He made a broad stack of logs by the fireplace and a larger one outside the door, and then stood by the threshold to take a look at the weather.  A great soft feather of snow came sailing slowly down and nestled in his shaggy beard, and another fluttered on to the back of his hand.  He looked up through the darkness and saw that it was already beginning to fall thickly, and then, with a self-satisfied glance of approval at his provident woodpile, went into the cabin and fastened the door.

Thompson had shot a fine argal or Rocky Mountain sheep that morning, and the broiled steaks were giving forth a most acceptable odor.  He had tried to get Gentleman Dick to taste of a choice piece, but he shook his head wearily, as he had every time for some two weeks or more when proffered food.  He could eat nothing, and lay there propped up on rough pillows, seeming scarcely conscious of their presence; his dreamy eyes, with lids half drooping, looking fixedly into the blazing fire.  Even the coffee, civilized as it was by the addition of some patent condensed milk, and upon the manufacture of which Thompson had prided himself not a little, stood untouched by his bedside.  Old Platte lit his pipe and dragged his three-legged stool into a corner of the wide chimney, and Thompson, after moving the things away to a corner, sat down opposite, mending his snow-shoes with a bundle of buckskin thongs.  They did not talk much in that family of evenings:  men of this class are not conversational in their habits, and a stranger who should look in would be apt to think them an unsocial set.  Old Platte puffed steadily at his pipe, blinking and winking at the fire, which he poked occasionally with a stick or fed with a log of wood from the pile by his side.  Thompson worked quietly with knife and awl at his dilapidated shoes, and the pale, patient face beyond still gazed dreamily into the fire.  There were old scenes, doubtless, in among those burning logs—­old familiar faces, dear memories of the past and weird fantastic visions pictured in the glowing coals.  At last the eyes left the fire for a moment, resting on the two that sat by it, and he said, “Boys, it’s Christmas Eve.”

Thompson started, for he had not heard him speak with so much energy for weeks.

“Christmas Eve!” he repeated absently.  “Christmas Eve, and to-morrow will be Christmas Day.  Last Christmas was not like this:  all was bright and fair, and she—­”

The rest of the sentence was lost as he muttered it uneasily to himself and resumed his watching of the fire.  Christmas Eve!  So it was, but they had not thought of it.  Christmas Eve!  The name seemed out of place among those rocky fastnesses.  What could the pines and the solitude, the snow and the ice, have in common with Christmas?  Christmas Eve down in that desolate valley, in the quiet depths of the forest, away, miles away, from human habitation of any kind?  Christmas Eve!  It seemed absurd, but Christmas Eve it was nevertheless, there as everywhere else.