He had just sealed a letter, and given it to Timmins, when he thought he detected a noise outside the cabin. Whether it was a step or a gruff whisper, he could not say. He listened curiously. Who should be about at this hour? Surely, it was too early for the—
“I wonder, do they keep their grub in this shack?” came the whisper of a man, speaking to a companion.
Where Donald lay, with his ear almost against the logs, the voices were distinct through the chinks, but did not reach the two guards at the door. He remained silent. There was a sound of breathing, and then stealthy steps, as the men pursued their investigations along the walls. What should he do? Who were they? If he spoke, he might precipitate some calamity of which he had no inkling. Thinking hard, he could reason out no situation in the camp that would call for men to be slinking about looking for food. Besides, every one knew that the little cabin was not a storehouse.
Knowing their man and sure of their own ability to cope with any situation that might arise, Timmins and Buxton had not been over-careful in making the door of the cabin fast. At best, the bar was only a piece of wood that turned on a peg, and its main use was to keep the door tightly closed on account of the cold draft that entered every crack. McTavish had been under guard since the morning of his arrest, and the watchers were grown careless. Now, the piece of wood was not turned full across the edge of the entrance—in fact, it just managed to keep it shut. A good stiff pull would—
There was a jerk at the outside handle, a cracking and scraping of wood, an icy blast set the little fire roaring. An instant later, a long gun, with a muffled face behind it, appeared and covered the three men.
“Here, you in the corner, get up, and let's see who you are?” said the man with the gun, and Donald, before that uncompromising barrel, stood.
“Well, by the great Lucifer,” came the soft oath, “if it isn't McTavish!”
“What do you want?” demanded Donald; “and who are you?” He resented this intrusion. The time for letters was growing less and less.
“What, don't you recognize me?” The man thrust his head forward, and worked his face out of the capote that covered the features. It was Seguis.
“Well, this is luck,” the half-breed was saying to himself. “All I have to do now is to take him out of here, and the coast is clear for my own operations.”