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 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.

"No," Blake answered, smiling. "I can make a guess; there's a stamp on
you I recognize. You're from Regina."

"You've hit it first time. I'm Sergeant Lane, R.N.W.M.P. This"--he
indicated his companion--"is Private Walthew. We've been up on a
special patrol to Copper Lake and left two of the boys there to make
some inquiries about the Indians. Now we're on the back trail."

He looked as if he expected the others to return hi