It was a long, low room, with a fireplace, roughly built of limestone,
at one end of it. The blazing logs illuminated one corner and sent
strange shadows into the others, while the winter wind moaned drearily
outside. At the right and left of the fireplace were rude counters,
hewn from logs, resting on stumps of unequal height, and behind
them were shelves, packed with the sordid miscellany of a frontier
trading-post. A closed door on either side seemingly led to other
apartments, but there was no sound save the wind and the crackle of
the flames.
A candle, thrust into the broken neck of a bottle, gave a feeble light
to a little space around one end of the counter on which it stood.
The rafters were low--so low that a tall man, standing on tiptoe,
might easily unhook the smoked hams and sides of bacon that hung
there, swaying back and forth when the wind shook the house.
Walls, ceiling, and floor were of logs, cut into a semblance of
smoothness. The chinks were plastered with a bluish clay, and the
crevices in the floor were filled with a mixture of clay and small
chips. At the left of the chimney was a rude ladder which led to the
loft through an opening in the ceiling. Fingers of sleet tapped at the
glass, swirling phantoms of snow drifted by, pausing for a moment at
the windows, as if to look within, and one of the men moved his chair
closer to the fire.
"You fed the cattle, didn't you, Chan?" The half-breed grunted assent.
It was the eldest of the three who had spoken. His crouching position
in his chair partially concealed his great height, but the firelight
shone full upon his iron-grey hair and the deep lines seamed upon his
kindly face. His hands were rough and knotted, his fingers straight
and square at the tips--hands without beauty, but full of strength.
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