"See," said the Blackguard proudly to his wife, "yonder, right at the foot of the hills, I've built a cabin for you of great big logs, and the chinks are all filled in with moss to make it cosy. The hearth is in the snuggest corner, and all the furniture is made with an axe of clean red cedar, smelling ever so fresh, like pencils. You can look out among the pine trees down to the creek, which is full of trout for our supper, and I've chopped away the bush, so that when we sit by the door after sundown we can see right away across the valley to the great high peaks above the Crow's Nest Pass. Will you be contented, little one?"
"Yes, I shall always be content, because I have you, my great big Blackguard—and I love you."
CHAPTER XIX
Deep lay the snow in Kootenay. All across the prairies the great drifts were like ocean rollers frozen,—against the clumps of timber they were heaped like winter surf, around the cabin curled over to windward like a breaking wave. One could stand upon the comb of that wave, so solid was it; indeed, the Señora La Mancha had chosen the point of vantage from whence to search the trail for some sign of her husband's coming, because he was late afield after stray cattle, and it was long past supper time. Grey clouds were trailing across the moon, casting shadows down which might have been moving men or beasts among the timber; but when the light shone clear again on glittering frosty pines and dead white drifts, it left an aching emptiness as far as the eye could reach against the intense cold, for it was 30 degrees below zero Fahrenheit. The little Señora was guarded by a robe of beaver skins from her bed, but her head was uncovered, so that the moonlight caught her hair with an icy lustre, and her congealed breath was wafted back, filming over her rosy face with hoar frost. Despite her anxiety for the Blackguard, who might well have been delayed by a serious accident, she felt with every breath the racy intoxicating freshness of the air; so, when a frost-bite stabbed the tip of one ear like a red-hot needle, she only took some powdery snow in her mittened hand to rub the white place red again. After all, a frost-bite is nothing more serious than a sneeze in the hardy West, so Violet La Mancha danced a little dance on the snowdrift, then, warm again to her finger-tips, awaited her husband's coming.
He came at last, galloping up the trail with a lusty yell or so by way of greeting, and, waving her handkerchief in response, the housewife fled indoors to serve a steaming supper. Ten minutes afterwards, when he came floundering in from the stable, and shook the snow from his clothes like a big rough dog, he found the beef and tea set out on the table.
"Feed the brute," said he. "The Wolf could gobble up Mrs. Wolf for an after-thought. Wough, but it's cold,—and you should have heard me cursing the runaway steers."
"That's good, letting off the fireworks where they do no harm, in the open. Why, some men keep all that for the little wife. Sit down, Blackguard, we've got a lovely stew, and three real onions in it. Oh, I've been ever so lonely!"
"Serve you jolly well right for being a cowboy's wife. Lonely, you minx, you'd be lonelier still if I hadn't caught you in time three months ago."
"Three months! three whole big months flown like a dream. Only think! You've cheated me out of three long months of my life, you darling. Now pull those nasty icicles off your moustache, or how can I possibly kiss you?"