He said it half in defiance of the trail’s fierce lessoning; but it was truer than he knew.

They built up the fire to frighten off the wolves, but the Colonel had his rifle along when they went over and crawled into their sleeping-bag.  Half in, half out, he laid the gun carefully along the right on his snow-shoes.  As the Boy buttoned the fur-lined flap down over their heads he felt angrier with the Colonel than he had ever been before.

“Took good care to hang on to his own shootin’-iron.  Suppose anything should happen”; and he said it over and over.

Exactly what could happen he did not make clear; the real danger was not from wolves, but it was something.  And he would need a rifle....  And he wouldn’t have one....  And it was the Colonel’s fault.

* * * * *

Now, it had long been understood that the woodman is lord of the wood.  When it came to the Colonel’s giving unasked advice about the lumber business, the Boy turned a deaf ear, and thought well of himself for not openly resenting the interference.

“The Colonel talks an awful lot, anyway.  He has more hot air to offer than muscle.”

When they sighted timber that commended itself to the woodman, if he thought well of it, why, he just dropped the sled-rope without a word, pulled the axe out of the lashing, trudged up the hillside, holding the axe against his shirt underneath his parki, till he reached whatever tree his eye had marked for his own.  Off with the fur mitt, and bare hand protected by the inner mitt of wool, he would feel the axe-head, for there was always the danger of using it so cold that the steel would chip and fly.  As soon as he could be sure the proper molecular change had been effected, he would take up his awkward attitude before the selected spruce, leaning far forward on his snow-shoes, and seeming to deliver the blows on tip-toe.

But the real trouble came when, after felling the dead tree, splitting an armful of fuel and carrying it to the Colonel, he returned to the task of cutting down the tough green spruce for their bedding.  Many strained blows must be delivered before he could effect the chopping of even a little notch.  Then he would shift his position and cut a corresponding notch further round, so making painful circuit of the bole.  To-night, what with being held off by his snow-shoes, what with utter weariness and a dulled axe, he growled to himself that he was “only gnawin’ a ring round the tree like a beaver!”

“Damn the whole—­Wait!” Perhaps the cursed snow was packed enough now to bear.  He slipped off the web-feet, and standing gingerly, but blessedly near, made effectual attack.  Hooray!  One more good ’un and the thing was down.  Hah! ugh!  Woof-ff!  The tree was down, but so was he, floundering breast high, and at every effort to get out only breaking down more of the crust and sinking deeper.