"Quey! Quey!" called the stranger; and then, seeing they were white men: "Bon jour! I hear de shot an' cum back from de islan'."
Dropping his mittens, Bolton seized the proffered hand.
"We've just shot one of our dogs. We're bound for Flying Post and are starved out. Can you give us some grub? This blizzard about finished us."
"Flying Pos'?" The tall dog-driver raised his ice-hung eyebrows in surprise.
"Dees ees not de trail to Flying Pos'. Dees ees de beeg arm of Grand Lac dat run' nord t'irty mile. You lose de trail in de narrow' back dere w'en you not see for de snow."
"Thank God we met you, then!" exclaimed Bolton. "We would have starved out for we were heading north."
"Lucky t'ing, for sure. You get los' easee on dees lac. Flying Pos' ees two day travel wes'. I got plentee deer meat and tea, but leetle flour. I was go to de pos' for flour w'en I heard de shot."
The next day the famished men and dogs feasted on the French trapper's freely offered caribou steaks, bannocks, and whitefish, and rested, then started with their guide for the post. Three days later the dog-teams drew up in front of the whitewashed log trade-house of Flying Post.
In the absence of the factor, Haig, who had gone to Lake Expanse, they were greeted by the rat-faced half-breed clerk in charge.
As Bolton and McIntyre entered the trade-room,
