Robb Chillingwood was about twenty-five; his whole countenance indexed a sturdy honesty of thought and a merry disposition. There was considerable strength too about brow and jaw. Leslie Grey was shorter than his companion. A man of dapper, sturdy figure, and with a face good-looking, obstinate, and displaying as much sense of humour as a barbed-wire fence post. He was fully thirty years of age.
Their host possessed a long, attenuated, but powerful figure, and a face chiefly remarkable for its cadaverous hollows and a pair of hungry eyes and a dark chin-whisker.
“Yes, sir,” this individual was saying, “she’s goin’ to howl good and hard for the next forty-eight hours, or I don’t know these parts. Maybe you’re from the valley?”
Chillingwood shook his head.
“No. Fort Cudahy way,” he said. “My name’s Chillingwood–Robb Chillingwood. This is Mr. Leslie Grey, Customs officer. I am his assistant.”
The long man glanced slowly at his guests. His great eyes seemed to take in the details of each man’s appearance with solemn curiosity. Then he twisted slowly upon the upturned box on which he was seated and crossed his legs.
“I’m pleased to meet you, gentlemen. It’s lonely in these parts–lonely.” He shuddered as though with cold. “I’ve been trapping in these latitudes for a considerable period, and it’s–lonely. My name is Zachary Smith.”
As the trapper pronounced his name he glanced keenly from one to the other of the two men beside him. His look was suggestive of doubt. He seemed to be trying to re-assure himself that he had never before crossed the paths of these chance guests of his. After a moment of apprehensive silence he went on slowly, like one groping in darkness. His confidence was not fully established.
“You can make up your minds to a couple of days in this shanty–anyhow. I mostly live on ‘sour-belly’ and ‘hard tack.’ Don’t sound inviting, eh?”
Chillingwood laughed pleasantly.
“We’re Government officials,” he said with meaning.
“Yes,” put in Grey. “But we’ve got plenty of canned truck in our baggage. I’m thinking you may find our supplies a pleasant change.”
“No doubt–no doubt whatever. Cat’s meat would be a delicacy after–months of tallowy pork.”
This slow-spoken trapper surveyed his guests thoughtfully. The travellers were enjoying the comforting shelter and warmth. Neither of them seemed particularly talkative.
Presently Grey roused himself. Extreme heat after extreme cold always has a somnolent effect on those who experience it.
“We’d best get the–stuff off the sleigh, Chillingwood,” said he. “Rainy-Moon’s above the average Indian for honesty, but, nevertheless, we don’t need to take chances. And,” as the younger man rose and stretched himself, “food is good on occasions. What does Mr. Zachary Smith say?”
“Ay, let’s sample some white-man’s grub. Gentlemen, this is a fortunate meeting–all round.”
Chillingwood passed out of the hut. As he opened the door a vindictive blast of wind swept a cloud of snow in, and the frozen particles fell crackling and hissing upon the glowing stove.
“And they call this a white-man’s country,” observed Mr. Smith pensively, as the door closed again. He opened the stove and proceeded to knock the embers together preparatory to stoking up afresh.
“Guess you were making for the Pass,” he said conversationally.
“Yes,” replied Grey.
“Missed the trail,” the other said, pitching a cord-wood stick accurately into the centre of the glowing embers.
Grey made no answer.
“’Tisn’t in the way of Governments to show consideration to their servants,” Mr. Smith went on, filling the stove with fuel to the limit of its holding capacity. “It’s a deadly season to be forced to travel about in.”
“Consideration,” said Grey bitterly. “I’m forced to undertake this journey twice a year. Which means I am on the road the best part of my time. And merely because there is no bank or authorized place for depositing–”
“Ah, gold,” put in Mr. Zachary Smith quietly.
“And reams of ‘returns.’”
“They reckon that the ‘rush’ to the Yukon’ll come next year. Maybe things will alter then.”
Smith straightened himself up from his occupation. His face displayed but the most ordinary interest in the conversation.
At that moment Chillingwood returned bearing two small brass-bound chests. The Indian followed him bringing a number of packages of tinned food. Smith glanced from the chests–which were as much as Chillingwood could carry–to the angular proportions of the Indian’s burden, then back again to the chests. He watched furtively as the officer deposited the latter; then he turned back to the stove and opened the damper.
Then followed a meal of which all three partook with that heartiness which comes of an appetite induced by a hardy open-air life. They talked but little while they ate, and that little was of the prospects of the new Eldorado. Leslie Grey spoke with the bitterness of a disappointed man. In reality he had been successful in the business he had adopted. But some men are born grumblers, and he was one. It is probable that had he been born a prince he would have loudly lamented the fact that he was not a king. Chillingwood was different; he accepted the situation and enjoyed his life. He was unambitious whilst faithfully doing that which he regarded as his duty, first to himself, then to his employers. His method of life was something like that of the sailor. He fully appreciated the motto of the seafaring gentry–one hand for himself and one for his employers. When in doubt both hands for self. He meant to break away from his present employment when the Yukon “rush” came. In the meantime he was on the spot. Mr. Zachary Smith chiefly listened. He could eat and watch his guests. He could study them. And he seemed in no way inclined to waste his time on words when he could do the other two things. He said little about himself, and was mainly contented with comprehensive nods and grunts, whilst he devoured huge portions of tinned tongue and swallowed bumpers of scalding tea.
After dinner the travellers produced their pipes. Grey offered his tobacco to their host. Mr. Zachary Smith shook his head.
“Given up tobacco–mostly,” he said, glancing in the direction of the door, which groaned under a sudden attack from the storm which was now howling with terrible force outside. “It isn’t that I don’t like it. But when a man gets cooped up in these hills he’s like to run out of it, and then it’s uncomfortable. I’ve taken on a native weed which does me for smoking when I need it–which isn’t often. It grows hereabouts and isn’t likely to give out. Guess I won’t smoke now.”
Grey shrugged and lit his pipe. If any man could be fool enough to reject tobacco, Leslie Grey was not the sort of man to press him. He was intolerant of ideas in any one but himself. Chillingwood sucked luxuriously at his pipe and thought big things.
The blue smoke clouds curled insinuatingly about the heads of the smokers, and rose heavily upon the dense atmosphere of the hut. The two men stretched themselves indolently upon the ground, sometimes speaking, but, for the most part, silent. These wayfarers thought little of time. They had a certain task to perform which, the elements permitting, they would carry out in due course. In the meantime it was storming, and they had
