The Lure of the North by Harold Bindloss

Winter began unusually soon and a blizzard raged about the shack one evening when Scott and Thirlwell sat near the stove. The small room smelt of hot-iron and the front of the stove glowed a dull red, but the men shivered as the bitter draughts swept in. Thirlwell watched the skin curtain he had nailed across the window bulge while the snow beat savagely against the glass, and then picked up a book. Presently Scott hung a bearskin on the back of his chair.

"It's a pretty good hide although the forequarter's cut away," he said. "Still I don't know that I wanted the thing and reckon the half-breed who sold it me got its value in cartridges and food. Now transport's difficult, I hope he and his Indian friends won't bring us any more of the damaged stock they can't sell to the Hudson's Bay."