Delilah of the Snows by Harold Bindloss

A faint light was creeping across the snow when Ingleby rose from his bed of cedar twigs, behind the log, and stood up shivering. It was very cold, and most of his companions were still sleeping, though there were more of them than there had been the night before. During the darkness a handful of strangers had come limping in, and one of them had told him a somewhat astonishing story about Trooper Probyn. He could grasp the significance of it, but that was all, for though the rapid was partly ice-bound now, one white sluice of water still frothed about the tree, and the sound it made seemed to keep his thoughts from crystallizing. He was, however, glad of the distraction.

A man who flung down an armful of fuel stopped and shook two or three of his comrades, who got up and stretched themselves before they set about preparing their morning meal. The pines had grown sharper in outline by the time it was finished, and the snow beneath them had changed in hue and was now a flat, lifeless white; and, though most of the men had risen, the stillness was more impressive than ever. Ingleby had grown accustomed to the roar of the river and could have heard the slightest sound through its pulsations; but there was nothing for him to hear beyond the sharp crackle of the fire and the restless movements of one or two of his companions. The rest were expectantly watching the man upon the log; but he stood motionless, with his face turned steadfastly down the valley. Ingleby, however, felt the tension less than he might have done under different circumstances.