But less and less was the defection of the Trio felt.  The burly Kentucky stock-farmer was getting his hand in at “frontier” work, though he still couldn’t get on without his “nigger,” as the Boy said, slyly indicating that it was he who occupied this exalted post.  These two soon had the bunks made out of the rough planks they had sawed with all a green-horn’s pains.  They put in a fragrant mattress of spring moss, and on that made up a bed of blankets and furs.

More boards were laboriously turned out to make the great swing-shelf to hang up high in the angle of the roof, where the provisions might be stored out of reach of possible marauders.

The days were very short now, bringing only about five hours of pallid light, so little of which struggled through the famous bottle-window that at all hours they depended chiefly on the blaze from the great fireplace.  There was still a good deal of work to be done indoors, shelves to be put up on the left as you entered (whereon the granite-ware tea-service, etc., was kept), a dinner-table to be made, and three-legged stools.  While these additions—­“fancy touches,” as the Trio called them—­were being made, Potts and O’Flynn, although occasionally they went out for an hour or two, shot-gun on shoulder, seldom brought home anything, and for the most part were content with doing what they modestly considered their share of the cooking and washing.  For the rest, they sat by the fire playing endless games of euchre, seven-up and bean poker, while Mac, more silent than ever, smoked and read Copps’s “Mining Laws” and the magazines of the previous August.

Nobody heard much in those days of Caribou.  The Colonel had gradually slipped into the position of Boss of the camp.  The Trio were still just a trifle afraid of him, and he, on his side, never pressed a dangerous issue too far.

But this is a little to anticipate.

One bitter gray morning, that had reduced Perry Davis to a solid lump of ice, O’Flynn, the Colonel, and the Boy were bringing into the cabin the last of the whip-sawed boards.  The Colonel halted and looked steadily up the river.

“Is that a beast or a human?” said he.

“It’s a man,” the Boy decided after a moment—­“no, two men, single file, and—­yes—­Colonel, it’s dogs.  Hooray! a dog-team at last!”

They had simultaneously dropped the lumber.  The Boy ran on to tell the cook to prepare more grub, and then pelted after O’Flynn and the Colonel, who had gone down to meet the newcomers—­an Indian driving five dogs, which were hitched tandem to a low Esquimaux sled, with a pack and two pairs of web-foot snow-shoes lashed on it, and followed by a white man.  The Indian was a fine fellow, younger than Prince Nicholas, and better off in the matter of eyes.  The white man was a good deal older than either, with grizzled hair, a worn face, bright dark eyes, and a pleasant smile.

“I had heard some white men had camped hereabouts,” says he.  “I am glad to see we have such substantial neighbours.”  He was looking up at the stone chimney, conspicuous a long way off.