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 Francois 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 Francois 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 Francois, 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 Francois
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. Francois 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 Francois 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
Francois'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 Francois'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 Francois 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 Francois, 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 Francois."
"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 considerate _Traitor_!" snapped Whisky-Jack. "You would rather
Black King fell into Francois'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 Francois 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, Francois 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. "Francois 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 Francois 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 Francois 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 Francois'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 Francois, 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.