He saw it at last, a yellow eye peering at him through a slit in an inky
wall. A moment later the darker shadow of the cabin rose up in his face,
and a flash of lightning showed him the door. In a moment of silence he
could hear the patter of huge raindrops on the roof as he dropped his
bags and began hammering with his fist to arouse the Swede. Then he
flung open the unlocked door and entered, tossing his dunnage to the
floor, and shouted the old greeting that Ericksen would not have
forgotten, though nearly a quarter of a century had passed since he and
Alan's father had tramped the mountains together.
He had turned up the wick of the oil lamp on the table when into the
frame of an inner door came Ericksen himself, with his huge, bent
shoulders, his massive head, his fierce eyes, and a great gray beard
streaming over his naked chest. He stared for a moment, and Alan flung
off his hat, and as the storm broke, beating upon the cabin in a mighty
shock of thunder and wind and rain, a bellow of recognition came from
Ericksen. They gripped hands.
The Swede's voice rose above wind and rain and the rattle of loose
windows, and he was saying something about three years ago and rubbing
the sleep from his eyes, when the strange look in Alan's face made him
pause to hear other words than his own.
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