The black-whiskered man and one of his companions arose.

“Come on, Oleson,” the former said to the third one of the party, a fair-haired, ruddy-faced giant.

Oleson came to his feet, yawning and stretching.

“What are you going to bed so soon for?” the barkeeper asked plaintively.  “It’s early yet.”

“Got to make Selkirk to-morrow,” said he of the black whiskers.

“On Christmas Day!” the barkeeper cried.

“The better the day the better the deed,” the other laughed.

As the three men passed out of the door it came dimly to Morganson that it was Christmas Eve.  That was the date.  That was what he had come to Minto for.  But it was overshadowed now by the three men themselves, and the fat roll of hundred-dollar bills.

The door slammed.

“That’s Jack Thompson,” the barkeeper said.  “Made two millions on Bonanza and Sulphur, and got more coming.  I’m going to bed.  Have another drink first.”

Morganson hesitated.

“A Christmas drink,” the other urged.  “It’s all right.  I’ll get it back when you sell your wood.”

Morganson mastered his drunkenness long enough to swallow the whisky, say good night, and get out on the trail.  It was moonlight, and he hobbled along through the bright, silvery quiet, with a vision of life before him that took the form of a roll of hundred-dollar bills.

He awoke.  It was dark, and he was in his blankets.  He had gone to bed in his moccasins and mittens, with the flaps of his cap pulled down over his ears.  He got up as quickly as his crippled condition would permit, and built the fire and boiled some water.  As he put the spruce-twigs into the teapot he noted the first glimmer of the pale morning light.  He caught up his rifle and hobbled in a panic out to the bank.  As he crouched and waited, it came to him that he had forgotten to drink his spruce tea.  The only other thought in his mind was the possibility of John Thompson changing his mind and not travelling Christmas Day.

Dawn broke and merged into day.  It was cold and clear.  Sixty below zero was Morganson’s estimate of the frost.  Not a breath stirred the chill Arctic quiet.  He sat up suddenly, his muscular tensity increasing the hurt of the scurvy.  He had heard the far sound of a man’s voice and the faint whining of dogs.  He began beating his hands back and forth against his sides.  It was a serious matter to bare the trigger hand to sixty degrees below zero, and against that time he needed to develop all the warmth of which his flesh was capable.

They came into view around the outjutting clump of trees.  To the fore was the third man whose name he had not learnt.  Then came eight dogs drawing the sled.  At the front of the sled, guiding it by the gee-pole, walked John Thompson.  The rear was brought up by Oleson, the Swede.  He was certainly a fine man, Morganson thought, as he looked at the bulk of him in his squirrel-skin parka.  The men and dogs were silhouetted sharply against the white of the landscape.  They had the seeming of two dimension, cardboard figures that worked mechanically.