Other men entered the cabin.
“It ain't a-goin' to rain much,” said one. Then came a crash of wood thrown to the ground.
“Jim, hyar's a chunk of pine log, dry as punk,” said another.
Rustlings and slow footsteps, and then heavy thuds attested to the probability that Jim was knocking the end of a log upon the ground to split off a corner whereby a handful of dry splinters could be procured.
“Snake, lemme your pipe, an' I'll hev a fire in a jiffy.”
“Wal, I want my terbacco an' I ain't carin' about no fire,” replied Snake.
“Reckon you're the meanest cuss in these woods,” drawled Jim.
Sharp click of steel on flint—many times—and then a sound of hard blowing and sputtering told of Jim's efforts to start a fire. Presently the pitchy blackness of the cabin changed; there came a little crackling of wood and the rustle of flame, and then a steady growing roar.
As it chanced, Dale lay face down upon the floor of the loft, and right near his eyes there were cracks between the boughs. When the fire blazed up he was fairly well able to see the men below. The only one he had ever seen was Jim Wilson, who had been well known at Pine before Snake Anson had ever been heard of. Jim was the best of a bad lot, and he had friends among the honest people. It was rumored that he and Snake did not pull well together.
“Fire feels good,” said the burly Moze, who appeared as broad as he was black-visaged. “Fall's sure a-comin'... Now if only we had some grub!”