A week later Lucky Jim was in possession of a good summer cabin—he had occupied a tent on his previous stay on the bar—and was engaged chopping down some spruce trees destined to become sluicing lumber, when the barking of the dogs announced the approach of someone. He paused and listened. A jangle of sleighbells came to his ear. Shouldering his axe he stepped to the bank and looked down the river. At a distance of three hundred yards he spied two mushers each driving a dog-team attached to which were heavily laden sleds. He went into his cabin, belted on a gun and returned to the bank to await the strangers' arrival.
As they drew near he noticed that both men were deeply tanned from the reflection of the April sun on the snow, and that they wore snowglasses. Because of these he did not at first recognize them.
"Hello!" he cried.
This hail was responded to in kind, but only after a slight but noticeable hesitation. He never removed his eye from them. They halted when they came level with him. He recognized them then as Chenoa Pete and Mike Taggart, men for whom he had little use. He had reckoned that they "didn't belong."
"Whither bound?" he asked.
"Oh, up the river a ways," returned Chenoa Pete.
"Unhitch and stick around for a day," invited Lucky Jim.
"We dassn't," spoke up Mike Taggart. "The snow is packin' fast and we've got quite a ways to go yet. Is this where you pick up your whisky dust?"
Mike waved a hand embracingly.
From where they stood, a dozen bars in the river were distinctly outlined, but in view of the fact that Lucky Jim had not yet done any work on Easy Money, all bars looked alike to the mushers.