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A rude cabin with a red-stone chimney and clay-chinked cracks between the logs, stuffed to bursting with furs and pelts and horns and traps, marked the home of the trapper. "Wal, we're hyar," sung out Slingerland, and in the cheery tones there was something which told that the place was indeed home to him. "Shore is a likely-lookin' camp," drawled Red, throwing his bridle.
Few of the houses contained more than three rooms, but the rooms were large as halls, one hundred by eighty feet, some of them, with whip-sawed floors, clay-chinked log walls, parchment windows, and furniture hewed out of the green fir trees of the mountains. But the luxurious living made up for the bareness of furnishings. Shining samovars sung in every room.
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