The door was closed, but opened readily as he put his weight against it.

The single room was lighted by a window through which a mass of snow had drifted, and contained nothing more than a rude table built against one of the log walls, three supply boxes that had evidently been employed as stools, and a cracked and rust-eaten sheet-iron stove that had from all appearances long passed into disuse.

He motioned the Frenchman to a seat at one end of the table.

Without a word he then went outside, securely toggled the leading dog, and returning, closed the door and seated himself at the end of the table opposite Jean.
The light from the open window fell full on Croisset's dark face and shone in a silvery streak along the top of Howland's revolver as the muzzle of it rested casually on a line with the other's breast.

There was a menacing click as the engineer drew back the hammer.
"Now, my dear Jean, we're ready to begin the real game," he explained.
"Here we are, high and dry, and down there--just far enough away to be out of hearing of this revolver when I shoot--are those we're going to play against.