ng upon
him, combined with his terror of being killed, swept over him, and
between these he felt cowed and beaten, unable to stand up and face him,
unable to do anything but drag one trembling foot behind the other and
go by, keeping watch from the side of his eye that that deadly pistol
was not drawn upon him. But Talbot never moved, simply stood and watched
him too, with fixed eyes; and Marley, overwhelmed by some power he did
not understand, as if dragged forward against his will, without another
look at his opponent, passed by them all and went on slowly down the
road leading to the town. Not a word was spoken, not a breath was drawn,
no one moved. They watched his retreating figure, some half hoping, half
expecting, some half fearing, he would turn and shoot from a
distance,--all wondering greatly, and a little overawed. Then, as he
neither turned nor looked back, but kept steadily ahead, his large
figure well outlined against the stretches of white snow, his
six-shooter glistening in the sun, his head hanging down, till at last
by a turn in the road he was lost to view, there was a long-drawn breath
of surprise and wonder, a general turning of the eyes to Talbot. It was
a victory, though a bloodless one, and they felt it. Each one felt that
the conqueror was before them. Talbot said nothing. He simply stood
aside from the door, to let the miners who were outside enter. The men
took it as a signification that they were to recommence work, and
hastened to obey. They did not dare to speak to him, not even to
congratulate him. They were awed into submissive silence before him. Not
a sound was uttered. The men filed silently into the tunnel like cowed
sheep into their pen, leaving their master standing motionless in the
sunshine.

CHAPTER III

KATRINE'S NEIGHBOURS

Good Luck Row was a little row of small, insignificant cabins towards
the back of the city, and at right angles to the direction of the main
street. Dawson faces the Yukon, and its main thoroughfare lies parallel
with the river. In the summer, when the Yukon and the Klondike, that
joins it just above, are free, the waters of the two rivers united come
rolling by in jubilant majesty, tossing loose blocks of ice, the
remnants of their winter chains, on their swelling tide. They form a
little eddy in front of the city, and their waters roll outward and
swirl back again to their course, as if the great stream made a bow to
the city front as it swept