[image]THEY WERE A FUNNY-LOOKING PARTY."Walk in Rof's tracks, Pisew, till you strike a muskeg," ordered the King; "François won't fancy the fun of following a traveller like you through a big swamp.""I should like to hide that Trap," lamented Carcajou."Oh, never mind," interrupted Black Fox. "Get away home, everybody.""I'll hear some choice French to-night," declared Jack. "When François discovers that somebody has robbed his Trap, he'll jabber himself asleep."All the way to his home Carcajou swore vengeance on the Man who had made his paws so sore. "You'll do it, Brother," said Rof, "and I don't blame you. Of course we must remember our oath about The Boy."THE COMING OF THE TRAIN DOGSFor three days nothing unusual happened. Hunger commenced to nip at every one, for, as we know, it was the Seventh Year of the Rabbit cycle, and they were scarce. All the others envied old Muskwa, slumbering peacefully, nourished by the fat of his Summer's pillage.The narrow body of Lynx was getting narrower, the gaunt sides of Blue Wolf gaunter. Fisher and Marten were living on Deer Mice, Squirrels, and small game; and the Red Widow's family were depending almost entirely upon Spruce Partridge--the flesh of these birds had become particularly astringent, too. The gray-mottled, pin-tail Grouse had entirely disappeared--better eating they were, the Widow contended; but in the Seventh Year it was not a matter of selection at all, and each Animal was poaching on the other's preserve--all because of the scarcity of Wapoos. But in spite of the general starvation, every one left a small dole of his food for Carcajou, whose paws were too sore to prowl about. He felt the restricted diet more than any of them, being a perfect gourmand,--"Gulo the Glutton," that was his name; and he liked good living.On the fourth day Whisky-Jack startled his comrades with the announcement that François had acquired a train of four dogs from Nichemous, who was passing down the ice-road of the river with a Free-Trader. Blue Wolf snuffed discontentedly at the news; they were his enemies, and many a scar he carried as souvenir of combats with these domesticated cousins. Family instinct, however, led him to skulk close to François's Shack one evening hoping to see the dogs. He went often after the first visit, though advised by Carcajou that it would end in his getting a destroying blast from the Firestick."They haven't got one," Rof assured him. "You destroyed the only Ironstick they had.""That was an old Trade Musket," retorted Wolverine. "François is too clever to put his good Ironstick out in the wet. You'll find that he has another, if you don't keep away. What's the attraction, anyway?" he asked. "There can't be anything to eat there, with those yelping Huskies about."It was Whisky-Jack who gave the secret away. "Blue Wolf's in love," he said, solemnly; "three of the Train are of the sister kind, and Rof's got his eye on one. François calls her 'Marsh Maid,' but the Train-leader is a big Huskie Dog, and he'll chew Growler the Wolf into little bits--I sha'n't mind, Rof's too surly for me."Blue Wolf became a great dandy; brushed his coat--scraped the snow away from a moss patch in the Jack-Pines, and rubbed his shaggy fur till it became quite presentable.The big fight that Jack anticipated so eagerly materialized, but, contrary to Jay's forecast, Rof trounced the Huskie soundly. After that he came and went pretty much as he desired--growled his admiration of Marsh Maid, and took forcible possession of Huskie's White Fish.All this nearly brought sorrow to the Red Widow's family, for Stripes, the Kit-Fox, having his curiosity roused by Jack's recital of Blue Wolf's doings, incautiously ventured close to the Shack one day to have a look at the Train. With an angry howl Huskie swooped down upon him, and but for Rod, who, hearing Stripes's plaintive squeal, rushed out and drove the Dog off, he would have been most effectually eaten up. The young Fox fled for his life, and his tale of this adventure filled the Red Widow's heart with gratitude toward The Boy.Within the Boundaries the food fever was strong on the Animals, and François's baits became an almost irresistible temptation. Trap after Trap Black King and his family robbed, leaving the Meat with the White Powder in, and taking it when it was clear of this, until François was in despair."By Goss!" he confided to The Boy, "I t'ink me we goin' keel no fur here. Dat Carcajou he de Debil, but mos' all de odder Animal is Debil too. S'pose I put out de Trap, dey take de bait, cac'e de Trap, and s'pose me dey laugh by deyselves. I see dat Black Fox two, t'ree time, an' I know me his track now; ev'ry day I see dat tracks. But we must catc' him. What fur we keel now? Not enough to pay fer de grub stake."THE TRAPPING OF BLACK FOXSo far all the plans of the Half-breed for capturing Black Fox had failed; but one day conditions were favourable for his master-stroke--a rare trick known only to himself. He smiled grimly when in the early morning he discovered that the snow bore a tender young crust just sufficient to bear a fair-sized animal. His preparations were elaborate."To-day we catc' dat black fell'," he said, gleefully, to Rod. "You wait here till I s'oot Mister Mus'rat firs' for bait, den I s'ow you some treek."Soon François returned with a freshly killed Muskrat, which he promptly skinned, taking great care not to touch the meat with his hands. Putting the hindquarters in a pouch formed from the blood-stained skin, he next made a long-handled scraper. "Now I fix dis tea-dance where de fox alway go for sit in one place ever' day--I know me dat place," he chuckled as, gathering up the outfit, he started for the Forest.Arrived there François pulled the snow from under the gentle crust with his scraper for a space of six or eight feet, leaving a miniature cave under the frozen shell. Into this he shoved two strong steel Traps, and using a long stick emptied the Muskrat pouch of its meat just above."Now, Mister S'arp-nose," muttered the Breed, "I t'ink me you no smell not'ing but Meat. You don't like smell François, eh? For dat I give me de Mus'rat smell for you' nose."Backing away from his work the Half-breed carefully smoothed down the snow into his tracks for a long distance, then filling his pipe, lighted it, and trudged back to the Shack to await the success of this ruse. When Black King came up the wind, winding up the meat-scent like a ball of yarn, he struck a new combination. There were no evidences of Man's handicraft; no Trap insight--no baited gun; no Marten stockade; no bent sapling with a hungry noose dangling to it; but there were undoubtedly two nice, juicy, appetizing pieces of meat lying on top of the undisturbed snow-crust.Black Fox sat down and surveyed the surrounding territory critically; cocked his sharp eyes and sharper nose toward all points of the compass. The Forest was like a graveyard--as silent; no hidden enemy lurked near with ready Firestick--his nose assured him on that point.Then he walked gingerly in a big circle all about the glamourous centre-piece of sweet-smelling meat, his nose prospecting every inch of the ground. Something had evidently disturbed the snow where François had smoothed it down. Three circles he completed like this; each one smaller and closer to the Bait. Three lengths of himself from the covered-danger he sat down again, and tried to think it out."It can't be a Trap," he mused; "nothing has walked where the eating is, that much is certain. François can smooth the white ground-cover down, but can't put a crust on it. Starvation Year! but that Meat smells good--I haven't eaten for two days. I wish it were a Trap--then I should know what I was about. It looks mighty suspicious--must be the White Powder; think I had better leave it alone. If there were only a Trap in sight I would tackle it quick enough; it's easy to spring one of those things and get the Bait."He trotted away twenty yards, meaning to go home and not risk it. Suddenly he stopped, sat down once more and thought it all over again, his determination weakened by appetite. His lean stomach clamoured for the Meat--it was full of nothing but the great pain of hunger."Forest Devils!" muttered the hesitating Fox; "I believe I'm losing my nerve--am afraid because there isn't anything in sight but the Meat. I'd never hear the last of it if Carcajou, or Pisew, or any of them came along, saw my trail, and then, having more pluck than I've got, went and ate that free eating. I wonder what it is? Smells like a cut of Muskrat, or a piece of Caribou; it's not Fish."He walked back cautiously, irresolutely, and took a look from the opposite side. "I have a notion to try it; I can tell if there's White Medicine about when I get it at the end of my nose," he said, peering all about carefully; there was nobody in sight--nothing! "Women Foxes!" but he was nervous. His big "brush" was simply trembling with the fear of some unknown danger. He laughed hysterically at the idea. It was the unusualness of Meat lying on the snow and no evidence of why it should be there: there was no appearance of a Kill near the spot. How in the world had it come there? There was no track leading up to nor away from it; perhaps Hawk, or Whisky-Jack, or some other bird had dropped it. It was the most wonderful problem he had ever run up against.But thinking it over brought no solution; also his stomach clamoured louder and louder for the appetizing morsel. Rising up, Black King crept cautiously towards the fascinating object. His foot went through the snow crust. "This wouldn't bear up a Baby Lynx," he thought. "Neither François nor any other Man can have been near that Meat."He took another step--and another, eyes and nose inspecting every inch of the snow. He could almost reach it; another step, and as his paw sank through the crust it touched something smooth and slippery. There was a clang of iron, and the bone of his left fore-leg was clamped tight in the cruel jaws of a Fox Trap.Poor old Black King! Despair and pain stretched him, sobbing queer little whimpering cries of anguish in the snow. Only for an instant; then he realized that unless help came from his Comrades his peerless coat would soon be stretched skin-side out on a wedge-shaped board in François's shack. Shrill and plaintive his trembling whistle, "Wh-e-e-he-e-e-, Wh-e-e-he-e-e!" went vibrating through the still Forest in a supplicating call to his companions for succour.Then an hour of despairing anguish, without one single glint of hope. Every crack of tree-bark, as the frost stretched it, was the snapping of a twig under François's feet; every rustle of bare branches overhead was the shuffling rasp of his snow-shoes on the yielding crust.Excruciating pains shot up the Fox's leg and suggested grim tortures in store when François had taken him from the Trap--perhaps he would skin him alive; the Indians and Half-breeds were so frightfully cruel to Animals. If only Carcajou, or Whisky-Jack, or dear old Mooswa could hear his whistle--surely they would help him out. Suddenly he heard the rustle of Jack's wings, and turned eagerly. A big, brown, belated leaf fluttered idly from a Cottonwood and fell in the snow. There was no Whisky-Jack in sight--nothing but the helpless, shrivelled leaf scurrying away before the wind.At intervals he barked a call, then listened. How deadly silent the Forest was; his heart thumping against his ribs sounded like the beat of Partridge's wing-drums at the time of mating.Strange fancies for an animal flitted through his mind--something like a man's thoughts when he drifts close to death. Why had Wiesahkechack, who was God of Man and Animals, arranged it this way. During all his life Black King had killed only when hunger forced him to it; but here was François, a Man, killing, killing always---killing everything. And for what? Not to eat; for the Breed had flour in plenty, and meat that was already killed. It was not because of hunger; but simply to steal their coats, that he or some other Man or Woman might look fine in fur-clothes stolen from the Boundary Dwellers--at the sacrifice of their lives.Again Black Fox heard a leaf sawing its whispering way down through the willow wands: he even did not turn his head. But it was wings this time; and a cheery, astonished voice sang out: "Hello, Your Majesty, what are you doing there with your hands in the snow--feeling for a Mole's nest?""Praise to Wiesahkechack!" cried the King; "is that you, Jay? I'm trapped at last," he continued, "and you must fly like the wind and get some of our Comrades to help me out.""There's a poor chance," said the Bird, despondently; "as you know, none of us can spring that big Trap but Muskwa, and we'll never get him out now--he is dead to the world.""What am I to do?" moaned the King--"we must try something.""Oh, we shall get you out of here. I'll call Beaver to cut the stake that holds the chain, and you'll just have to carry the Trap home with you. Carcajou might be strong enough to press down the spring, but his hands are so puffed up from the squeeze they got, he can't do a thing with them. Don't fret; I will soon get them all here, and we'll see what can be done."In a wonderfully short time Jack had summoned Beaver, Mooswa, Blue Wolf, and Lynx. Mooswa's great heart was touched at the sight of their Sovereign's misery. "My services are of little use here," he said. "I will go back on the trail, close to the Shack, and watch for François.""Sparrow Hawks!" exclaimed Jay; "I quite forgot about that. Our Friend was getting ready to come out on his Marten Road when I left. Somebody will feel the foul breath of his Ironstick if we don't keep a sharp lookout.""All the better if he brings it," answered Mooswa; "for then he'll follow me, and I'll lead him away so far that you'll have plenty of time to get our King home.""Noble Comrade!" smirked Lynx; "such self-sacrifice! But don't you know that the Hunter will never give up your trail until you are dead? The snow is deep, the crust won't hold against your beautiful, sharp hoofs, and the Killer will run you down before the Sun sets twice.""Most considerateTraitor!" snapped Whisky-Jack. "You would rather Black King fell into François's hands--wouldn't you?" For the Jay knew what Pisew had said to Carcajou when the latter was in the Trap."All right, Mooswa," growled Rof, admiringly; "you are a noble fellow. Go and lead François away--don't get within burning distance of his Firestick, though; I and my Pack will take care that the Man-enemy doesn't follow your trail after the closing of the light of day.""I killed a Man once," answered Bull Moose; "but I'll never do it again, nor must you, Comrade. That is a thing to be settled amongst themselves--the Man-kill is not for us.""I talk not of killing!" snarled Blue Wolf, surlily; "when our cry goes up, François will take the back-trail, and keep it till he is safe within the walls of his own Shack--that's what I mean.""It is well!" affirmed the King, approvingly; "act thus, Comrades. We are not like Man, who slays for the sake of slaying, and calls it sport.""Most generous Black King!" exclaimed Pisew, with an evil smirk.Mooswa and Blue Wolf started off together. Umisk was driving his ivory chisels through the hard, dry Birch-stake that held the Trap. It was a slow job--almost like cutting metal.Suddenly a thought struck Black Fox. "How am I to get home with this clumsy iron on my leg?" he asked. "Mooswa has gone, and there is no one to carry me.""I could help you with the Trap," answered Umisk."And leave a trail to the house like a Rabbit-run? The Breed would find it, and murder the whole family; I'm not going to risk my Mother's skin in that manner.""Thoughtful King!" lisped Pisew."True, true," confirmed Beaver. "François would surely find the trail. There is no other way, unless--unless--""Unless what, faithful Little Friend?""Unless you take the way of our People.""And that way--Friend?""Cut off the leg!""Horrible!" ejaculated Lynx."Horrible for you, Frog-heart," interposed Jack. "The King is different--he's got pluck.""Your Majesty will never get the Trap off," continued Beaver, "until Muskwa the Strong comes out in the Spring. Even if you did carry it home, your leg would go bad before that time."Black Fox pondered for a minute, weighing carefully the terrible alternative. On one hand was the risk of leading the Trapper to his carefully concealed home, and months of tortured idleness with the Trap on his leg; on the other the permanent crippling of himself by amputation."Can you cut the leg off, wise Umisk?" he asked."I did it once for my own Brother, who was caught," Beaver answered, simply."Take off mine, then!" commanded the King, decisively; "it is the only way.""You'll bleed to death," said Lynx, solicitously."Oh, that would be lovely!" sneered Jack; "for then we'd all choose Pisew as his successor--'Le Roi est mort, vive le Roi!' Excuse me, Comrades, that's an expression François uses sometimes when he drinks Fire-water; it means, a live Slink is better than a dead Hero."When Black Fox gave the command to amputate his limb, Beaver ceased cutting the stake, scuttled over to a White Poplar, girdled the tree close to the ground, then, standing on his strong hind-legs, cut the bark again higher up. Next he peeled a strip, brought it over beside the Fox, and chiselled some of the white inner bark, chewing it to a pulp. "Hold this in your mouth, Pisew, and keep it warm," Beaver commanded, passing it to Lynx. "We shall manage to stop the blood, I think.""You will poison our King," said Jack, "if you put that stuff on the wound after Slink has held it in his mouth."Beaver paid no attention, but stripped three little threads from the cloth-like tree-lining, and drew the fibre through his teeth to soften it. Then he spoke to the Bird: "Come down here, Jack, and hold these threads--your beak should be as good as a needle at this job. Now for it, Your Majesty!" Umisk continued, and one might have fancied he was a celebrated surgeon rolling up his sleeves before going at a difficult amputation."This is horribly bitter stuff," muttered Pisew--"it tastes like the Wolf-willow berry.""Good for the wound--will dry up the bleeding!" affirmed the little Doctor curtly."Is there anything the matter with this Bait, King--any White Death-powder?" he asked. "If not, stick it in your mouth--it will brace you up, and take your mind off the leg.""There is no White Powder in it--I can guarantee that," snickered Jay. "I flew in the door yesterday when François and The Boy were out, stole the bottle off its roost, and dropped it through their water-hole in the river ice; just to save your life, Pisew, you know--you're such a silly Glutton you would eat anything.""Jack," said the King, looking up gratefully, "your tongue is the worst part of you--your heart is all right.""Even his tongue is all right now since he got over the fat Pork," sneered Pisew."Bird of Torture!" ejaculated Black King, "but that hurts, Umisk;" for Beaver had girdled the skin of the leg even as he had the bark of the tree."Think of the Meat in your mouth, King," advised Umisk. "Hold up this skin with your claw, Jack," he commanded. "There! pull it a little higher. I'll cut the bone here, you see; then we'll cover it with the skin-flap.""Full-crop! but you have a great head, Umisk," cried Jack, admiringly."Wh-e-e! Wh-e-e-e-e!" squealed the Fox, crunching his sharp, white teeth to hold back the cries of pain."Quick, Pisew, hand out the Poplar-bread--it's off!" commanded Beaver. "Now, Jack, the thread. Hold one end in your beak, while I wrap it. There--let go! put a hole through the skin here!" Black King's tongue was lolling out with the pain, but with Jack's strong, sharp beak, Beaver's teeth-scalpel and deft fingers, the whole operation was completed in half an hour."What's that?" queried Black Fox suddenly, cocking his ears; "I heard the cough of François's Firestick--listen!""I heard it too," asserted Jack; "the Breed is after poor old Mooswa. If he kills our Comrade, Blue Wolf and his Pack will make short work of him.""Now we are ready to take Your Majesty home. I think I've made a fairish job of it," said Umisk, holding up the shortened limb with great professional pride. "Bring the foot, Jack,--it must be buried. Pisew, you can carry the King, now that he is not loaded down with iron. There will be only your big-footed track to see; for I'll circle wide, double a few times, cross Long Lake under the ice, and our enemy will never know where I've gone.""Leave the foot here," advised Jay; "the Breed will find it, see blood on the snow, discover Pisew's track leading away, and think Lynx has eaten Black Fox out of the Trap; knowing our friend's cannibal instincts, he'll believe this. That will give our Chief a chance to get well; for François, thinking he's dead, will not try again to catch him.""I don't want my reputation ruined this way," whined Pisew."Ruin your reputation!" sneered the Bird. "That is rich! It's like Skunk complaining of a bad odour when you're about.""You go with Pisew and Black King, Jack," ordered Umisk, who had taken full management of the arrangements; "better be off now before the cold-sting gets into the wound." He helped Black Fox on Lynx's back, and started them off; then struck out in a different direction himself.The Red Widow's first intimation of this great calamity was Jack's thin voice calling for help to get Black Fox up into the Burrow. How the old lady wept. "First it was little Cross-stripes, my Babe," she moaned, caressing the King with her soft cheek; "now it's you, my beautiful Son. Poor Lad! you'll never be able to run again.""Oh, yes I shall, Mother," replied Black Fox. "The leg will soon heal up, and I'll manage all right. I'm only too thankful to be out of that horrible Trap.""Bless Umisk's clever little heart!" cried the Widow in her gratitude, as she stroked the black head with her paw."Not forgetting a word for his sharp teeth, eh, good Dame?" remarked Jack."I'll get food for the family," added Black King's younger Brother, proudly assuming the responsibility.The Red Widow thanked Lynx and Whisky-Jack for bringing her wounded son home, and begged Pisew to walk back in his tracks a distance, and use every endeavour to cover up the trail leading to their burrow.THE RUN OF THE WOLVESAfter Mooswa left the others he walked to within two hundred yards of the Shack."Brother Rof," he said to his Comrade, "wait for me to-night at Pelican Portage--you and your Pack. If the Man follows me that far, I shall be tired by then, and need your help.""You'll get it, old Friend--we'll sing the Song of the Kill for this slayer of the Boundary People. There will be great sport to-night--rare sport. Ur-r-r-a-ah! but the Pups will learn somewhat of the Chase--by my love of a Long Run, they shall! Drink not, Mooswa, while you trail, for a water-logged stomach makes a dry throat!"Just as Blue Wolf disappeared on his Pack-gathering errand, the Half-breed came out of his Shack. On his feet were snow-shoes; over his shoulder a bag, and in his hand a .45-75 Winchester rifle--he was ready for the Marten Road. Mooswa started off through the Forest at a racking pace."By Goss!" exclaimed the Trapper, catching sight of the Bull Moose, "I miss me dat good c'ance for s'oot."Throwing down his bag he started in pursuit, picking up Mooswa's big trail. The hoof-prints were like those of a five-year-old steer.Out of sight the Moose stopped, turned sideways, and cocking his big heavy ears forward, listened intently. Yes, François was following; the shuffle of his snow-shoes over the snow was soft and low, like whispering wind through the harp branches of a dead Tamarack; but Mooswa could hear it--all his life he had been listening for just such music.Wily as the Breed was, sometimes a twig would crack, sometimes the snow-crust crunch as he stepped over the white mound of a buried log. He had never seen a Moose act as this one did. Usually they raced at full speed for miles at first, tiring themselves out in the deep snow; while behind, never halting, never hesitating, followed the grim Hunter, skimming easily over the surface with his light-travelling snow-shoes--and the certainty that in the end he would overtake his victim. But this chase was on altogether new lines; something the Half-breed had never experienced. Mooswa kept just beyond range of his gun. A dozen times inside of the first hour François caught sight of the magnificent antlers. Once, exasperated by the tantalizing view of the giant Bull, he took a long-range chance-shot. That was the report Black King had heard.When François came to the spot in which Mooswa had been standing, he examined the snow--there was no blood. "By Goss!" he muttered, "I t'ink some one put bad Medicine on me. P'raps dat Moose, he Debil Moose."Hour after hour the hunter followed the Bull's trail; hour after hour Mooswa trotted, and walked, and rested, and doubled, and circled, just as it suited the game he was playing. François, like all Indians or Breeds, had no love for a long shot--ammunition was too precious to be wasted. He could wear the Moose down in two days, surely; then at twenty or thirty yards his gun would do the rest.In the afternoon he tightened the loin-belt one hole--his stomach was getting empty; but that did not matter--he could travel better. If the fast lasted for three days it was of no moment; for when the Moose was slain and brought to the Shack by dog-train, the pot would boil night and day, and he would feast as long as he had fasted. The thought of the fat, butter-like nose of this misshapen Animal brought moisture to the parched lips of the long-striding Half-breed--that delicacy would soon be his. He travelled faster at the thought of it; also he must push his quarry to tire him, so the Moose would lie down and rest all night.The dusk was beginning to settle down as Mooswa struck straight for Pelican Portage, though it was only four o'clock in the afternoon. Would Blue Wolf be there to turn back the pursuer? If by any chance his comrade missed, what a weary struggle he would have next day with the blood-thirsty Breed ever on his trail. As Mooswa neared the Portage, a low, whimpering note caught his ear. Then another answered close by; and another, and another joined in, until the woods rang with a fierce chorus--it was the Wolf-pack's Call of the Killing:--"Wh-i-m-m-p! Wh-i-i-m-m-p! buh-h! bu-h-h! buh-h-h! O-o-o-o-h-h! O-o-o-o-h-h! Bl-o-o-d! Bl-o-o-d!! Bl-o-o-o-o-d!!!" That was the Wolf-cry, sounding like silvery music in the ears of the tired Moose."Hungry, every one of them!" he muttered. "If François stumbles, or sleeps, or forgets the Man-look for a minute, Rof's Pack will slay him." Then he coughed asthmatically, and Blue Wolf bounded into the open, shaking his shaggy coat."Safe passage, Brothers, for Mooswa," he growled, with authority; "also no killing for the Hunt-man, for the hunt is of our doing."François heard the Wolf-call too, and a chill struck his heart. Night was coming on, he was alone in the woods, and in front of him a Pack of hungry Wolves. Turning, he glided swiftly over the back-trail."The Kill-Call, Brothers," cried Rof, his sharp eyes seeing this movement of the fleeing Breed. Once again the death-bells of the forest, the Blood Song of Blue Wolf, rang out: "W-a-h-h-h! W-a-h-h-h! Gur-h-h-h! Yap! yap!! yap!!!" which is the snarl-fastening of teeth in flesh, the gurring choke of blood in the throat, and the satisfied note of victory.The Hunter became the hunted, and into his throat crept the wild, unreasoning terror that Mooswa and every other living animal had known because of his desire for their lives. What would avail a rifle in the night against Blue Wolf's hungry Brethren? True, he could climb a tree--but only to freeze; the starlit sky would send down a steel-pointed frost that would soon bring on a death-sleep, and tumble him to the yellow fangs of the gray watchers.Mile on mile the Half-breed fled, nursing his strength with a woodman's instinct. How useless, too, seemed the flight; those swift-rushing, merciless Wolves would overtake him as soon as the shadows had deepened into night. He had his Buffalo knife, and when they pressed too close, could build a fire; that might save him--it was a bare possibility.With the thirst for Mooswa's blood upon him, his eager straining after the fleeing animal had been exhilaration; desire had nourished his stomach, and anticipated victory kept his throat moist: now the Death-fear turned the night-wind to a hot fire-blast; his lungs pumped and hammered for a cooling lotion; his heart pounded at the bone-ribs with a warning note for rest. The thews that had snapped with strong elasticity in the morning, now tugged and pulled with the ache of depression; going, he had chosen his path over the white carpet, coolly measuring the lie of each twig, and brush, and stump; now he travelled as one in a thicket. Small skeleton Spruce-shoots, stripped of their bark by hungry Wapoos, and dried till every twig was like a lance, reached out and caught at his snow-shoes; drooping Spruce-boughs, low swinging with their weight of snow, caused him to double under or circle in his race against Blue Wolf's Pack.All nature, animate and inanimate, was fighting for his life--eager for his blood. Even a sharp half-dead limb, sticking out from a Tamarack, cut him in the face, and sucked a few drops of the hot fluid. Startled into ejaculation, François panted huskily: "Holy Mudder, sabe me dis time. I give to de good Père Lacombe de big offerin' for de Mission." And all the time swinging along with far-reaching strides.Memory-pictures of animals that had stood helplessly at bay before his merciless gun flashed through his mind. Once a Moose-mother had fronted him to defend her two calves--the big almond eyes of the heroic beast had pleaded for their lives. He had not understood it then; now, some way or another, it came back to him--they glared from the forest like avenging spirit eyes, as he toiled to leave that Wolf-call behind.The Shack was still many miles away, for he had travelled far in the fulness of his seasoned strength in the Hunt-race of the daytime."I got me one c'ance," he muttered hoarsely. "S'pose I get too weak make fire, I dead, soor." A big Birch, in its heavy frieze-coat of white cloth, seemed to whisper, "Just one chance!"Eagerly François tore its resin-oiled blanket from the tree, took a match from his firebag, snapped the sulphur end with his thumb-nail, for his clothes were saturated with fear-damp perspiration, and lighted the quick-blazing Birch. A clump of dead Red Willows furnished eager timber. How his sinewy arms wrenched them from their rotted roots. High he piled the defence beacon; the blaze shot up, and red-tinted the ghost forms of the silent trees.Gray shadows circled the outer rim of blazing light--the Wolves were forming a living stockade about him. Blue Wolf placed the sentinels strategically. "Not too close, silly pups," he called warningly to two yearling grandsons; "the Firestick will scorch your sprouting mustaches if you poke your noses within reach. Remember, Comrades," he said to the older Wolves, "there is no Kill--only the Blood-fear for this Man."The sparks fluttered waveringly skyward, like fire-flies at play; the Willows snapped and crackled like ice on a river when the water is falling. When the light blazed high the Wolves slunk back; when there was only a huge red glow of embers, they closed in again.All night François toiled, never letting the rifle from his grasp. With one hand and his strong moccasined feet he crushed the dry, brittle Red Willows, and threw them on his life-guarding fire. No sleeping; a short-paced beat round and round the safety-light, and almost incessantly on his trembling lips a crude, pleading prayer: "Holy Mudder, dis time sabe François. I give de offerin' plenty--also what de good Pries' say, I hear me."[image]"HOLY MUDDER, DIS TIME SABE FRANÇOIS.""Look at his face, Brothers," growled Blue Wolf. "Now thou hast seen the Man-fear. Is it not more terrible than the Death-look in the eyes of Buck? It is not well to kill Man, is it, Comrades?""No!" they admitted surlily--for they were hungry."Come," said Rof, when the bitter cold dawn hour--colder than any of the others--warned them that the light was on its way, "trot we back on Mooswa's trail, and if the Man continues to his Burrow, then go we our path."When the light had grown stronger François peered about carefully."Blessed Virgin! Mos' Holy ob Mudders! I t'ink me dat prayer you hear; dat wolves is gone soor. To de good Père Lacombe I give me big presen' for de Mission. I keep me dat promise soor," crossing himself fervently, in confirmation.Blue Wolf was saying to the Pack as he trotted along at their head: "Only for the promise to Mooswa the Hunt-man would have made a good meal for us, Brothers.""What are promises in the Hunger Year--the Seventh Year of the Wapoos?" cried a gaunt companion, stopping. "Let us go back, and--"Blue Wolf turned in a passion. "First we fight!" he yelped, baring his huge fangs. "I, who am leader here, and also am in the Council of the Boundaries, say the Man goes unharmed."The other dropped his bushy tail, moved sideways a few paces, and sat down meekly; swaying his head furtively from side to side, avoiding the battle-look in Blue Wolf's eyes. Rof turned disdainfully, and trotted off on their back track; the Pack followed."I've saved this Man for Mooswa's sake," thought Blue Wolf."De prayer turn' back dat wolves soor," muttered the Breed, as hurrying on he reiterated his generous offering to the Mission. It was noon when he swung into the little log Shack, with something in his face which was not there before--something new that had come in one night. He did not want to talk about it; even to cease thinking of it were better; besides, what was the use of frightening The Boy."I no get dat Moose," he said curtly, as he pulled his wet moccasins off, cut some tobacco, mixed it with the Red Willow kinnikinick, filled his wooden pipe, and lying down in front of the fire-place smoked moodily.The Boy busied himself getting a meal ready for his companion."By Goss! he big Moose," continued the Half-breed, after a time, when he had emptied the bowl of his pipe; "but I lose de trail las' night. S'pose he goin' too far t'ro de muskeg, I can' find him.""Never mind, François," cried The Boy, "you'll get another chance at him before Winter's over. Come and eat, you must be hungry--the hot tea will make you forget.""I s'pose somebody put bad medicine for me," grumbled the Breed, in a depressed monotone; "mus' be de ole Nokum at Lac La Bic'e. She's mad for me, but I don' do not'ing bad for her." But still nothing of his terrible experience with the Wolves. Why speak of it? Perhaps next day they would be fifty miles away.After François had rested he said: "I mus' go see dat Trap for de Silver Fox; I t'ink me I catc' him dis time.""Don't go out again to-day--you're too tired," pleaded Rod."Mus' go," replied the other. "S'pose dat Fox in de Trap, dat Debil Carcajou, or de Lynk, or some odder Animal, eat him; dere's no Rabbit now, an' dey's all starve.""I'll go with you, then," exclaimed The Boy.When they came to the Trap, François stared in amazement. It had been sprung.The Breed examined the snow carefully."Jus' what I t'ink me. He's been catc', an' dat Lynk eat him all up. Only one foot lef'; see!" and he held up the amputated black paw. "Here's de big trail of de Lynk, too."Dejectedly they went back to the Shack."Now I know it's de bad medicine," asserted François. "De Debil come in dat Moose for lead me away, an' I lose de Silver Fox what wort' two, t'ree hun'red dollar.""The Lynx has had rather an extravagant blowout," remarked The Boy. "One could go to England, dine there in great shape, and back again for the price of his dinner." François did not answer. He was certainly running in bad luck."I t'ink me we pull out from dis S'ack," he said; "give up de Marten Road, an' move down to my ol' place at Hay Riber. Before, I keel plenty fur dere; here I get me not'ing, only plenty bad medicine.""All right, François, I'm willing--anything you say," answered Rod."I got my ol' S'ack down dere," continued the Trapper, "an' we go for dat place. To-morrow we pick up de Trap. De Black Fox he's die, so I s'pose me we don't want stop here. I got give little Père Lacombe some presen' for de Mission, an' mus' keel de fur for dat, soor."CARCAJOU'S REVENGEIn the morning François and Roderick started with their dog-train to pick up Traps from the Marten Road."S'pose it's better w'at I go to de Lan'ing firs'," François remarked reflectively, as they plodded along behind the dogs and carry-all; "we don' got plenty Trap now, an' I can' find dat poison bottle. Yesterday I look, but he's gone soor; I put him on de s'elf, but he's not dere now. P'r'aps dat Whisky-Jack steal him, for he take de spoon some time; but anyway can' trap proper wit'out de poison."After they had left the Shack Whisky-Jack cleaned up the scraps that had been thrown out from breakfast, and having his crop full, started through the woods looking for a chance of gossip. He observed Carcajou scuttling awkwardly along through the deep snow; this was the first time Jack had seen him since he had been liberated from the Trap."Hello!" cried the Jay; "able to be about again?""Who's at the Man-shack?" queried the other in answer, entirely ignoring Jack's personal gibe."Nobody," piped the Bird; "left me in charge and went out on their Marten Road.""And the Dogs, O One-in-charge?" asked Carcajou."Gone too; are you out for a scrap with the Huskies, my bad-tempered Friend?""Were you sweet-tempered, gentle Bird, when you burnt your toes, and scorched your gizzard with the Man-Cub's fat pork?""Well, sore toes are enough to ruffle one, aren't they, Hunchback,--Crop-eared Stealer of Things?""And your Men Friends took the leg off our King," continued Wolverine, ignoring the other's taunt. "The Red Widow is close to an attack of rabies with all this worry.""You're full of stale news," retorted Jay."If they are all away," declared Carcajou, "I'm going to have another peep at that chimney. Also there are three debts to be paid."The Bird chuckled. "Generous Little Lieutenant! leave my account out. But if you must go to the Shack, I'll keep watch and give you a call if I see them coming back.""Fat-eating! but I hate climbing," grunted Wolverine, as he struggled up the over-reaching log-ends at one corner of the Shack. "If they had only left the door open--I never close the door of my Burrow."He went down the chimney as though it were a ladder, his back braced against one side, and his strong curved claws holding in the dry mud of the other. Inside of the Shack he worked with exceeding diligence, deporting himself much after the manner of soldiers looting a King's palace.Three bags of flour stood in a corner. "That's queer stuff," muttered Carcajou, ripping open the canvas. "Dry Eating!" and he scattered it with malignant fury. He pattered up and down in it, rolled in it, and generally had a pleasing, dusty time. The white stuff got in his throat and made him cough; the tickling developed a proper inebriate's thirst. Two zinc pails, full of water, sat on a wooden bench; the choking Animal perched on the edge of one, and tried to drink; but as he stooped over the spreading top his centre of gravity was disarranged somewhat, and his venture ended disastrously. The floor was clay, smooth-ironed by Francis's feet, so it held the fluid like a pot, and, incidentally, much batter of Wolverine's mixing was originated. He was still thirsty, and tried the other pail. That even did not last so long, for, as he was pulling himself up, somewhat out of temper, it tumbled heedlessly from the bench, and converted the Shack-floor into a white, alkaline-looking lake.Then he puddled around in batter which clung to his short legs, and stuck to his toe-hairs, trying to get a drink from little pools, but only succeeding in getting something like liquid pancakes.The stuff worked into his coat, and completely put to flight any feelings of restraint he might have had. A cyclone and an earthquake working arm in arm could not have more effectually disarranged the internal economy of François's residence.Like most Half-breeds François played a concertina; and like most of his fellow tribesmen he hung up his things on the bed or floor. It was under the bed that Carcajou discovered the instrument, and when he had finished with it, it might have been put in paper boxes and sold as matches. Two feather pillows provided him with enthusiastic occupation for a time; mixed with batter the feathers entirely lost their elasticity, and refused to float about in the air. This puzzled the marauder--he couldn't understand it; for you see he knew nothing of specific gravity.A jug of molasses was more rational--but it added to his thirst, also turned the white coat he had evolved from the flour-mixture into a dismal coffee colour.Great Animals! but he was having a time. Whisky-Jack, from his post outside, kept encouraging him from time to time, as the din of things moving rapidly in the interior came to his delighted ears. "Bravo! What's broken?" he screamed, when the pail met with its downfall. The blankets dried the floor a bit after industrious little Wolverine had hauled them up and down a few times. This evidently gave him satisfaction, for he worked most energetically.Two sides of fat bacon reclined sleepily under the bed--a mouthful filled Carcajou with joy. Great Eating! but if he had that much food in his Burrow he needn't do a stroke of work all Winter. He tried to carry a side up the chimney; and got started with it all right, for an iron bar had been built across the mud fire-place to hang pots on, which gave him a foothold; a little higher up he slipped, and clattered down, bacon and all, burning his feet in coals that lingered from the morning's fire. The sight of disturbed cinders floating from the chimney-top intimated to Jack what had happened, and he whistled with joy.This was an excuse for another round of demolition. "If I could only open the Shack," thought Wolverine. Though a dweller in caves, yet he knew which was the door, for over its ill-fitting threshold came a strong glint of light; also up and down its length ran two cracks through which came more light. Most certainly it was the door, he decided, sniffing at the fresh air that whistled through the openings.Close by stood a box on end, holding a wash-bowl. Carcajou climbed up on this, and examined a little iron thing that seemed to bear on the subject. It was somewhat like a Trap; if he could spring this thing, perhaps it had something to do with opening the door. As he fumbled at it, suddenly the wind blew a big square hole in the Shack's side; he had lifted the latch, only he didn't know it was a latch, of course--it was like a Trap, something to be sprung, that was all."By all the Loons!" screamed Jay; "now you're all right--what's inside? You have had your revenge, Carey, old Boy," he added, as he caught sight of his coffee-coloured friend.Carcajou paid no attention to his volatile Comrade, for he was busily engaged in gutting the place. "My fingers are still sore from the Man's Trap," he muttered, "but I think I can cache this Fat-eating.""François will trail you," declared the Bird."He may do that," admitted Wolverine, "but he'll not find the Eating. Has he a scent-nose of the Woods to see it through many covers of snow?""This is just lovely!" piped Jack, hopping about in the dough; "it's like the mud at White Clay River. Butter!" he screamed in delight, perching on the edge of a wooden firkin, off which his friend had knocked the top. "I just love this stuff--it puts a gloss on one's feathers. We are having our revenge, aren't we, old Plaster-coat?""I am--Whe-e-e-cugh!" cried the fat little desperado, coughing much flour from his clogged lungs."I say, Hunchback, wouldn't you like to be a Man, and have all these things to eat, without the eternal worry of stealing them? I should--I'd be eating butter all the time;" and Jack drove his beak with great rapidity into the firkin's yellow contents."I'll return in a minute after I've cached this," said Wolverine, as he backed out of the Shack dragging a big piece of bacon."Oh, my strong Friend of much Brain, please cache this wooden-thing of Yellow-eating for me," pleaded Jay, when Carcajou reappeared. "By the Year of Famine! but it's delicious--it must be great for a Singer's throat. Did I ever tell you how I was sold once at Wapiscaw over a bit of butter?""No, my guzzling Friend--nor would you now, if you didn't want me to do a favour," grunted the industrious toiler, rolling Whisky-Jack's tub of butter off into the Forest."Well, it was this way--I saw a cake of this Yellow-eating in the Factor's Shack; you know the square holes they leave for light--it was in one of those. I swooped down and tried to drive my beak into it--""Like the hot pork," interrupted the tub-roller."Never mind, Carey, old Boy,--let by-gones be by-gones--I dove my beak fair at the Yellow Thing, and, would you believe it, nearly broke my neck against something hard which was between me and the Eating--I couldn't see it, though.""Ha, ha, he-e-e-e-!" laughed Carcajou. "You bone-headed Bird--that was glass--Man's glass--they put it in those holes to keep the frost, Whisky-Jacks, and other evil things out--I know what it is. There! now your Yellow-eating is safe--François won't find it," he added, pushing snow against the log under which lay the hidden firkin. "I wish you would fly and bring Rof and some of the other Fellows--tell them I'm giving a Feast-dance; make them hurry up, for the Men will be back before long.""Oh, Carey, they'll guzzle my butter," replied the Bird."They won't find it. Tell the Red Widow to come and get a piece of this Fat-eating for the King. Fly like the wind. I'll have everything out of the Shack, and you must tell Blue Wolf and the others to come and help me carry it to the Meeting Place.""Look here, Giver-of-the-Feast," said Jack, struck by a new thought, "what about The Boy? If you take all the food, he'll starve before they get to the Landing for more. We must remember our promise to Mooswa.""That's so," replied Carcajou; "I'll leave enough Fish and Dry-eating to carry them out of the Boundaries; strange, though, thatyoushould have thought of The Boy--hast forgotten the hot pork?""Neither have I forgotten my word to Mooswa," said the Bird, as he flew swiftly to summon the others to the feast.Wolverine rounded up his day's work by caching the granite-ware dishes and rolling an iron pot down the bank, and into the water hole. At Carcajou's pot-latch there was rare hilarity."I'm proud of you, old Cunning," Blue Wolf said, patronizingly, as he sat with distended stomach licking the fat from his wire-haired mustache. "If anything should happen Black King, which Wiesahkechack forbid! we could not do better than make you our next Ruler. I have made a few good steals in my time, but never anything like this. To be able to give a Tea Dance of this sort! Ghur-r-r!" he gurgled in satisfaction, and rubbed his head and neck along Wolverine's plump side affectionately, as a dog caresses a man's leg."Not only wise, but so generous!" Lynx said, oilily, for he too had eaten of the salted fat. "To remember one's Friends in the Day of Plenty is truly noble; I shall never forget this kind invitation.""Cheek!" muttered Jack, for he had not invited Pisew at all--had purposely left him out of the general call; but Lynx, always craftily suspicious, seeing a movement on among some of the Animals, had followed up and discovered the barbecue."I haven't eaten a meal like this since the year before the Big Fire," murmured the Red Widow, reminiscently. "Easy Catching! but the Birds were thick that year--and fat and lazy. 'Crouk, Crouk!' they'd say, when one walked politely with gentle tread amongst them, stretch their heads up, and patter a little out of the way with their short, feathered legs--actually not attempt to fly. But I never expect to see a year like that again," she sighed, regretfully. "Excuse me for mentioning it; but this fulness in my stomach has suggested the general condition of that time. The King will be delighted to have this nice, fat back-piece that I'm taking home to him. He did well to make you Lieutenant, Carcajou--you are a brainy Boundary Dweller. By my family crest, the White Spot at the end of my Tail, I'll never forget this kindness.""Hear, hear!" cried Whisky-Jack; "you make the snub-nosed Robber blush. I had no idea how popular you were, Crop-ear. I've a notion to bring out the--Goodness!" he muttered to himself; "I nearly gave it away. Friendship is friendship, but butter is butter, and harder to get.""Bring out what?" asked Pisew."The Castoreum, Prying-Cat," glibly answered Jay, cocking his head down and sticking out his tongue at Lynx."I remember the year you speak of, Good Widow; I also was fat that Fall," said Marten."So was I," declared Wuchak, the Fisher--"never had to climb a tree to get my dinner for months.""It was the Fifth Year of the Wapoos," enjoined Pisew, "and we Animal Eaters were all fat. Why, my paw was the size of Panther's--I took great pride in the trail I left.""Extraordinary taste!" remarked Jack, "to feel proud of your big feet. Now, if in the Year of Plenty you had run a little to brain--""Never mind, Jack," interrupted Blue Wolf, good-humouredly, for the feast-fulness made him well disposed toward all creatures, "we can't all be as smart as you are, you know. Tired jaws! I believe I don't care for any dessert," he continued, sniffing superciliously at a rib-bone Wolverine pushed toward him. But he picked it up, broke it in two with one clamp of his vise-like teeth, and swallowed the knuckle end. "Even if one is full," he remarked, giving a little gulp as it hitched in his throat, "a morsel of bone or something at the finish of the meal seems to top it off, and aids digestion.""I take mine just as it comes, bone and meat together," declared Otter."So do I," affirmed Mink, for they had been given a great ration of Fish as their share of the banquet. Carcajou had purloined it from the Shack with his other loot."I must say that I like fresh Fish better than dried," declared Nekik to his companion, Mink; "but with the streams almost frozen to the bottom, and the stupid Tail-swimmers buried in the mud, one cannot be too thankful for anything in the way of Eating. The wealthiest one in all the Boundaries is old Umisk, the Beaver; he's got miles on miles of food that can't run away from him.""Oh, I never could stand a vegetarian diet," grunted Carcajou. "I do eat Berries and Roots when Meat is scarce, but, taking it all round, you'll find that the brainiest, cleverest, most active Fellows in the Boundaries are the Flesh-eaters. Look at old Mooswa--good enough Chap; big and strong, too, in a way, but Safe-trails! what can he do? Nothing but trot, trot, trot, and try to rustle that big head-gear of his through the bush. Did you ever see a Flesh-eater have to run around with a small horn-forest on his head in the way of protection? Never! they don't run to horns--they run to brains.""And teeth," added Blue Wolf, curling his upper lip and baring ivory fangs the length of a man's finger to the admiring gaze of his friends."I eat Meat," chirped Whisky-Jack, "and I don't run to horns or teeth either, so it must all go to brains, I suppose. Lucky for you fellows, too.""No, Wise Bird," began Lynx, "you don't need horns or teeth to defend yourself; your tongue, like Sikak's tail, keeps everybody away.""Let's go home," grunted Wolverine; "I'm so full I can hardly walk.""I'll give you a ride on my back, generous Benefactor," smirked Pisew."He thinks you have cached some of the bacon," sneered Jack; "he'll be full of gratitude while the pork lasts."Soon the Boundaries were silent, for full-stomached animals sleep well.While there was feasting in the Boundaries there was much desolation in the Shack. François and The Boy had returned late to their wrecked home, and the Trapper's speech when he saw the débris, was something of wondrous entanglement, for an excited French Half-breed has a vocabulary all his own, and our friend was excited in the superlative degree. He knew it was Carcajou who had robbed him, for there were plaster casts of his brazen foot all over the mortar-like floor."We can't go to de new trap-place dis way," the Half-breed said; "we don' got no grub, de dis' he's gone, an' de poison, an' it jes' look like de Debil he's put bad Medicine on us himself. You stay here one week alone if I go me de Lan'ing?" he asked Rod. "I mus' get de flour, more bacon, some trap, an' de strykeen. I take me de dog-train for bring de grub stake. You jes' stop on de S'ack, an' when I come back we go down to Hay Riber."It was late enough when François fell into a fitful troubled slumber, for the occasion demanded much recrimination against animals in general, and Carcajou in particular.Whatever chance François might have had of discovering Carcajou's cache next morning, was that night utterly destroyed by a fall of snow.
[image]THEY WERE A FUNNY-LOOKING PARTY.
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THEY WERE A FUNNY-LOOKING PARTY.
"Walk in Rof's tracks, Pisew, till you strike a muskeg," ordered the King; "François won't fancy the fun of following a traveller like you through a big swamp."
"I should like to hide that Trap," lamented Carcajou.
"Oh, never mind," interrupted Black Fox. "Get away home, everybody."
"I'll hear some choice French to-night," declared Jack. "When François discovers that somebody has robbed his Trap, he'll jabber himself asleep."
All the way to his home Carcajou swore vengeance on the Man who had made his paws so sore. "You'll do it, Brother," said Rof, "and I don't blame you. Of course we must remember our oath about The Boy."
THE COMING OF THE TRAIN DOGS
For three days nothing unusual happened. Hunger commenced to nip at every one, for, as we know, it was the Seventh Year of the Rabbit cycle, and they were scarce. All the others envied old Muskwa, slumbering peacefully, nourished by the fat of his Summer's pillage.
The narrow body of Lynx was getting narrower, the gaunt sides of Blue Wolf gaunter. Fisher and Marten were living on Deer Mice, Squirrels, and small game; and the Red Widow's family were depending almost entirely upon Spruce Partridge--the flesh of these birds had become particularly astringent, too. The gray-mottled, pin-tail Grouse had entirely disappeared--better eating they were, the Widow contended; but in the Seventh Year it was not a matter of selection at all, and each Animal was poaching on the other's preserve--all because of the scarcity of Wapoos. But in spite of the general starvation, every one left a small dole of his food for Carcajou, whose paws were too sore to prowl about. He felt the restricted diet more than any of them, being a perfect gourmand,--"Gulo the Glutton," that was his name; and he liked good living.
On the fourth day Whisky-Jack startled his comrades with the announcement that François had acquired a train of four dogs from Nichemous, who was passing down the ice-road of the river with a Free-Trader. Blue Wolf snuffed discontentedly at the news; they were his enemies, and many a scar he carried as souvenir of combats with these domesticated cousins. Family instinct, however, led him to skulk close to François's Shack one evening hoping to see the dogs. He went often after the first visit, though advised by Carcajou that it would end in his getting a destroying blast from the Firestick.
"They haven't got one," Rof assured him. "You destroyed the only Ironstick they had."
"That was an old Trade Musket," retorted Wolverine. "François is too clever to put his good Ironstick out in the wet. You'll find that he has another, if you don't keep away. What's the attraction, anyway?" he asked. "There can't be anything to eat there, with those yelping Huskies about."
It was Whisky-Jack who gave the secret away. "Blue Wolf's in love," he said, solemnly; "three of the Train are of the sister kind, and Rof's got his eye on one. François calls her 'Marsh Maid,' but the Train-leader is a big Huskie Dog, and he'll chew Growler the Wolf into little bits--I sha'n't mind, Rof's too surly for me."
Blue Wolf became a great dandy; brushed his coat--scraped the snow away from a moss patch in the Jack-Pines, and rubbed his shaggy fur till it became quite presentable.
The big fight that Jack anticipated so eagerly materialized, but, contrary to Jay's forecast, Rof trounced the Huskie soundly. After that he came and went pretty much as he desired--growled his admiration of Marsh Maid, and took forcible possession of Huskie's White Fish.
All this nearly brought sorrow to the Red Widow's family, for Stripes, the Kit-Fox, having his curiosity roused by Jack's recital of Blue Wolf's doings, incautiously ventured close to the Shack one day to have a look at the Train. With an angry howl Huskie swooped down upon him, and but for Rod, who, hearing Stripes's plaintive squeal, rushed out and drove the Dog off, he would have been most effectually eaten up. The young Fox fled for his life, and his tale of this adventure filled the Red Widow's heart with gratitude toward The Boy.
Within the Boundaries the food fever was strong on the Animals, and François's baits became an almost irresistible temptation. Trap after Trap Black King and his family robbed, leaving the Meat with the White Powder in, and taking it when it was clear of this, until François was in despair.
"By Goss!" he confided to The Boy, "I t'ink me we goin' keel no fur here. Dat Carcajou he de Debil, but mos' all de odder Animal is Debil too. S'pose I put out de Trap, dey take de bait, cac'e de Trap, and s'pose me dey laugh by deyselves. I see dat Black Fox two, t'ree time, an' I know me his track now; ev'ry day I see dat tracks. But we must catc' him. What fur we keel now? Not enough to pay fer de grub stake."
THE TRAPPING OF BLACK FOX
So far all the plans of the Half-breed for capturing Black Fox had failed; but one day conditions were favourable for his master-stroke--a rare trick known only to himself. He smiled grimly when in the early morning he discovered that the snow bore a tender young crust just sufficient to bear a fair-sized animal. His preparations were elaborate.
"To-day we catc' dat black fell'," he said, gleefully, to Rod. "You wait here till I s'oot Mister Mus'rat firs' for bait, den I s'ow you some treek."
Soon François returned with a freshly killed Muskrat, which he promptly skinned, taking great care not to touch the meat with his hands. Putting the hindquarters in a pouch formed from the blood-stained skin, he next made a long-handled scraper. "Now I fix dis tea-dance where de fox alway go for sit in one place ever' day--I know me dat place," he chuckled as, gathering up the outfit, he started for the Forest.
Arrived there François pulled the snow from under the gentle crust with his scraper for a space of six or eight feet, leaving a miniature cave under the frozen shell. Into this he shoved two strong steel Traps, and using a long stick emptied the Muskrat pouch of its meat just above.
"Now, Mister S'arp-nose," muttered the Breed, "I t'ink me you no smell not'ing but Meat. You don't like smell François, eh? For dat I give me de Mus'rat smell for you' nose."
Backing away from his work the Half-breed carefully smoothed down the snow into his tracks for a long distance, then filling his pipe, lighted it, and trudged back to the Shack to await the success of this ruse. When Black King came up the wind, winding up the meat-scent like a ball of yarn, he struck a new combination. There were no evidences of Man's handicraft; no Trap insight--no baited gun; no Marten stockade; no bent sapling with a hungry noose dangling to it; but there were undoubtedly two nice, juicy, appetizing pieces of meat lying on top of the undisturbed snow-crust.
Black Fox sat down and surveyed the surrounding territory critically; cocked his sharp eyes and sharper nose toward all points of the compass. The Forest was like a graveyard--as silent; no hidden enemy lurked near with ready Firestick--his nose assured him on that point.
Then he walked gingerly in a big circle all about the glamourous centre-piece of sweet-smelling meat, his nose prospecting every inch of the ground. Something had evidently disturbed the snow where François had smoothed it down. Three circles he completed like this; each one smaller and closer to the Bait. Three lengths of himself from the covered-danger he sat down again, and tried to think it out.
"It can't be a Trap," he mused; "nothing has walked where the eating is, that much is certain. François can smooth the white ground-cover down, but can't put a crust on it. Starvation Year! but that Meat smells good--I haven't eaten for two days. I wish it were a Trap--then I should know what I was about. It looks mighty suspicious--must be the White Powder; think I had better leave it alone. If there were only a Trap in sight I would tackle it quick enough; it's easy to spring one of those things and get the Bait."
He trotted away twenty yards, meaning to go home and not risk it. Suddenly he stopped, sat down once more and thought it all over again, his determination weakened by appetite. His lean stomach clamoured for the Meat--it was full of nothing but the great pain of hunger.
"Forest Devils!" muttered the hesitating Fox; "I believe I'm losing my nerve--am afraid because there isn't anything in sight but the Meat. I'd never hear the last of it if Carcajou, or Pisew, or any of them came along, saw my trail, and then, having more pluck than I've got, went and ate that free eating. I wonder what it is? Smells like a cut of Muskrat, or a piece of Caribou; it's not Fish."
He walked back cautiously, irresolutely, and took a look from the opposite side. "I have a notion to try it; I can tell if there's White Medicine about when I get it at the end of my nose," he said, peering all about carefully; there was nobody in sight--nothing! "Women Foxes!" but he was nervous. His big "brush" was simply trembling with the fear of some unknown danger. He laughed hysterically at the idea. It was the unusualness of Meat lying on the snow and no evidence of why it should be there: there was no appearance of a Kill near the spot. How in the world had it come there? There was no track leading up to nor away from it; perhaps Hawk, or Whisky-Jack, or some other bird had dropped it. It was the most wonderful problem he had ever run up against.
But thinking it over brought no solution; also his stomach clamoured louder and louder for the appetizing morsel. Rising up, Black King crept cautiously towards the fascinating object. His foot went through the snow crust. "This wouldn't bear up a Baby Lynx," he thought. "Neither François nor any other Man can have been near that Meat."
He took another step--and another, eyes and nose inspecting every inch of the snow. He could almost reach it; another step, and as his paw sank through the crust it touched something smooth and slippery. There was a clang of iron, and the bone of his left fore-leg was clamped tight in the cruel jaws of a Fox Trap.
Poor old Black King! Despair and pain stretched him, sobbing queer little whimpering cries of anguish in the snow. Only for an instant; then he realized that unless help came from his Comrades his peerless coat would soon be stretched skin-side out on a wedge-shaped board in François's shack. Shrill and plaintive his trembling whistle, "Wh-e-e-he-e-e-, Wh-e-e-he-e-e!" went vibrating through the still Forest in a supplicating call to his companions for succour.
Then an hour of despairing anguish, without one single glint of hope. Every crack of tree-bark, as the frost stretched it, was the snapping of a twig under François's feet; every rustle of bare branches overhead was the shuffling rasp of his snow-shoes on the yielding crust.
Excruciating pains shot up the Fox's leg and suggested grim tortures in store when François had taken him from the Trap--perhaps he would skin him alive; the Indians and Half-breeds were so frightfully cruel to Animals. If only Carcajou, or Whisky-Jack, or dear old Mooswa could hear his whistle--surely they would help him out. Suddenly he heard the rustle of Jack's wings, and turned eagerly. A big, brown, belated leaf fluttered idly from a Cottonwood and fell in the snow. There was no Whisky-Jack in sight--nothing but the helpless, shrivelled leaf scurrying away before the wind.
At intervals he barked a call, then listened. How deadly silent the Forest was; his heart thumping against his ribs sounded like the beat of Partridge's wing-drums at the time of mating.
Strange fancies for an animal flitted through his mind--something like a man's thoughts when he drifts close to death. Why had Wiesahkechack, who was God of Man and Animals, arranged it this way. During all his life Black King had killed only when hunger forced him to it; but here was François, a Man, killing, killing always---killing everything. And for what? Not to eat; for the Breed had flour in plenty, and meat that was already killed. It was not because of hunger; but simply to steal their coats, that he or some other Man or Woman might look fine in fur-clothes stolen from the Boundary Dwellers--at the sacrifice of their lives.
Again Black Fox heard a leaf sawing its whispering way down through the willow wands: he even did not turn his head. But it was wings this time; and a cheery, astonished voice sang out: "Hello, Your Majesty, what are you doing there with your hands in the snow--feeling for a Mole's nest?"
"Praise to Wiesahkechack!" cried the King; "is that you, Jay? I'm trapped at last," he continued, "and you must fly like the wind and get some of our Comrades to help me out."
"There's a poor chance," said the Bird, despondently; "as you know, none of us can spring that big Trap but Muskwa, and we'll never get him out now--he is dead to the world."
"What am I to do?" moaned the King--"we must try something."
"Oh, we shall get you out of here. I'll call Beaver to cut the stake that holds the chain, and you'll just have to carry the Trap home with you. Carcajou might be strong enough to press down the spring, but his hands are so puffed up from the squeeze they got, he can't do a thing with them. Don't fret; I will soon get them all here, and we'll see what can be done."
In a wonderfully short time Jack had summoned Beaver, Mooswa, Blue Wolf, and Lynx. Mooswa's great heart was touched at the sight of their Sovereign's misery. "My services are of little use here," he said. "I will go back on the trail, close to the Shack, and watch for François."
"Sparrow Hawks!" exclaimed Jay; "I quite forgot about that. Our Friend was getting ready to come out on his Marten Road when I left. Somebody will feel the foul breath of his Ironstick if we don't keep a sharp lookout."
"All the better if he brings it," answered Mooswa; "for then he'll follow me, and I'll lead him away so far that you'll have plenty of time to get our King home."
"Noble Comrade!" smirked Lynx; "such self-sacrifice! But don't you know that the Hunter will never give up your trail until you are dead? The snow is deep, the crust won't hold against your beautiful, sharp hoofs, and the Killer will run you down before the Sun sets twice."
"Most considerateTraitor!" snapped Whisky-Jack. "You would rather Black King fell into François's hands--wouldn't you?" For the Jay knew what Pisew had said to Carcajou when the latter was in the Trap.
"All right, Mooswa," growled Rof, admiringly; "you are a noble fellow. Go and lead François away--don't get within burning distance of his Firestick, though; I and my Pack will take care that the Man-enemy doesn't follow your trail after the closing of the light of day."
"I killed a Man once," answered Bull Moose; "but I'll never do it again, nor must you, Comrade. That is a thing to be settled amongst themselves--the Man-kill is not for us."
"I talk not of killing!" snarled Blue Wolf, surlily; "when our cry goes up, François will take the back-trail, and keep it till he is safe within the walls of his own Shack--that's what I mean."
"It is well!" affirmed the King, approvingly; "act thus, Comrades. We are not like Man, who slays for the sake of slaying, and calls it sport."
"Most generous Black King!" exclaimed Pisew, with an evil smirk.
Mooswa and Blue Wolf started off together. Umisk was driving his ivory chisels through the hard, dry Birch-stake that held the Trap. It was a slow job--almost like cutting metal.
Suddenly a thought struck Black Fox. "How am I to get home with this clumsy iron on my leg?" he asked. "Mooswa has gone, and there is no one to carry me."
"I could help you with the Trap," answered Umisk.
"And leave a trail to the house like a Rabbit-run? The Breed would find it, and murder the whole family; I'm not going to risk my Mother's skin in that manner."
"Thoughtful King!" lisped Pisew.
"True, true," confirmed Beaver. "François would surely find the trail. There is no other way, unless--unless--"
"Unless what, faithful Little Friend?"
"Unless you take the way of our People."
"And that way--Friend?"
"Cut off the leg!"
"Horrible!" ejaculated Lynx.
"Horrible for you, Frog-heart," interposed Jack. "The King is different--he's got pluck."
"Your Majesty will never get the Trap off," continued Beaver, "until Muskwa the Strong comes out in the Spring. Even if you did carry it home, your leg would go bad before that time."
Black Fox pondered for a minute, weighing carefully the terrible alternative. On one hand was the risk of leading the Trapper to his carefully concealed home, and months of tortured idleness with the Trap on his leg; on the other the permanent crippling of himself by amputation.
"Can you cut the leg off, wise Umisk?" he asked.
"I did it once for my own Brother, who was caught," Beaver answered, simply.
"Take off mine, then!" commanded the King, decisively; "it is the only way."
"You'll bleed to death," said Lynx, solicitously.
"Oh, that would be lovely!" sneered Jack; "for then we'd all choose Pisew as his successor--'Le Roi est mort, vive le Roi!' Excuse me, Comrades, that's an expression François uses sometimes when he drinks Fire-water; it means, a live Slink is better than a dead Hero."
When Black Fox gave the command to amputate his limb, Beaver ceased cutting the stake, scuttled over to a White Poplar, girdled the tree close to the ground, then, standing on his strong hind-legs, cut the bark again higher up. Next he peeled a strip, brought it over beside the Fox, and chiselled some of the white inner bark, chewing it to a pulp. "Hold this in your mouth, Pisew, and keep it warm," Beaver commanded, passing it to Lynx. "We shall manage to stop the blood, I think."
"You will poison our King," said Jack, "if you put that stuff on the wound after Slink has held it in his mouth."
Beaver paid no attention, but stripped three little threads from the cloth-like tree-lining, and drew the fibre through his teeth to soften it. Then he spoke to the Bird: "Come down here, Jack, and hold these threads--your beak should be as good as a needle at this job. Now for it, Your Majesty!" Umisk continued, and one might have fancied he was a celebrated surgeon rolling up his sleeves before going at a difficult amputation.
"This is horribly bitter stuff," muttered Pisew--"it tastes like the Wolf-willow berry."
"Good for the wound--will dry up the bleeding!" affirmed the little Doctor curtly.
"Is there anything the matter with this Bait, King--any White Death-powder?" he asked. "If not, stick it in your mouth--it will brace you up, and take your mind off the leg."
"There is no White Powder in it--I can guarantee that," snickered Jay. "I flew in the door yesterday when François and The Boy were out, stole the bottle off its roost, and dropped it through their water-hole in the river ice; just to save your life, Pisew, you know--you're such a silly Glutton you would eat anything."
"Jack," said the King, looking up gratefully, "your tongue is the worst part of you--your heart is all right."
"Even his tongue is all right now since he got over the fat Pork," sneered Pisew.
"Bird of Torture!" ejaculated Black King, "but that hurts, Umisk;" for Beaver had girdled the skin of the leg even as he had the bark of the tree.
"Think of the Meat in your mouth, King," advised Umisk. "Hold up this skin with your claw, Jack," he commanded. "There! pull it a little higher. I'll cut the bone here, you see; then we'll cover it with the skin-flap."
"Full-crop! but you have a great head, Umisk," cried Jack, admiringly.
"Wh-e-e! Wh-e-e-e-e!" squealed the Fox, crunching his sharp, white teeth to hold back the cries of pain.
"Quick, Pisew, hand out the Poplar-bread--it's off!" commanded Beaver. "Now, Jack, the thread. Hold one end in your beak, while I wrap it. There--let go! put a hole through the skin here!" Black King's tongue was lolling out with the pain, but with Jack's strong, sharp beak, Beaver's teeth-scalpel and deft fingers, the whole operation was completed in half an hour.
"What's that?" queried Black Fox suddenly, cocking his ears; "I heard the cough of François's Firestick--listen!"
"I heard it too," asserted Jack; "the Breed is after poor old Mooswa. If he kills our Comrade, Blue Wolf and his Pack will make short work of him."
"Now we are ready to take Your Majesty home. I think I've made a fairish job of it," said Umisk, holding up the shortened limb with great professional pride. "Bring the foot, Jack,--it must be buried. Pisew, you can carry the King, now that he is not loaded down with iron. There will be only your big-footed track to see; for I'll circle wide, double a few times, cross Long Lake under the ice, and our enemy will never know where I've gone."
"Leave the foot here," advised Jay; "the Breed will find it, see blood on the snow, discover Pisew's track leading away, and think Lynx has eaten Black Fox out of the Trap; knowing our friend's cannibal instincts, he'll believe this. That will give our Chief a chance to get well; for François, thinking he's dead, will not try again to catch him."
"I don't want my reputation ruined this way," whined Pisew.
"Ruin your reputation!" sneered the Bird. "That is rich! It's like Skunk complaining of a bad odour when you're about."
"You go with Pisew and Black King, Jack," ordered Umisk, who had taken full management of the arrangements; "better be off now before the cold-sting gets into the wound." He helped Black Fox on Lynx's back, and started them off; then struck out in a different direction himself.
The Red Widow's first intimation of this great calamity was Jack's thin voice calling for help to get Black Fox up into the Burrow. How the old lady wept. "First it was little Cross-stripes, my Babe," she moaned, caressing the King with her soft cheek; "now it's you, my beautiful Son. Poor Lad! you'll never be able to run again."
"Oh, yes I shall, Mother," replied Black Fox. "The leg will soon heal up, and I'll manage all right. I'm only too thankful to be out of that horrible Trap."
"Bless Umisk's clever little heart!" cried the Widow in her gratitude, as she stroked the black head with her paw.
"Not forgetting a word for his sharp teeth, eh, good Dame?" remarked Jack.
"I'll get food for the family," added Black King's younger Brother, proudly assuming the responsibility.
The Red Widow thanked Lynx and Whisky-Jack for bringing her wounded son home, and begged Pisew to walk back in his tracks a distance, and use every endeavour to cover up the trail leading to their burrow.
THE RUN OF THE WOLVES
After Mooswa left the others he walked to within two hundred yards of the Shack.
"Brother Rof," he said to his Comrade, "wait for me to-night at Pelican Portage--you and your Pack. If the Man follows me that far, I shall be tired by then, and need your help."
"You'll get it, old Friend--we'll sing the Song of the Kill for this slayer of the Boundary People. There will be great sport to-night--rare sport. Ur-r-r-a-ah! but the Pups will learn somewhat of the Chase--by my love of a Long Run, they shall! Drink not, Mooswa, while you trail, for a water-logged stomach makes a dry throat!"
Just as Blue Wolf disappeared on his Pack-gathering errand, the Half-breed came out of his Shack. On his feet were snow-shoes; over his shoulder a bag, and in his hand a .45-75 Winchester rifle--he was ready for the Marten Road. Mooswa started off through the Forest at a racking pace.
"By Goss!" exclaimed the Trapper, catching sight of the Bull Moose, "I miss me dat good c'ance for s'oot."
Throwing down his bag he started in pursuit, picking up Mooswa's big trail. The hoof-prints were like those of a five-year-old steer.
Out of sight the Moose stopped, turned sideways, and cocking his big heavy ears forward, listened intently. Yes, François was following; the shuffle of his snow-shoes over the snow was soft and low, like whispering wind through the harp branches of a dead Tamarack; but Mooswa could hear it--all his life he had been listening for just such music.
Wily as the Breed was, sometimes a twig would crack, sometimes the snow-crust crunch as he stepped over the white mound of a buried log. He had never seen a Moose act as this one did. Usually they raced at full speed for miles at first, tiring themselves out in the deep snow; while behind, never halting, never hesitating, followed the grim Hunter, skimming easily over the surface with his light-travelling snow-shoes--and the certainty that in the end he would overtake his victim. But this chase was on altogether new lines; something the Half-breed had never experienced. Mooswa kept just beyond range of his gun. A dozen times inside of the first hour François caught sight of the magnificent antlers. Once, exasperated by the tantalizing view of the giant Bull, he took a long-range chance-shot. That was the report Black King had heard.
When François came to the spot in which Mooswa had been standing, he examined the snow--there was no blood. "By Goss!" he muttered, "I t'ink some one put bad Medicine on me. P'raps dat Moose, he Debil Moose."
Hour after hour the hunter followed the Bull's trail; hour after hour Mooswa trotted, and walked, and rested, and doubled, and circled, just as it suited the game he was playing. François, like all Indians or Breeds, had no love for a long shot--ammunition was too precious to be wasted. He could wear the Moose down in two days, surely; then at twenty or thirty yards his gun would do the rest.
In the afternoon he tightened the loin-belt one hole--his stomach was getting empty; but that did not matter--he could travel better. If the fast lasted for three days it was of no moment; for when the Moose was slain and brought to the Shack by dog-train, the pot would boil night and day, and he would feast as long as he had fasted. The thought of the fat, butter-like nose of this misshapen Animal brought moisture to the parched lips of the long-striding Half-breed--that delicacy would soon be his. He travelled faster at the thought of it; also he must push his quarry to tire him, so the Moose would lie down and rest all night.
The dusk was beginning to settle down as Mooswa struck straight for Pelican Portage, though it was only four o'clock in the afternoon. Would Blue Wolf be there to turn back the pursuer? If by any chance his comrade missed, what a weary struggle he would have next day with the blood-thirsty Breed ever on his trail. As Mooswa neared the Portage, a low, whimpering note caught his ear. Then another answered close by; and another, and another joined in, until the woods rang with a fierce chorus--it was the Wolf-pack's Call of the Killing:--
"Wh-i-m-m-p! Wh-i-i-m-m-p! buh-h! bu-h-h! buh-h-h! O-o-o-o-h-h! O-o-o-o-h-h! Bl-o-o-d! Bl-o-o-d!! Bl-o-o-o-o-d!!!" That was the Wolf-cry, sounding like silvery music in the ears of the tired Moose.
"Hungry, every one of them!" he muttered. "If François stumbles, or sleeps, or forgets the Man-look for a minute, Rof's Pack will slay him." Then he coughed asthmatically, and Blue Wolf bounded into the open, shaking his shaggy coat.
"Safe passage, Brothers, for Mooswa," he growled, with authority; "also no killing for the Hunt-man, for the hunt is of our doing."
François heard the Wolf-call too, and a chill struck his heart. Night was coming on, he was alone in the woods, and in front of him a Pack of hungry Wolves. Turning, he glided swiftly over the back-trail.
"The Kill-Call, Brothers," cried Rof, his sharp eyes seeing this movement of the fleeing Breed. Once again the death-bells of the forest, the Blood Song of Blue Wolf, rang out: "W-a-h-h-h! W-a-h-h-h! Gur-h-h-h! Yap! yap!! yap!!!" which is the snarl-fastening of teeth in flesh, the gurring choke of blood in the throat, and the satisfied note of victory.
The Hunter became the hunted, and into his throat crept the wild, unreasoning terror that Mooswa and every other living animal had known because of his desire for their lives. What would avail a rifle in the night against Blue Wolf's hungry Brethren? True, he could climb a tree--but only to freeze; the starlit sky would send down a steel-pointed frost that would soon bring on a death-sleep, and tumble him to the yellow fangs of the gray watchers.
Mile on mile the Half-breed fled, nursing his strength with a woodman's instinct. How useless, too, seemed the flight; those swift-rushing, merciless Wolves would overtake him as soon as the shadows had deepened into night. He had his Buffalo knife, and when they pressed too close, could build a fire; that might save him--it was a bare possibility.
With the thirst for Mooswa's blood upon him, his eager straining after the fleeing animal had been exhilaration; desire had nourished his stomach, and anticipated victory kept his throat moist: now the Death-fear turned the night-wind to a hot fire-blast; his lungs pumped and hammered for a cooling lotion; his heart pounded at the bone-ribs with a warning note for rest. The thews that had snapped with strong elasticity in the morning, now tugged and pulled with the ache of depression; going, he had chosen his path over the white carpet, coolly measuring the lie of each twig, and brush, and stump; now he travelled as one in a thicket. Small skeleton Spruce-shoots, stripped of their bark by hungry Wapoos, and dried till every twig was like a lance, reached out and caught at his snow-shoes; drooping Spruce-boughs, low swinging with their weight of snow, caused him to double under or circle in his race against Blue Wolf's Pack.
All nature, animate and inanimate, was fighting for his life--eager for his blood. Even a sharp half-dead limb, sticking out from a Tamarack, cut him in the face, and sucked a few drops of the hot fluid. Startled into ejaculation, François panted huskily: "Holy Mudder, sabe me dis time. I give to de good Père Lacombe de big offerin' for de Mission." And all the time swinging along with far-reaching strides.
Memory-pictures of animals that had stood helplessly at bay before his merciless gun flashed through his mind. Once a Moose-mother had fronted him to defend her two calves--the big almond eyes of the heroic beast had pleaded for their lives. He had not understood it then; now, some way or another, it came back to him--they glared from the forest like avenging spirit eyes, as he toiled to leave that Wolf-call behind.
The Shack was still many miles away, for he had travelled far in the fulness of his seasoned strength in the Hunt-race of the daytime.
"I got me one c'ance," he muttered hoarsely. "S'pose I get too weak make fire, I dead, soor." A big Birch, in its heavy frieze-coat of white cloth, seemed to whisper, "Just one chance!"
Eagerly François tore its resin-oiled blanket from the tree, took a match from his firebag, snapped the sulphur end with his thumb-nail, for his clothes were saturated with fear-damp perspiration, and lighted the quick-blazing Birch. A clump of dead Red Willows furnished eager timber. How his sinewy arms wrenched them from their rotted roots. High he piled the defence beacon; the blaze shot up, and red-tinted the ghost forms of the silent trees.
Gray shadows circled the outer rim of blazing light--the Wolves were forming a living stockade about him. Blue Wolf placed the sentinels strategically. "Not too close, silly pups," he called warningly to two yearling grandsons; "the Firestick will scorch your sprouting mustaches if you poke your noses within reach. Remember, Comrades," he said to the older Wolves, "there is no Kill--only the Blood-fear for this Man."
The sparks fluttered waveringly skyward, like fire-flies at play; the Willows snapped and crackled like ice on a river when the water is falling. When the light blazed high the Wolves slunk back; when there was only a huge red glow of embers, they closed in again.
All night François toiled, never letting the rifle from his grasp. With one hand and his strong moccasined feet he crushed the dry, brittle Red Willows, and threw them on his life-guarding fire. No sleeping; a short-paced beat round and round the safety-light, and almost incessantly on his trembling lips a crude, pleading prayer: "Holy Mudder, dis time sabe François. I give de offerin' plenty--also what de good Pries' say, I hear me."
[image]"HOLY MUDDER, DIS TIME SABE FRANÇOIS."
[image]
[image]
"HOLY MUDDER, DIS TIME SABE FRANÇOIS."
"Look at his face, Brothers," growled Blue Wolf. "Now thou hast seen the Man-fear. Is it not more terrible than the Death-look in the eyes of Buck? It is not well to kill Man, is it, Comrades?"
"No!" they admitted surlily--for they were hungry.
"Come," said Rof, when the bitter cold dawn hour--colder than any of the others--warned them that the light was on its way, "trot we back on Mooswa's trail, and if the Man continues to his Burrow, then go we our path."
When the light had grown stronger François peered about carefully.
"Blessed Virgin! Mos' Holy ob Mudders! I t'ink me dat prayer you hear; dat wolves is gone soor. To de good Père Lacombe I give me big presen' for de Mission. I keep me dat promise soor," crossing himself fervently, in confirmation.
Blue Wolf was saying to the Pack as he trotted along at their head: "Only for the promise to Mooswa the Hunt-man would have made a good meal for us, Brothers."
"What are promises in the Hunger Year--the Seventh Year of the Wapoos?" cried a gaunt companion, stopping. "Let us go back, and--"
Blue Wolf turned in a passion. "First we fight!" he yelped, baring his huge fangs. "I, who am leader here, and also am in the Council of the Boundaries, say the Man goes unharmed."
The other dropped his bushy tail, moved sideways a few paces, and sat down meekly; swaying his head furtively from side to side, avoiding the battle-look in Blue Wolf's eyes. Rof turned disdainfully, and trotted off on their back track; the Pack followed.
"I've saved this Man for Mooswa's sake," thought Blue Wolf.
"De prayer turn' back dat wolves soor," muttered the Breed, as hurrying on he reiterated his generous offering to the Mission. It was noon when he swung into the little log Shack, with something in his face which was not there before--something new that had come in one night. He did not want to talk about it; even to cease thinking of it were better; besides, what was the use of frightening The Boy.
"I no get dat Moose," he said curtly, as he pulled his wet moccasins off, cut some tobacco, mixed it with the Red Willow kinnikinick, filled his wooden pipe, and lying down in front of the fire-place smoked moodily.
The Boy busied himself getting a meal ready for his companion.
"By Goss! he big Moose," continued the Half-breed, after a time, when he had emptied the bowl of his pipe; "but I lose de trail las' night. S'pose he goin' too far t'ro de muskeg, I can' find him."
"Never mind, François," cried The Boy, "you'll get another chance at him before Winter's over. Come and eat, you must be hungry--the hot tea will make you forget."
"I s'pose somebody put bad medicine for me," grumbled the Breed, in a depressed monotone; "mus' be de ole Nokum at Lac La Bic'e. She's mad for me, but I don' do not'ing bad for her." But still nothing of his terrible experience with the Wolves. Why speak of it? Perhaps next day they would be fifty miles away.
After François had rested he said: "I mus' go see dat Trap for de Silver Fox; I t'ink me I catc' him dis time."
"Don't go out again to-day--you're too tired," pleaded Rod.
"Mus' go," replied the other. "S'pose dat Fox in de Trap, dat Debil Carcajou, or de Lynk, or some odder Animal, eat him; dere's no Rabbit now, an' dey's all starve."
"I'll go with you, then," exclaimed The Boy.
When they came to the Trap, François stared in amazement. It had been sprung.
The Breed examined the snow carefully.
"Jus' what I t'ink me. He's been catc', an' dat Lynk eat him all up. Only one foot lef'; see!" and he held up the amputated black paw. "Here's de big trail of de Lynk, too."
Dejectedly they went back to the Shack.
"Now I know it's de bad medicine," asserted François. "De Debil come in dat Moose for lead me away, an' I lose de Silver Fox what wort' two, t'ree hun'red dollar."
"The Lynx has had rather an extravagant blowout," remarked The Boy. "One could go to England, dine there in great shape, and back again for the price of his dinner." François did not answer. He was certainly running in bad luck.
"I t'ink me we pull out from dis S'ack," he said; "give up de Marten Road, an' move down to my ol' place at Hay Riber. Before, I keel plenty fur dere; here I get me not'ing, only plenty bad medicine."
"All right, François, I'm willing--anything you say," answered Rod.
"I got my ol' S'ack down dere," continued the Trapper, "an' we go for dat place. To-morrow we pick up de Trap. De Black Fox he's die, so I s'pose me we don't want stop here. I got give little Père Lacombe some presen' for de Mission, an' mus' keel de fur for dat, soor."
CARCAJOU'S REVENGE
In the morning François and Roderick started with their dog-train to pick up Traps from the Marten Road.
"S'pose it's better w'at I go to de Lan'ing firs'," François remarked reflectively, as they plodded along behind the dogs and carry-all; "we don' got plenty Trap now, an' I can' find dat poison bottle. Yesterday I look, but he's gone soor; I put him on de s'elf, but he's not dere now. P'r'aps dat Whisky-Jack steal him, for he take de spoon some time; but anyway can' trap proper wit'out de poison."
After they had left the Shack Whisky-Jack cleaned up the scraps that had been thrown out from breakfast, and having his crop full, started through the woods looking for a chance of gossip. He observed Carcajou scuttling awkwardly along through the deep snow; this was the first time Jack had seen him since he had been liberated from the Trap.
"Hello!" cried the Jay; "able to be about again?"
"Who's at the Man-shack?" queried the other in answer, entirely ignoring Jack's personal gibe.
"Nobody," piped the Bird; "left me in charge and went out on their Marten Road."
"And the Dogs, O One-in-charge?" asked Carcajou.
"Gone too; are you out for a scrap with the Huskies, my bad-tempered Friend?"
"Were you sweet-tempered, gentle Bird, when you burnt your toes, and scorched your gizzard with the Man-Cub's fat pork?"
"Well, sore toes are enough to ruffle one, aren't they, Hunchback,--Crop-eared Stealer of Things?"
"And your Men Friends took the leg off our King," continued Wolverine, ignoring the other's taunt. "The Red Widow is close to an attack of rabies with all this worry."
"You're full of stale news," retorted Jay.
"If they are all away," declared Carcajou, "I'm going to have another peep at that chimney. Also there are three debts to be paid."
The Bird chuckled. "Generous Little Lieutenant! leave my account out. But if you must go to the Shack, I'll keep watch and give you a call if I see them coming back."
"Fat-eating! but I hate climbing," grunted Wolverine, as he struggled up the over-reaching log-ends at one corner of the Shack. "If they had only left the door open--I never close the door of my Burrow."
He went down the chimney as though it were a ladder, his back braced against one side, and his strong curved claws holding in the dry mud of the other. Inside of the Shack he worked with exceeding diligence, deporting himself much after the manner of soldiers looting a King's palace.
Three bags of flour stood in a corner. "That's queer stuff," muttered Carcajou, ripping open the canvas. "Dry Eating!" and he scattered it with malignant fury. He pattered up and down in it, rolled in it, and generally had a pleasing, dusty time. The white stuff got in his throat and made him cough; the tickling developed a proper inebriate's thirst. Two zinc pails, full of water, sat on a wooden bench; the choking Animal perched on the edge of one, and tried to drink; but as he stooped over the spreading top his centre of gravity was disarranged somewhat, and his venture ended disastrously. The floor was clay, smooth-ironed by Francis's feet, so it held the fluid like a pot, and, incidentally, much batter of Wolverine's mixing was originated. He was still thirsty, and tried the other pail. That even did not last so long, for, as he was pulling himself up, somewhat out of temper, it tumbled heedlessly from the bench, and converted the Shack-floor into a white, alkaline-looking lake.
Then he puddled around in batter which clung to his short legs, and stuck to his toe-hairs, trying to get a drink from little pools, but only succeeding in getting something like liquid pancakes.
The stuff worked into his coat, and completely put to flight any feelings of restraint he might have had. A cyclone and an earthquake working arm in arm could not have more effectually disarranged the internal economy of François's residence.
Like most Half-breeds François played a concertina; and like most of his fellow tribesmen he hung up his things on the bed or floor. It was under the bed that Carcajou discovered the instrument, and when he had finished with it, it might have been put in paper boxes and sold as matches. Two feather pillows provided him with enthusiastic occupation for a time; mixed with batter the feathers entirely lost their elasticity, and refused to float about in the air. This puzzled the marauder--he couldn't understand it; for you see he knew nothing of specific gravity.
A jug of molasses was more rational--but it added to his thirst, also turned the white coat he had evolved from the flour-mixture into a dismal coffee colour.
Great Animals! but he was having a time. Whisky-Jack, from his post outside, kept encouraging him from time to time, as the din of things moving rapidly in the interior came to his delighted ears. "Bravo! What's broken?" he screamed, when the pail met with its downfall. The blankets dried the floor a bit after industrious little Wolverine had hauled them up and down a few times. This evidently gave him satisfaction, for he worked most energetically.
Two sides of fat bacon reclined sleepily under the bed--a mouthful filled Carcajou with joy. Great Eating! but if he had that much food in his Burrow he needn't do a stroke of work all Winter. He tried to carry a side up the chimney; and got started with it all right, for an iron bar had been built across the mud fire-place to hang pots on, which gave him a foothold; a little higher up he slipped, and clattered down, bacon and all, burning his feet in coals that lingered from the morning's fire. The sight of disturbed cinders floating from the chimney-top intimated to Jack what had happened, and he whistled with joy.
This was an excuse for another round of demolition. "If I could only open the Shack," thought Wolverine. Though a dweller in caves, yet he knew which was the door, for over its ill-fitting threshold came a strong glint of light; also up and down its length ran two cracks through which came more light. Most certainly it was the door, he decided, sniffing at the fresh air that whistled through the openings.
Close by stood a box on end, holding a wash-bowl. Carcajou climbed up on this, and examined a little iron thing that seemed to bear on the subject. It was somewhat like a Trap; if he could spring this thing, perhaps it had something to do with opening the door. As he fumbled at it, suddenly the wind blew a big square hole in the Shack's side; he had lifted the latch, only he didn't know it was a latch, of course--it was like a Trap, something to be sprung, that was all.
"By all the Loons!" screamed Jay; "now you're all right--what's inside? You have had your revenge, Carey, old Boy," he added, as he caught sight of his coffee-coloured friend.
Carcajou paid no attention to his volatile Comrade, for he was busily engaged in gutting the place. "My fingers are still sore from the Man's Trap," he muttered, "but I think I can cache this Fat-eating."
"François will trail you," declared the Bird.
"He may do that," admitted Wolverine, "but he'll not find the Eating. Has he a scent-nose of the Woods to see it through many covers of snow?"
"This is just lovely!" piped Jack, hopping about in the dough; "it's like the mud at White Clay River. Butter!" he screamed in delight, perching on the edge of a wooden firkin, off which his friend had knocked the top. "I just love this stuff--it puts a gloss on one's feathers. We are having our revenge, aren't we, old Plaster-coat?"
"I am--Whe-e-e-cugh!" cried the fat little desperado, coughing much flour from his clogged lungs.
"I say, Hunchback, wouldn't you like to be a Man, and have all these things to eat, without the eternal worry of stealing them? I should--I'd be eating butter all the time;" and Jack drove his beak with great rapidity into the firkin's yellow contents.
"I'll return in a minute after I've cached this," said Wolverine, as he backed out of the Shack dragging a big piece of bacon.
"Oh, my strong Friend of much Brain, please cache this wooden-thing of Yellow-eating for me," pleaded Jay, when Carcajou reappeared. "By the Year of Famine! but it's delicious--it must be great for a Singer's throat. Did I ever tell you how I was sold once at Wapiscaw over a bit of butter?"
"No, my guzzling Friend--nor would you now, if you didn't want me to do a favour," grunted the industrious toiler, rolling Whisky-Jack's tub of butter off into the Forest.
"Well, it was this way--I saw a cake of this Yellow-eating in the Factor's Shack; you know the square holes they leave for light--it was in one of those. I swooped down and tried to drive my beak into it--"
"Like the hot pork," interrupted the tub-roller.
"Never mind, Carey, old Boy,--let by-gones be by-gones--I dove my beak fair at the Yellow Thing, and, would you believe it, nearly broke my neck against something hard which was between me and the Eating--I couldn't see it, though."
"Ha, ha, he-e-e-e-!" laughed Carcajou. "You bone-headed Bird--that was glass--Man's glass--they put it in those holes to keep the frost, Whisky-Jacks, and other evil things out--I know what it is. There! now your Yellow-eating is safe--François won't find it," he added, pushing snow against the log under which lay the hidden firkin. "I wish you would fly and bring Rof and some of the other Fellows--tell them I'm giving a Feast-dance; make them hurry up, for the Men will be back before long."
"Oh, Carey, they'll guzzle my butter," replied the Bird.
"They won't find it. Tell the Red Widow to come and get a piece of this Fat-eating for the King. Fly like the wind. I'll have everything out of the Shack, and you must tell Blue Wolf and the others to come and help me carry it to the Meeting Place."
"Look here, Giver-of-the-Feast," said Jack, struck by a new thought, "what about The Boy? If you take all the food, he'll starve before they get to the Landing for more. We must remember our promise to Mooswa."
"That's so," replied Carcajou; "I'll leave enough Fish and Dry-eating to carry them out of the Boundaries; strange, though, thatyoushould have thought of The Boy--hast forgotten the hot pork?"
"Neither have I forgotten my word to Mooswa," said the Bird, as he flew swiftly to summon the others to the feast.
Wolverine rounded up his day's work by caching the granite-ware dishes and rolling an iron pot down the bank, and into the water hole. At Carcajou's pot-latch there was rare hilarity.
"I'm proud of you, old Cunning," Blue Wolf said, patronizingly, as he sat with distended stomach licking the fat from his wire-haired mustache. "If anything should happen Black King, which Wiesahkechack forbid! we could not do better than make you our next Ruler. I have made a few good steals in my time, but never anything like this. To be able to give a Tea Dance of this sort! Ghur-r-r!" he gurgled in satisfaction, and rubbed his head and neck along Wolverine's plump side affectionately, as a dog caresses a man's leg.
"Not only wise, but so generous!" Lynx said, oilily, for he too had eaten of the salted fat. "To remember one's Friends in the Day of Plenty is truly noble; I shall never forget this kind invitation."
"Cheek!" muttered Jack, for he had not invited Pisew at all--had purposely left him out of the general call; but Lynx, always craftily suspicious, seeing a movement on among some of the Animals, had followed up and discovered the barbecue.
"I haven't eaten a meal like this since the year before the Big Fire," murmured the Red Widow, reminiscently. "Easy Catching! but the Birds were thick that year--and fat and lazy. 'Crouk, Crouk!' they'd say, when one walked politely with gentle tread amongst them, stretch their heads up, and patter a little out of the way with their short, feathered legs--actually not attempt to fly. But I never expect to see a year like that again," she sighed, regretfully. "Excuse me for mentioning it; but this fulness in my stomach has suggested the general condition of that time. The King will be delighted to have this nice, fat back-piece that I'm taking home to him. He did well to make you Lieutenant, Carcajou--you are a brainy Boundary Dweller. By my family crest, the White Spot at the end of my Tail, I'll never forget this kindness."
"Hear, hear!" cried Whisky-Jack; "you make the snub-nosed Robber blush. I had no idea how popular you were, Crop-ear. I've a notion to bring out the--Goodness!" he muttered to himself; "I nearly gave it away. Friendship is friendship, but butter is butter, and harder to get."
"Bring out what?" asked Pisew.
"The Castoreum, Prying-Cat," glibly answered Jay, cocking his head down and sticking out his tongue at Lynx.
"I remember the year you speak of, Good Widow; I also was fat that Fall," said Marten.
"So was I," declared Wuchak, the Fisher--"never had to climb a tree to get my dinner for months."
"It was the Fifth Year of the Wapoos," enjoined Pisew, "and we Animal Eaters were all fat. Why, my paw was the size of Panther's--I took great pride in the trail I left."
"Extraordinary taste!" remarked Jack, "to feel proud of your big feet. Now, if in the Year of Plenty you had run a little to brain--"
"Never mind, Jack," interrupted Blue Wolf, good-humouredly, for the feast-fulness made him well disposed toward all creatures, "we can't all be as smart as you are, you know. Tired jaws! I believe I don't care for any dessert," he continued, sniffing superciliously at a rib-bone Wolverine pushed toward him. But he picked it up, broke it in two with one clamp of his vise-like teeth, and swallowed the knuckle end. "Even if one is full," he remarked, giving a little gulp as it hitched in his throat, "a morsel of bone or something at the finish of the meal seems to top it off, and aids digestion."
"I take mine just as it comes, bone and meat together," declared Otter.
"So do I," affirmed Mink, for they had been given a great ration of Fish as their share of the banquet. Carcajou had purloined it from the Shack with his other loot.
"I must say that I like fresh Fish better than dried," declared Nekik to his companion, Mink; "but with the streams almost frozen to the bottom, and the stupid Tail-swimmers buried in the mud, one cannot be too thankful for anything in the way of Eating. The wealthiest one in all the Boundaries is old Umisk, the Beaver; he's got miles on miles of food that can't run away from him."
"Oh, I never could stand a vegetarian diet," grunted Carcajou. "I do eat Berries and Roots when Meat is scarce, but, taking it all round, you'll find that the brainiest, cleverest, most active Fellows in the Boundaries are the Flesh-eaters. Look at old Mooswa--good enough Chap; big and strong, too, in a way, but Safe-trails! what can he do? Nothing but trot, trot, trot, and try to rustle that big head-gear of his through the bush. Did you ever see a Flesh-eater have to run around with a small horn-forest on his head in the way of protection? Never! they don't run to horns--they run to brains."
"And teeth," added Blue Wolf, curling his upper lip and baring ivory fangs the length of a man's finger to the admiring gaze of his friends.
"I eat Meat," chirped Whisky-Jack, "and I don't run to horns or teeth either, so it must all go to brains, I suppose. Lucky for you fellows, too."
"No, Wise Bird," began Lynx, "you don't need horns or teeth to defend yourself; your tongue, like Sikak's tail, keeps everybody away."
"Let's go home," grunted Wolverine; "I'm so full I can hardly walk."
"I'll give you a ride on my back, generous Benefactor," smirked Pisew.
"He thinks you have cached some of the bacon," sneered Jack; "he'll be full of gratitude while the pork lasts."
Soon the Boundaries were silent, for full-stomached animals sleep well.
While there was feasting in the Boundaries there was much desolation in the Shack. François and The Boy had returned late to their wrecked home, and the Trapper's speech when he saw the débris, was something of wondrous entanglement, for an excited French Half-breed has a vocabulary all his own, and our friend was excited in the superlative degree. He knew it was Carcajou who had robbed him, for there were plaster casts of his brazen foot all over the mortar-like floor.
"We can't go to de new trap-place dis way," the Half-breed said; "we don' got no grub, de dis' he's gone, an' de poison, an' it jes' look like de Debil he's put bad Medicine on us himself. You stay here one week alone if I go me de Lan'ing?" he asked Rod. "I mus' get de flour, more bacon, some trap, an' de strykeen. I take me de dog-train for bring de grub stake. You jes' stop on de S'ack, an' when I come back we go down to Hay Riber."
It was late enough when François fell into a fitful troubled slumber, for the occasion demanded much recrimination against animals in general, and Carcajou in particular.
Whatever chance François might have had of discovering Carcajou's cache next morning, was that night utterly destroyed by a fall of snow.