Northwest! by Harold Bindloss

A warm Chinook wind, blowing from the Pacific, carried the smell of the pines. The dark branches tossed and a languid murmur, like distant surf, rolled up the valley. Jimmy had pulled off his coat and his gray workman's shirt was open at the neck, for he liked to feel the breeze on his hot skin. He was splitting cedar for roof shingles, but had stopped in order to sharpen his ax. Since he had not yet cut his leg, he thought his luck was good.

A few maples, beginning to turn crimson, broke the rows of somber pines. In the foreground were chopped trunks, blackened by fire, ashes and white chips. A tent and a half-built house of notched logs occupied the middle of the small clearing. In the background, one saw high rocks, streaked at their dark tops by snow. Some of the snow was fresh, and Jimmy imagined the speed he had used was justified. Yet, so long as the Chinook blew, gentle Indian summer would brood over the valley.