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Updated: September 4, 2025
Chillingwood laughed pleasantly. "We're Government officials," he said with meaning. "Yes," put in Grey. "But we've got plenty of canned truck in our baggage. I'm thinking you may find our supplies a pleasant change." "No doubt no doubt whatever. Cat's meat would be a delicacy after months of tallowy pork." This slow-spoken trapper surveyed his guests thoughtfully.
Better put something on for him or there'll be a row. What's that steak? That ain't no good for Mr. Robb. He wants pork chops. He never eats anything else for breakfast. Says he's used to pork." The girl returned to the breakfast room bearing Grey's steak and some potatoes. Coffee followed quickly, and the officer attacked his victuals hungrily. Then Robb Chillingwood appeared.
Their host possessed a long, attenuated, but powerful figure, and a face chiefly remarkable for its cadaverous hollows and a pair of hungry eyes and a dark chin-whisker. "Yes, sir," this individual was saying, "she's goin' to howl good and hard for the next forty-eight hours, or I don't know these parts. Maybe you're from the valley?" Chillingwood shook his head. "No. Fort Cudahy way," he said.
Chillingwood understood him, and took no notice of his somewhat irascible remarks, whilst, for himself, he remained of opinion that he had read his Ordnance chart aright. They tramped on. Each man, with a common thought, was watching the weather indications. As the time passed the wind "patches" grew in size, in force, and in frequency of recurrence.
What is it that's troubling you? Your face is significant of some dire tragedy." "How long have you been engaged to Robb Chillingwood?" "Nearly six months. Why?" "And you've never thought of any other man?" Alice shook her head. For once she was quite serious. "Couldn't look at another man. Robb hasn't got two cents to his name, but I'm going to marry him or or die an old maid."
The door closed on his remark and he turned to his companion. "I'm sorry for the poor girl," he went on. "The most can-tankerous pig I ever ran up against is Grey." "Yes," agreed the other; "I can't think how a decent fellow like Robb Chillingwood can chum up with him. He's a surly clown only fit for such countries as the Yukon, where he comes from. He's not particularly clever either.
The travellers were enjoying the comforting shelter and warmth. Neither of them seemed particularly talkative. Presently Grey roused himself. Extreme heat after extreme cold always has a somnolent effect on those who experience it. "We'd best get the stuff off the sleigh, Chillingwood," said he. "Rainy-Moon's above the average Indian for honesty, but, nevertheless, we don't need to take chances.
As this became apparent to him, Robb Chillingwood could not help wondering what their fate might have been had the storm overtaken them earlier, and they had not come upon the dugout. However, he had no time for much speculation on the subject, for, as the dogs came to a stand, the door of the dugout was thrown back and a tall, cadaverous-looking man stood framed in the opening.
And Robb Chillingwood found himself sitting before the farm-wife's generous board almost before he was aware of it. While he was being served he had to face a running fire of questions from, at least, three of the ladies present. Robb was a cheerful soul and ever ready with a pleasant laugh. This snatched holiday from a stress of under-paid work was like a "bunk" to a schoolboy.
Suddenly there was a cry, and it rang with vengeful triumph. It came from the man at the window Robb Chillingwood. "By God! it's Zachary Smith!" The next instant and he was in the room. The onlookers gazed blankly from one to the other of the two men. What did it mean? Who was Zachary Smith? And why did Robb so call Hervey? Then their eyes settled on the man against the wall.
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