He'll make it out of
small trees, long and thin, bent round with their tops stuck in the
ground, and he'll thatch it with skins, and spread buffalo robes on the
floor of it. There'll be a hole for the smoke to get out, and near the
door'll be his graining block and stretching frame to cure his skins.
On a tree nearby he'll hang his traps, and there'll be a brace of
elkhorns fastened to another tree that they'll use for a rack to hang
the meat and maybe their clothes on. They'll have some coffee and
sugar and salt. That's all they'll need in the way of eatables, for
he'll shoot all the game they want, _les aliments du pays_, as the fur
men call it. It'll be cold, and maybe for months they'll see no one.
But what will it matter? They'll have each other, snug and warm way
off there in the heart of the mountains, with the big peaks looking
down at them. Isn't that a good life for a man and a woman?"
She did not answer, but sat as if contemplating the picture with fixed,
far-seeing gaze. He raised himself on his elbow and looked at her.
"Could you do that, little lady?" he said.
"No," she answered, beating down rebellious inner whisperings.
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