"No, sir!" said Lane decidedly. "We see this trip through together. For another thing, the dogs are playing out, and after the way they've served us I want to save them. With your help at the traces we make better time."
Blake could not deny this. The snow had been in bad condition for the last week, and the men had relieved each other in hauling the sled. The police camp equipment was heavy, but it could not be thrown away, for the men preferred some degree of hunger to lying awake at nights, half frozen. Moreover, neither Blake nor his comrades desired to leave their new friends and once more face the rigors of the wilds alone.
"Then we'll have to make the best speed we can," he said.
They talked about the journey still before them for another hour. It was a clear night and very cold, but there was a crescent moon in the sky. The wind had fallen; the fragile twigs of the birches which shot up among the poplars were still, and deep silence brooded over the wide stretch of snow.
"Ah!" Emile exclaimed suddenly. "You hear somet'ing?"
They did not, though they listened hard; but the half-breed had been born in the wilderness, and they could not think him mistaken. For a minute or two his pose suggested strained attention, and then he smiled.
"White man come from ze sout'. Mais, oui! He come, sure t'ing."
Lane nodded.
"I guess he's right. I can hear it now; but I can't figure on the kind of outfit."
Then Blake heard a sound which puzzled him. It was not the quick patter of a dog team, nor the sliding fall of netted shoes. The noise was dull and heavy, and as the snow would deaden it, whoever was coming could not be far away.