It was bitterly cold.
In the east the sky had paled the least bit in the world, but the moon and stars shone on bravely and undiminished.

A band of coyotes was shrieking desperate blasphemies against the new day, and the stray herd, awakening, was beginning to bawl and bellow.
Two crater-like dutch ovens, filled with pieces of fried beef, stood near the fire; two galvanised water buckets, brimming with soda biscuits, flanked them; two tremendous coffee pots stood guard at either end.

We picked us each a tin cup and a tin plate from the box at the rear of the chuck wagon; helped ourselves from a dutch oven, a pail, and a coffee pot, and squatted on our heels as close to the fire as possible.

Men who came too late borrowed the shovel, scooped up some coals, and so started little fires of their own about which new groups formed.
While we ate, the eastern sky lightened.

The mountains under the dawn looked like silhouettes cut from slate-coloured paper; those in the west showed faintly luminous.