Inside the barrel-vaulted western shelter, the peat-and-brushwood stove threw a rich, amber heat into the stone vault, banishing the deadly frost of the high plateau. Outside, the wind screamed across the open terrace. It drove needles of rime against the granite stonework. But within the shelter six people sat together in the warmth.
Bram and Orel had stabled their two mountain mules in the sheltered lee of the eastern cabin, bedding the beasts in dry alpine heather and blanketed under heavy wool covers. Now the two canton stone-cutters sat on a timber bench near the hearth, peeling strips of roasted salt bacon with their pocketknives and washing it down with hot chicory brew from Paxa’s kettle.
“Those mules of ours are tough as mountain hemlock,” Bram said. He wiped grease from his graying beard. “They carried sixty pounds of iron sledges and five gallons of oil up that twelve-mile grade without blowing a nostril. But this plateau is no place for beasts if a three-day blizzard sets in. The stone cuts cold right through iron shoes.”
“That’s why we stabled them on the leeward apron,” Orel added. He nodded toward the thick stone wall. “The wind can howl fifty miles an hour from the north. But that eastern cabin breaks the blast. They’ll munch their dry oats and sleep like sheep.”
