“Yes.”
They came to Dumont’s Camp as night fell. Reivers halted and made sundry enquiries.
“In a shack half ways between here and Fifty Mile,” was the substance of the replies.
“Hi-yah! Mush, mush up!” and they were on the trail again.
At daylight the next day, from a rise in the land, he saw the shack that had been designated. Smoke was rising from the chimney, and a small figure that he knew even at that distance came out, filled a pail with snow and went in again.
Reivers stopped his dogs some distance from the shack. He threw MacGregor, gold belt and all, over his shoulder and went up to the door and knocked. For a second or two he smiled triumphantly as Hattie MacGregor opened the door and stood speechless at what she saw. Then he bowed low, laid his burden on the floor and went out without a word.
The dogs shuddered as they heard him laugh coming back to them.
He drove them furiously into a gully that shut out the sight of the shack and sat down on the sledge. The dogs whined. It was the time for the morning meal and the master was making no preparations to eat.
“Still, you curs!” The whip fell mercilessly among them and they crouched in terror.