For a few moments the others only heard the rustle of the willows and the swishing sound of driven snow; then a faint patter caught their ears, and a crack followed like the snapping of a whip.
"A dog team!" cried Benson, and springing to his feet set up a loud shout.
It was answered in English and while they stood, shaken by excitement and intense relief, several low shadowy shapes emerged from the gloom; then a tall figure appeared, and after it two more. Somebody shouted harsh orders in uncouth French; the dogs sped towards the fire and stopped. Then their driver, hurrying after them, began to loose the traces, while another man walked up to Blake.
"We saw your fire and thought we'd make for it," he said. "I see your cooking outfit's still lying round."
"It's at your service," Blake told him. "I'm sorry we can't offer you much supper, though there's a bit of a bannock and some flour."
"We'll soon fix that," said the other. "Guess you're up against it, but our grub's holding out." He turned to the driver. "Come and tend to the cooking when you're through, Emile."
Though the order was given good-humouredly, there was a hint of authority in his voice, and the man he spoke to quickened his movements. Then another came up, and while the dogs snapped at each other, and rolled in the snow, the half-breed driver unloaded a heavy provision bag and filled Harding's frying pan.
"Don't spare it," said the first comer. "I guess these folks are hungry; fix up your best menoo."
Sitting down by the fire, shapeless in his whitened coat, with his bronzed face half hidden by his big fur cap, he had nevertheless a soldierly look.
"You'll be wondering who we are?" he said.