Just principle. That's all. He thought it wasn't
right--and, of course, it wasn't,--but that was no reason for us to
interfere and get hustled over the divide before our time."
"Principle is principle, and it's good in its place, but it's best left
to home when you go to Alaska. Eh?" Wertz had joined his mate, and both
were working pliability into their frozen moccasins. "Think we ought to
have taken a hand?"
Sigmund shook his head. He was very busy. A scud of chocolate-colored
foam was rising in the coffee-pot, and the bacon needed turning. Also,
he was thinking about the girl with laughing eyes like summer seas, and
he was humming softly.
His mates chuckled to each other and ceased talking. Though it was past
seven, daybreak was still three hours distant. The aurora borealis had
passed out of the sky, and the camp was an oasis of light in the midst of
deep darkness. And in this light the forms of the three men were sharply
defined. Emboldened by the silence, Sigmund raised his voice and opened
the last stanza of the old song:-
"In a year, in a year, when the grapes are ripe--"
Then the night was split with a rattling volley of rifle-shots.
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