"I'll give him no chance to spoil our plans," said Joe, kneeling up to take a good look about him. "First thing is to take a squint into the lean-to. There's a light somewhere inside, I fancy, so perhaps Hurley is sitting up and making plans for the next attack. Hope he ain't, though; I'd rather he were asleep, worn out by all that's happened."
Crawling along on hands and knees, it was a little time before he came to the lean-to. A glance over his shoulder now told him that Hank had come a trifle closer, and still had the dog beside him. Knowing, therefore, that he had someone to give him a warning should the half-breeds suddenly emerge, Joe very gently separated two strips of birch bark which closed in a portion of this Canadian dwelling. Then he applied his eye to the aperture, only to find that he was staring right across to the far side of the lean-to, and that neither Hurley nor anyone else was within his vision. There was a roll of flaming bark within two feet, however, spluttering and smoking gently.
"No good here," he thought. "Must try the other side, and a trifle lower down. Hallo—dogs! George—they're lying just outside this shanty!"
Joe had risen to his feet now, though still stooping, and as he peered over the far end of the flimsy erection he caught sight of quite a number of dogs stretched within easy distance of the fire, huddled into one close body, and all fast asleep. After all, there was nothing remarkable in that, or of sufficient importance to cause his exclamations, save, of course, their proximity to himself. For these dogs, bred in the Arctic zone almost, and in any case upon its fringe, can stand a degree of cold which would rapidly kill a human being. Warmth they like, just as do most animals, but they can resist a Canadian winter in remarkable manner, and are capable of sleeping in the open. In any case, there they were, bundled together, sleeping deeply, no doubt tired after a hard day with the sleigh.
"But they'll rouse any time," Joe told himself. "If there weren't snow about to deaden my steps, they'd have kicked up a row already, unless, of course, they take me for one of their masters."
Perhaps that was the reason of their tranquillity. Satisfied that they had not detected him yet, Joe crept round to the far side of the lean-to and, boring another aperture, peered in. And on this occasion his efforts won a greater reward; for Hurley lay before him. His bulky form was stretched full length on one of the sleighs, his face turned away from the light; a rifle was propped beside him, while close against the sleigh was that same wooden box which we have already described. For the rest, there was nothing more to comment on. Travellers during a Canadian winter are few and far between—we speak here of the backwoods—and such as there are carry merely necessaries, so that a humble lean-to contains little else but the traveller. There was Hurley, in fact, alone, and with a weapon beside him. The box was of no consequence, though, if only Joe could have guessed that only a few hours ago that precious document was spread out on it, it is likely enough that he would have shown more excitement. But there was no sign of the envelope. Doubtless the sleeping Hurley had it in an inner pocket. Joe bore in mind Hank's warning, and promptly used all his wits to bring about an escape from the ruffian.
"Can't bother about the document or letter," he told himself. "We'll tackle the man; but how, is the question? It's clear that he has hauled the sleigh in to make a bed, leaving the dogs still attached to it. That would be fine for us, if it weren't for the fact that Hurley has fallen asleep on it. Then there's the gun; fancy I can reach that, anyway."
He stretched the opening a little wider, stood well above it, and reached in.
"Can't!" he told himself, with an exclamation of vexation. "Try again."