She stood in the dim light, one arm crooked up to cover her face. Presently, Marylyn moaned; then, Dallas lowered her arm and looked down at her sister. "One of the mules would be easier," she said bitterly. But remembering the brown eyes of the team, and the long, grey-whiskered noses, she covered her face again.
"Ah don' keer w'at y' say," declared her father. "We'll hev steak." He selected a log and began to hack at it.
Shuddering, she sank to her knees, one hand reached out to touch Marylyn. "Maybe Charley'll come, honey," she whispered hopefully. "Maybe, maybe!"
And now it seemed as if she heard something outside. She crept to the door. Around the latch was a little space. She put her ear to it, and the icy air blew against her cheek. There it was again! The shriek of the gale.
She went back to the bed.
Hack! hack! hack! Then muttered curses. And again the sound of chopping.
When she could bear it no longer, she got up and stumbled over to her father. "Dad," she said, "if I break up the mantel and fix something, will you stop?"
He sat back on his feet, puffing crossly. "Light a fire," he said. "Use these chips. Ah'll res'." He threw down the hatchet and crawled under the blankets. He was glad of the interruption, for the duty ahead was assuming an ugly guise.
Dallas had filled the coffee-pail with snow. Now, she gathered up the chips, lit them, and pried up the wide board of the mantel. This she split with the hatchet.
"What you going to make?" asked Marylyn, from the bed.