Steve and his Indians were standing on the moist banks of a broad, flowing river, the surface of whose waters served as a mirror to the splendid lights above. Away behind them, where the ground rose up towards the higher slopes, was the glimmer of the fire which marked their camp. They were all three gazing out at the western reflection of earthly fires.
For the moment there was silence. For the moment each was absorbed in his own thought. None gave a sign of the nature of that thought, but it was an easy thing to guess since their faces were turned towards the reflection of Unaga's fires.
It was Steve who first withdrew his gaze. He seemed reluctant. He turned and surveyed the snowless territory about them.
It was an extraordinary display of Nature's mood. They were treading underfoot a growth of lank grass, and the slopes of the valley were clad with bluffs of bare-poled woodlands. The air was warm. It was warmer than the breath of a temperate winter, and the low-growing scrub marking the course of the river was breaking into new growth of a whitish hue.
The amazement of the discovery of these things had long since passed. Steve and his Indians had returned again to the reality of things.
Steve drew a deep breath.
"We can't make another yard with the dogs," he said. "The snow's gone. It's gone for keeps."
It was a simple statement of the facts. And Oolak and Julyman were equally alive to them.
"Then him all mak' back?"
There was eagerness in Julyman's question. The terror of that through which they had passed was still in his mind. So, too, with the fiery heart of Unaga that lay ahead. Oolak had nothing to add, so he kept to his customary silence.