"Sure," Steve nodded. And the Indian obeyed without further demur.
Steve re-lit his pipe and sucked at it comfortably. Then he spoke with an assurance he could not have displayed earlier.
"Say," he exclaimed, without looking up from the fire. "You get the meaning of it? Maybe you don't get the meaning I do."
He laughed. It was a curious laugh. It had no mirth. But it was an expression of feelings which required outlet.
"No. Maybe you don't," he went on. "You see, I got a—notion. The wind's west—now. It should be a hell of a cold wind. It isn't. No. It should be hellish cold," he reflected. "Why isn't it? The hills lie west. The big hills. Maybe the big hill. Well? I kind of wonder. Maybe it's that. It's a guess. A hell of a guess. Does the west wind hereabouts blow across the big fire hill? And are those fires so almighty hot they set the snow melting where all the world's freezing at 60° below? Is it a sort of chinook in the dead of winter?"
He raised his eyes to the faces of his companions. The dusky figures were half hidden behind the smoke of the fire, which rose between them. He nodded at the steady gazing black eyes.
"Yes," he said. "Guess that break's come. We'll be out on the trail right away. And we'll beat up against a breeze that's warming. It'll lead us to—the Heart of Unaga."
The splendour of the Arctic night was shining over the world. There was scarcely a breath of wind. The air currents were still from the west, but the wind had died out. For the moment the amazing warmth which had stirred the imagination of Steve and his companions had passed.
A silver sheen played upon the limitless fields of snow. It was like a world of alabaster. The light came from every corner of the heavens. It came from the glory of a full moon, hard-driven to retain supremacy over its satellites. It came from the myriads of burnished stars, gleaming with a clarity, a penetrating sparkle, unknown to their brethren of lower latitudes. It came from the supreme magnificence of an aurora of moving light, dancing and curtseying with ghostly grace, as though stepping the measure of a heavenly minuet. Its radiance filled half the dome of night. It was a glory of frigid colour to ravish the artist eye.