“Nope,” Smoke answered. “Is that you, Bill?” “Well, I'll be danged!” Bill Saltman ejaculated in honest surprise. “If it ain't Smoke!” “What are you doing out this time of night?” Smoke inquired. “Strolling?” Before Bill Saltman could make reply, two running men joined the group. These were followed by several more, while the crunch of feet on the snow heralded the imminent arrival of many others. “Who are your friends?” Smoke asked. “Where's the stampede?” Saltman, lighting his pipe, which was impossible for him to enjoy with lungs panting from the run, did not reply. The ruse of the match was too obviously for the purpose of seeing the sled to be misunderstood, and Smoke noted every pair of eyes focus on the coil of cable and the crowbar. Then the match went out. “Just heard a rumor, that's all, just a rumor,” Saltman mumbled with ponderous secretiveness. “You might let Shorty and me in on it,” Smoke urged. Somebody snickered sarcastically in the background. “Where are YOU bound?” Saltman demanded. “And who are you?” Smoke countered. “Committee of safety?” “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. “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.”