He closed the Saxon door against the boring frost.
“The air sure smells better,” he observed, sniffing with relief.
“Sure does,” nodded the old-timers by the stove. “But what trail’s your pardner plantin’ relay camps on?”
“The Nordenskold Trail,” answered Bassett. “That’s the same trail yon two skunks is takin’ on from Whitehorse, only they dunno it yit. But, ladies and gentlemen,” apologizing to the crowd, “I’m sure sufferin’ sorry to be the cause of the delay in your fun. Don’t let her delay any longer. Go cavortin’ to it!”
Immediately clamor broke out again. Violin and piano struck up.
The click of the ivory roulette-ball and the rattle of dealt cases arose from the tables.
Happy Camp was Happy Camp once more, and for it the incident was closed.
But not for Cantine and the woman.
She helped the cursing Jose to pull himself out of the drift, and together they floundered back to the beaten trail.