Benson made no answer, and Harding was silent a while, sitting very still with knitted brows.
"I can't see any way out," he said at last. "Can you?"
"Well," Blake answered quietly, "we'll go on as long as we are able.
Though I haven't had a rosy time, I have faith in my luck."
Conversation languished after this. The men had a small cake of tobacco left, and they sat smoking and hiding their fears while the wind moaned among the willows and thin snow blew past. The camp was exposed, and, hungry and dejected as they were, they felt the stinging cold. After an hour of moody silence, Harding suddenly leaned forward, with a lifted hand.
"What's that?" he said sharply. "Didn't you hear it?"
For a few moments they heard only the rustle of the willows and the swishing sound of driven snow; then a faint patter caught their ears, and a crack like the snapping of a whip.
"A dog team!" cried Benson.
Springing to his feet, he 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 toward the fire and stopped. 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 explained. "I see your cooking outfit's still lying round."
"It's at your service," Blake responded. "I'm sorry we can't offer you much supper, though there's a bit of a bannock and some flour."