Over the smooth, glazed crust, into low, powdery drifts, under windfalls or around them, down the forest aisles, or across bare, open spaces, they whirled, the men at a tireless, gliding lope, the dogs at a fast trot.
Nearer came the shanty and its curl of smoke. Now, it was but a quarter of a mile away, and the going was all down-hill and clear. The men jumped aboard the sledge, and called to the dogs, which responded by breaking into a gallop. Thus silently, without bells, the equipage descended upon the unknown travelers in the shanty.
A hundred yards away, the strange dogs sounded the alarm, and, ten seconds later, Donald's team was engaged in a free fight that threatened to put an end to every strip of harness.
While Peter Rainy stayed to separate the combatants, Donald sprang off, and rushed ahead to the shanty. At that moment, two persons stepped out of the door, a man and a woman.
Even at fifty yards, there could be no doubt as to their identity: They were the old hag Maria and her Indian son, Tom.
[CHAPTER XII]
MARIA TAKES ACTION
“Good-evening,” said Donald, courteously, in the Ojibway tongue. With all his impatience, he knew better than to be precipitate. Tom and Maria responded in kind to his salutation, and the usual amenities of those who find themselves at a camping-place together were exchanged. Of course, the newcomers would not think of occupying the cabin, since the others had reached it first, even though Donald's rank in the Hudson Bay Company entitled him to the best to be had.
They were fortunate, he said, in the locating of such an admirable shelter; in fact, it was one of the best he had seen, warm, well made, with room for the dogs. Whose was it? They told him an Indian name, and he continued his complimentary talk, approaching the door all the time.
Truly, this good Indian would have to be recommended to the factor for keeping his place in such fine order. See! Even the door fitted in its frame, and did not sag on its hinges when he opened it. There would be—He entered.