The storm which twisted the forest into wild contortions, and swept the snow around the plodding outcast, beat itself in vain against Peter Martin's snug log cabin. It did its best, however, to find an entrance, but the timbers were well clinked with moss, while the door and small window were so securely fastened that not a particle of snow could gain admittance.
It was Christmas Eve, and for that reason six men were gathered together at "Old Pete's," as he was commonly called. They had travelled far for that occasion, and were thoroughly enjoying it in their own quiet way. They were prospectors, the pathfinders of the country, the advance guard of civilization. Calm, temperate, sons of Anak in size and strength, they were noble friends but stern enemies. For long years they had followed the gleaming gold through regions never before trodden by the foot of white man. Across rugged mountains, through vast forests, and over sweeping plains, they were ever wandering, their only roads the mighty inland streams, placid lakes, or crooked Indian trails; and their dwelling places, the log hut, the rude brush house, the banked-up snow, or the open vault of heaven.
Once in the year these six men drifted together, at the Christmas season, when old friendships were renewed and experiences related. But on this occasion there was a thorn in the flesh. The miners had arrived, and with them the demoralizing whiskey. They resented this intrusion into what they considered their rightful domain. Though most of the newcomers had gathered at Klassan, some had drifted to Siwash Creek, where they had built themselves cabins and settled down to pass the long winter. At these men Pete and his companions looked somewhat askance, for they felt they were not of their class. There was one, however, old "Colonel" Radhurst, with the white hair and sad face; he was different from the rest, so they thought.
Pete Martin's only game was chess, and he loved it dearly. The pieces he had made with much skill from the hard tusk of a huge mastodon skeleton, which he had unearthed in a deep creek. It had taken him many long nights to complete the task, and each piece was the child of his own fond fancy. Alec McPherson, a sturdy son of the heather, was his keen opponent, and, while the others wrestled at cards or checkers, these two hardy friends faced each other over the rough table.
"Check!" said Pete, after the game had continued for over an hour.
Alec ran his fingers through his long hair, and shuffled uneasily on his stool before making his move.
"Check!" again calmly remarked Pete, and a triumphant light gleamed in his eye.
"You've the cinch on me this time for sure, mon," exclaimed Alec, as he struggled to free himself from the clever trap.
"Mate!" once more ejaculated Pete, swinging up his queen, and completely surrounding his opponent's king.
"Noo for anither," said Alec. "I'm no willin' to stop yet."