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
pens