STORM-DRIVEN For an hour there was no sound in the cabin.

Lawler smoked several cigarettes.

Once he got up and threw more wood upon the fire, standing in front of the blaze for several minutes stretching his long legs, watching the licking tongues as they were sucked up the chimney by the shrieking wind.
Then, for a time, he lounged in the chair, gazing meditatively at the north window, noting how the fine, frozen snow meal clung to the glass; watching the light fade, listening to the howling white terror that had seized the world in its icy grip.
At the end of an hour it grew dark in the cabin.

Lawler got up, lighted the kerosene lamp, placed it on the table, seated himself on a bench and again meditatively watched the leaping flames in the fireplace.
Satisfaction glowed in his eyes as he thought of what would have happened had he not decided to substitute for Davies and Harris.
Undoubtedly by this time the two men were on their way to the camp.

They would certainly have noticed the warning bleak northern sky and other indications of the coming storm.