Steve's announcement failed to startle his companion. Nothing stirred Julyman but the fear of "devil-men," and his queer native superstitions.
"Him soften. Oh, yes," he said. "Wind him all go west. Him soft. Yes."
The wind had been carrying "forty below zero" on its relentless bosom. Its ferocity still remained, but now it was tempered by a warmth wholly unaccounted for by the change in its direction. A western wind in these latitudes was little less terrible than when it blew from the north. It had over three thousand miles of snow and ice to reduce its temperature.
Steve's voice again came in the howl of the wind.
"Guess we'll get back to the fire," he said decisively.
Julyman needed no second bidding; he turned and moved away.
Back at the fire Oolak watched his companions retake their places. He had no questions to ask. He simply waited. That was his way. He seemed to live at all times with a mind absorbed.
Steve pointed at the diminished pile of scrub wood.
"Best make up the fire," he said, addressing Julyman.
The Indian eyed him doubtfully. Their store of fuel was perilously low.