Overhead the pine tops were a dark canopy with little fields of clear blue seen through the rifts of green; on the forest floor small firs bent under rounding weights of snow which often slid off as if moved by the stir of partridge wings; the fine tracery of hemlocks stood clean; and birches snuggled in snow that mingled with their curling rags. Sometimes a breeze eddied downward in the aisles, and then all the undergrowth was a silent commotion of snow, shaken and falling. Davie’s eyes noted all things unconsciously; in spite of his pain he felt the enchantment of the winter woods until—another _cahot!_ he called his team to walk.
Never was one _cahot_ without many in succession; he gripped his stake hard at each, braced his sound leg, and held on, feeling like to die with the horrible thrust of the broken one forward and then back; yet always his will ordered his desperate senses.
Eleven o’clock! Davie drew up before the half-breed Peter Whiteduck’s midwood stopping-place, and briefly explained his situation.
"Give my horses a feed," he went on. "There’s oats in this bag. I’ll no be moved mysel’. Maybe you’ll fetch me a tin of tea; I’ve got my own provisions." So he ate and drank in the zero weather.
"You’ll took lil’ drink of whiskey," said Peter, with commiseration, as Davie was starting away.
"You’ll got for need some ’fore you’ll see de Widow Green place. Dass twenty-tree mile."
"I will need it, then," said Davie, and was away.
Evening had closed in when the bunch of teamsters awaiting supper at Widow Green’s rude inn heard sleigh-bells, and soon a shout outside:
That was an insolence in the teamsters’ code. Come out, indeed! The Widow Green, bustling about with fried pork, felt outraged. To be called out!—of her own house!—like a dog!—not she!
"Come out here, somebody!" Davie shouted again.
"G’ out and break his head one of you," said fighting Moses Frost. "To be shoutin’ like a lord!" Moses was too great a personage to go out and wreak vengeance on an unknown.
Narcisse Larocque went—to thrash anybody would be glory for Narcisse, and he felt sure that Moses would not, in these circumstances, let anybody thrash him.’
"What for you shout lak’ dat? Call mans hout, hey?" said Narcisse. "I’ll got good mind for broke your head, me!"