Jack was mounting guard by the fire around which lay his friends. One of the Thorwaldsson party, Swenson, did sentry duty by the other fire. Looking across the little space which separated the two parties, Jack could see the huddled figures of the half-breeds lying so close to the fire, which Swenson fed constantly with fuel, that they seemed almost to be in it. Around him the members of his own party were similarly disposed.
With a sigh, Jack arose, caught up an armful of wood and tossed it into the fire. The flames at once shot high and, as if that were a signal, out of the darkness beyond came a robust hail.
“Hello, there. Keep ’er goin’, sonny.”
Into the light of the fire a moment later strode a big fur-clad figure of a man on snowshoes. On his back was a pack which he dropped to the ground with a sigh of relief. Then he leaned his rifle in the crook of an elbow and, pulling off great fur mittens, spread his hands to the blaze, working his fingers gratefully back and forth.
“Cold an’ gittin’ colder,” he announced, casually. “Got a nice fire here.”
Jack was nonplussed. In the first place, to find another wanderer in this wilderness which they believed unpeopled was exciting enough. But to have him walk in casually and without vouchsafing any explanation of his presence took Jack’s breath away for the moment. Yet Jack knew enough of the woodland lore to realize that hospitality is the first law of the wilds, and that questions distinctly would not be in order. He decided the best thing for him would be to wait for the other to take the lead in the conversation.
This the intruder was not slow to do, beginning even as he eased his stiffened fingers in the warmth of the fire.
“Didn’t know there was anybody else in this country,” he said. “Been around here long?”
A look of clumsy craft from under shaggy brows accompanied the question. Jack had to smile to himself.
“No; not long,” he said composedly. “And you?”