of snow, crouched under the flank of a cliff where the spruces brooded with their wide-winged branches, snow-spread, for a roof above all.
"If they last the winter out the first Chinook will drown them," said Dick. Then he called Kennedy forward as the first dog in the camp gave tongue.
"I'm out for Abraham," he said. "But you're to look after his wives, Kennedy—as many of them as you can manage. Leave me the men."
"B-but—what can I do with 'em?" said Kennedy in his nervous youth.
"Anything. Kiss 'em. But keep them off me. Abraham will likely show fight, and I can't be mussed up with other things."
The dogs drew into the camp and dropped panting, each where he stood. But Okimow the hound watched Dick with his red-rimmed, sagging eyes. One night those two had met for victory, even as Poley had predicted, and the dog now gave the man that proud obedience which one lord may yield another. Dick rubbed the wet nose as he passed Okimow.
"Good boy," he said, and strode up to a shapeless muddle of sticks and snow sealed by a wooden door that had once been the floor of a wagon. His knock on the door woke the silent camp as a bee-hive wakes at a kick. Unseen children screamed; a woman ran out of a near-by shack and dived back. More dogs barked, and sound went calling through all the crazy structures where no man appeared to stand against these two who carried their errand in their very tread.
"Saints send that Abraham has offered up himself," said Dick, and burst the door down with his shoulder and went in.
A damp air breathed at him; fetid, and chill and horrible. He struck a match and held it up, looking round. Then his blood suddenly ran slow. The smoke-blackened place was empty, swept naked of all that made it human habitation. And yet human habitation was there, stretched on a piece of sacking at his feet; a still body, small and young, and but partly covered. Dick dropped on his knee with his heart thumping. He struck another match, and
