Костер

           Therewasasharp,explosivecracklethatstartledhim. Hespatagain. Andagain,intheair,beforeitcouldfalltothesnow,thespittlecrackled. Heknewthatatfiftybelowspittlecrackledonthesnow,butthisspittlehadcrackledintheair. Undoubtedlyitwascolderthanfiftybelow—howmuchcolderhedidnotknow. Butthetemperaturedidnotmatter. HewasboundfortheoldclaimontheleftforkofHendersonCreek,wheretheboyswerealready. TheyhadcomeoveracrossthedividefromtheIndianCreekcountry,whilehehadcometheroundaboutwaytotakealookatthepossibilitiesofgettingoutlogsinthespringfromtheislandsintheYukon. Hewouldbeintocampbysixo’clock; abitafterdark,itwastrue,buttheboyswouldbethere,afirewouldbegoing,andahotsupperwouldbeready. Asforlunch,hepressedhishandagainsttheprotrudingbundleunderhisjacket. Itwasalsounderhisshirt,wrappedupinahandkerchiefandlyingagainstthenakedskin. Itwastheonlywaytokeepthebiscuitsfromfreezing. Hesmiledagreeablytohimselfashethoughtofthosebiscuits,eachcutopenandsoppedinbacongrease,andeachenclosingageneroussliceoffriedbacon. 

           Heplungedinamongthebigsprucetrees. Thetrailwasfaint. Afootofsnowhadfallensincethelastsledhadpassedover,andhewasgladhewaswithoutasled,travellinglight. Infact,hecarriednothingbutthelunchwrappedinthehandkerchief. Hewassurprised,however,atthecold.