A little later Frank walked across the room and opened the door. The undergrowth on one side of the clearing gleamed white with frost. On the other side a few big branches still snapped and glowed, and there was a red glare behind the black rows of trunks, but it was now broken by patches of darkness and he could see that the fire was rapidly dying out. He came back with a shiver and sat down in his warm seat beside the stove.
CHAPTER XXI
A NIGHT ON THE SANDS
There was a sprinkle of snow upon the ground, and the boys were working in Mr. Oliver's slashing one afternoon a week after their visit to Mr. Webster's ranch when Harry, who had just hauled up a log, stopped his oxen and addressed his father.
"It looks as if it would be a fine night," he remarked.
"Yes," said Mr. Oliver. "I've no fault to find with the weather. We'll get most of the logs piled for burning if it lasts."
Harry smiled at Frank. "Dad's slow to take a hint. I wasn't thinking of the logs."
"I can believe it," Mr. Oliver retorted. "Anyway, they have to be hauled out, and it's easier to do it now than when the soil's soft and boggy."
Frank, who had been heaving the sawed trunks on top of one another with Jake, agreed with the rancher. The big masses of timber slid easily over the snow and they were clean to handle, which was something to be thankful for after the difficulty they had had in moving them when they were foul with clotted mire. The frost, as he had discovered, seldom lasted long in that country, but it was very cold and the firs towered flecked with snow against a clear blue sky.
"I was wondering if there was any reason why we shouldn't try to get a duck to-night," said Harry. "We won't go near the island where the cache is. There's a flat behind the other one to the southward."