The long slope of the mountain rose dark and brooding right above them. They were so close in that from the campfire they could not see the top, but they felt the snow whitely waiting, up toward the black sky beyond the million stiffly marshalled, sighing pines.
Yes, cold it was, even here at the base; much colder than last night, out on the plain. In spite of the fire, their coverings were all too thin. At breakfast, before sun-up in the morning, the lieutenant’s instrument by which he read the cold said nine degrees above freezing. In his moccasins, made from a piece of his buffalo-robe, Stub’s feet tingled. Several days back John Sparks had given him an old pair of cotton trousers, cut off at the knees, but these did not seem to amount to much, here. Still, Terry Miller and John Brown had nothing better, and their bare toes peeped through the holes in their shoes.
“We’ll leave the camp as it is,” the lieutenant briskly ordered. “We’ll be back by night, so we’ll not need our blankets or meat. See that the horses are well staked, Miller, where they’ll be able to drink and forage during the day.”
Doctor Robinson had gone outside for a minute. They heard his gun. He came in, packing a partly dressed deer.
“It’s a new kind, lieutenant,” he panted.
“Good. We’ll hang up the hide, to inspect later.”
The new kind of deer—a large deer with ears like mule ears—was quickly butchered. They hung its hide and the best of the meat upon a tree, until their return at evening.
“Forward march, to the top, men,” the lieutenant bade. “Take only your guns and ammunition. Never mind the canteens. We’ll find plenty of water, I’m sure. All ready, doctor?”
“All ready.”