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, Francois 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 Francois 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 Francois 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. Francois, 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 Francois 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."
Francois 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, Francois panted huskily: "Holy Mudder, sabe me dis
time. I give to de good Pere 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 Francois 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 Francois 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 Francois. I give de offerin' plenty--also what de
good Pries' say, I hear me."
[Illustration: "HOLY MUDDER, DIS TIME SABE FRANCOIS."]
"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 Francois 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 Pere 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, Francois," 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 Francois 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, Francois 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 Francois. "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." Francois 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, Francois, 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 Pere Lacombe some
presen' for de Mission, an' mus' keel de fur for dat, soor."