Round the bend a sledge had just appeared on the river. It was drawn by six dogs, coming at a flagging trot through the deep snow; four men on snowshoes ran behind and beside it. For a moment the men seemed to hesitate as they caught sight of the hut. But they came on, turned up the shore, and drove straight to the cabin at a gallop.
Three of the voyageurs were plainly French Canadians, or possibly French half-breeds, wiry, weather-beaten men, dark almost as Indians; the fourth was big and heavily built, and wore a red beard that was now a mass of ice. All of them wore cartridge belts, and four rifles lay on the packed sledge.
"Bo' jou'!" cried the dark-faced men, as they came within hailing distance.
"Bon jour!" Maurice shouted back. He was the only one who knew any French, and he knew but little. He was searching his memory for a few more words, when the red-bearded man came forward and nodded.
"Didn't know any one was living here this winter," he said. "Trapping?"
"Hunting a little," said Macgregor. "Unharness your dogs and come inside. It's a cold day for the trail."
"You bet!" said one of the French, and they made no difficulty about accepting the invitation. They rapidly unhitched the dogs, which had sat down, snarling and snapping in their traces; then they unpacked the sledge and carried the dunnage inside the cabin.
They were a wild-looking set. The French Canadians were probably woodsmen, shanty-men or hunters, apparently good-natured and jovial, but rough and uncivilized. The Anglo-Saxon, who seemed to be their leader, was more repellent, and when he took off his capote, he revealed a countenance of savage brutality, with small eyes, a cruel mouth, and a protuberant jaw, framed in masses of bricky red hair and beard.
"I don't much like the looks of this crowd!" Maurice whispered in Macgregor's ear.
"Rough lot, but they'll be away in the morning," answered Peter.