“Then there’s nobody else about the place?”
“No, sir,” said the first man; “they’re all gone. It’s kind of lonely, but we’re doing some chopping for the road, and we’ll be right here with money saved when work begins in spring. Bought a piece of fruit land, part on mortgage, at a snap, and with good luck we’ll have it clear when we go back.”
The short explanation supplied a clue to the characters of the men, who with an eye to the future preferred to face the rigors of the north rather than to spend the winter hanging round the saloons on the warmer coast.
“Well,” inquired the other, “where did you come from?”
Prescott mentioned the last camp he had visited and gave them a few particulars about his journey.
“And so you came down the Long Bench—pretty tough proposition that! And kept the trail on short rations!” one of his hosts remarked. “Suppose you take a smoke, and I’ll get supper a little earlier.”
Before long he was given a share of a simple but abundant meal, and after it was over sat talking with his hosts. It was dark outside now, but although the men had run out of oil for the lamp, the fire gave them light, and pungent odors issued from the resinous logs. The room was warm and, by comparison with the frozen wilderness, supremely comfortable.
“What’s the matter with your foot?” one of the men asked when Prescott took off his boot.
Prescott described how it felt, though he explained that he could find no sign of injury, and the other nodded.
“Ricked it a bit; got one of the ligaments or something kinked,” he said. “Known that happen when there wasn’t much to show. You had better lie off for a while.”