him on
the hike again."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, he had a record as long as a sick man's drug bill before he went
into that country, and when he put the c