"O'Brien and I will have to hunt then—grub's getting low."
"We'll see how it looks tomorrow. If it's like I think, yo' ain't a-goin' to be able to get fah to do no huntin'. The snow'll be like mush."
As O'Brien tossed the last armful upon his pile of firewood, Connie announced supper, and the three ate in silence—as hungry men eat.
Worn out by the long, hard day on the trail, all slept soundly, and when they awoke it was to find the depressions in the dirt floor filled with water which entered through a crack beneath the door.
"We-all ah sho' 'nough tied up, now," exclaimed Waseche, as he eyed the tiny trickle. "How much grub we got?" Connie explored the pack.
"Three or four days. We better cut the dogs to half-ration."
"Them an' us, both," replied the man in the bunk, and groaned as a hot pain shot through his injured leg.
Breakfast over, Connie picked up his rifle, fastened on his snowshoes, and stepped on the wind-softened snow. He had taken scarcely a half-dozen steps when he was forced to halt—anchored fast in the soggy snow. In vain he tried to raise first one foot and then the other—it was no use. The snow clung to his rackets in huge balls and after repeated efforts he loosened the thongs and stepped on the melting snow, into which he promptly sank to his middle. He freed his rackets, tossed them toward the cabin, and wallowed to the door.
"Back a'ready?" grinned Waseche. "How's the huntin'?" Connie laughed.
"You wait—I haven't started yet!"