“We’d best get the––stuff off the sleigh, Chillingwood,” said he. “Rainy-Moon’s above the average Indian for honesty, but, nevertheless, we don’t need to take chances. And,” as the younger man rose and stretched himself, “food is good on occasions. What does Mr. Zachary Smith say?”
“Ay, let’s sample some white-man’s grub. Gentlemen, this is a fortunate meeting––all round.”
Chillingwood passed out of the hut. As he opened the door a vindictive blast of wind swept a cloud of snow in, and the frozen particles fell crackling and hissing upon the glowing stove.
“And they call this a white-man’s country,” observed Mr. Smith pensively, as the door closed again. He opened the stove and proceeded to knock the embers together preparatory to stoking up afresh.
“Guess you were making for the Pass,” he said conversationally.
“Yes,” replied Grey.
“Missed the trail,” the other said, pitching a cord-wood 25 stick accurately into the centre of the glowing embers.
Grey made no answer.
“’Tisn’t in the way of Governments to show consideration to their servants,” Mr. Smith went on, filling the stove with fuel to the limit of its holding capacity. “It’s a deadly season to be forced to travel about in.”
“Consideration,” said Grey bitterly. “I’m forced to undertake this journey twice a year. Which means I am on the road the best part of my time. And merely because there is no bank or authorized place for depositing–––”