The top of Rouletta’s head, her eyes, then her mouth, came cautiously out from hiding.

“What is it, ’Poleon?  Something to eat?”

“Sapre!  What I tol’ you?  Every minute ‘eat, eat’!  You’ worse dan harmy of Swede’.  I ain’t goin’ tol’ you what is dis s’prise—­ bimeby you smell him cookin’.”

“Moose meat!” Rouletta cried.

“No’” ’Poleon vigorously resumed his labor every stroke of the ax was accompanied by a loud “Huh!” “I tol’ you not’in’!” he declared; then after a moment he voiced one word, “Caribou!”

Again Rouletta uttered a famished cry.

Soon the tent strings were drawn and the axman pushed through the door, his arms full of dry spruce wood.  He stood smiling down at the face framed snugly in the fox fur; then he dropped his burden and knelt before the stove.  In a moment there came a promising crackle, followed quickly by an agreeable flutter which grew into a roar as the stove began to draw.

“Caribou!” Rouletta’s eyes were bright with curiosity and an emotion far more material.  “Where in the world—?”

“Some hinjun hunter mak’ beeg kill.  I got more s’prise as dat, too.  By golly!  Dis goin’ be regular Chris’mas for you.”

Rouletta stirred.  There was stubborn defiance in her tone when she said:  “I’m going to get up and I’m—­going—­outdoors—­clothes or no clothes.  I’ll wrap the robe around me and play I’m a squaw.”  She checked ’Poleon’s protest.  “Oh, I’m perfectly well, and the clothes I have are thick enough.”

“Look out you don’ froze yourse’f.  Dat pretty dress you got is give you chillsblain in Haugust.”  The speaker blew upon his fingers and sat back upon his heels, his eyes twinkling, his brown face wreathed in smiles.

“Then I can do it?  You’ll let me try?” Rouletta was all eagerness.

“We’ll talk ‘bout dat bimeby.  First t’ing we goin’ have beeg potlatch, lak Siwash weddin’.”

“Goody!  Now run away while I get up.”

But the man shook his head.  “Don’ be soch hurry.  Dis tent warm slow.  Las’ night de reever is froze solid so far you look.  Pretty queeck people come.”

“Do you think they’ll have extra clothes—­something warm that I can wear?”

“Sure!  I fix all dat.”  Still smiling, ’Poleon rose and went stooping out of the tent, tying the flaps behind him.  A few rods distant was another shelter which he had pitched for himself; in front of it, on a pole provision-cache, were two quarters of frozen caribou meat, and seated comfortably in the snow beneath, eyes fixed upon the prize, were several “husky” dogs of unusual size.  At ’Poleon’s appearance they began to caper and to fawn upon him.

“Ho, you ole t’iefs!” he cried, sternly.  “You lak steal dose meat, I bet!  Wal, I eat you ’live.”  Stretching on tiptoe, he removed one of the quarters and bore it into his tent.  The dogs gathered just outside the door; cautiously they nosed the canvas aside; and as ’Poleon set to work with hatchet and hunting-knife their bright eyes followed his every move.