For the first time they noticed the stage-setting he had created for his social bow. Every stick of furniture had been removed and the floor covered with reindeer moss, gray, soft and fragrant. Two reserve sleds, padded with outspread sleeping bags, were evidently intended to serve as seats. The "tent" to which he had referred them was a drape of canvas over the door leading into his own room. About the hearth were scattered pots, pans and dishes of tin. The fireplace glowed like a camp fire permitted to grow dim for culinary service.
"So this is what you meant by a sour-dough party," observed Mrs. Morrow, her voice betraying her enthusiasm over the idea.
"Wonder if I'm hard-bitten enough by now to get the idea?" Moira asked them.
"We're hitting the trail," explained the missionary. "We've just pitched camp and are about to make muck-muck. As Northwesterners never pack grub for idle hands to eat, we'd better strip off our coats and get into action."
Where the fire glowed the hottest, Seymour rigged an iron spit from which he suspended a shank of caribou on a wire as supple as a piece of string. Beneath, he placed a pan to catch the drippings. To Moira he entrusted a second wire so attached that an occasional pull kept the meat turning.
"There's nothing more delicious than roast caribou," he advised her, "and this is the very best way to roast it."
Luke Morrow was to attend the broiling of a dozen fool-hens—a variety of grouse—which the sergeant had shot that morning. To Mrs. Emma was assigned the task of picking over a mess of fiddle-head ferns which, by some magic, he had kept fresh since fall. He was certain that, when properly boiled, they would produce a dish of greens more delicate than spinach.
"And you, Russell?" queried the girl, for they soon had taken to first names, except that she sometimes called him "Sergeant Scarlet." "Because of your rank, I suppose you'll merely boss the job and eat twice as much as anyone else."
He did not answer, but fell to his knees beside the open mouth of a flour sack. With the aid of water and an occasional pinch of baking powder, he quickly mixed a wad of dough. Greasing a gold-pan with a length of bacon rind, he filled it with the dough and stood it up facing the fire.
"I'm baking bannock," he answered Moira's quizzical look. "When the outside is browned, I'll toss it like a pancake, and soon we'll have a better bread than mother ever made."