Mile after mile Mooswa cut from the head-trail with his easy-swinging
rack, the strong crust of frozen snow giving his great limbs free play.
The open bed of the river held just such a run as he liked: no tree
branches to catch his huge horns, no fallen tree giving cover to a
stalking Panther or strange Wolf Pack; and, as if to make his trip
perfect, he was running up a North Wind. He was like a telegraph
operator sitting at his clicking instrument with the wires telling him
everything.
"A brother Moose crossed here, just a hundred yards ahead," the Wind
whispered one time. "Wh-f-f-f-! it was a Bull, too," the scent-wind told
his delicate nostrils. "Ugh-wh-e-e-e-f-f-! Sikak has crossed the trail
here, and killed the strongest scent left by any other--disgusting
little brute!" This message Mooswa took from the wind, and repeated to
himself. For a mile his nostrils were simply stricken dumb by the foul
odour; his nose told him nothing of other affairs.
Then for a matter of ten miles there was but the sweet breath of Spruce
as the wind filtered through a long point covered with it. "Line clear,"
the frosty air signalled, as Mooswa, taking a straight course for the
merging of dark green and river-white, raced eagerly.
At the "Second Rapid," where the float-ice had grounded on rock-boulders
in the Autumn closing-time, the river bosom humped like a corduroy road.
"I must remember this spot on my coming back," Mooswa muttered, as he
picked his way more slowly over the troubled ice-road. "Here I can make
a big run if enemies are close," he added as a stretch of many miles
reached away, level as a mill pond.
"Wolves! the Gray Hunters! the Murder Brothers who go in packs!" he
said, as his quick-feeling nose picked their presence from the North
Wind. "Not Rof's Pack," he continued, sampling the scent a little
finer--"Strangers!" and he watched warily, cocking his ears forward for
a warning whimper.
"Huh! they're busy!" for as he flashed over their cross-trail there
arose the fainter odour of Caribou. "Safe journey, cousin," he
muttered, "and confusion to the Throat-cutters. It's the Meat-eating,
the Blood-drinking," he philosophized, "that breeds all the enmity in
the Boundaries. There are Grasses, and Leaves, and Flowers enough for
all, and no encroachment, if we'd only stick to it; but eating one's
Comrades is what makes the trouble."
Just before daylight Mooswa stopped, climbed up a sloping bank warily,
and ate a light breakfast; then slipped back to the river-bed, huddled
up in the lee of a clay-cut, and after resting for two hours pushed on
again. Another ten miles and he stopped like a flash, holding his head
straight up wind, the coarse, strong-growing hairs over his withers
vibrating with intensity. "Sniff! sniff! Dogs! Man! Rof said nothing
of Dogs. This makes it more complicated. It is the scent of White Men,
and the Dog-smell is not that of Huskies. These Whites sometimes bring
the long-legged creatures that follow us like Wolves."
He worked cautiously down the river till his eyes caught sight of a blue
smoke-feather floating lazily upward.
Five or six short steps at a time, three or four yards he moved,--then
stopped and watched with eyes, ears, nose, and all his full sensibility.
He knew the Man-trick of a flank movement--he must get them out on the
river behind him; besides, there was now the stronger, more certain
odour of Dogs.
He was perhaps a matter of half a mile from the little Shack above which
twisted the spiral curl of smoke, when a fierce, strong-throated "Yap!
yap! Whe-e-e, yap!" cut the frosty air.
"I thought so," Mooswa muttered. "I know that breed--the fierce-fanged
ones the Scotch Factor had at Fort Resolution--from his own Boundaries
across the sea they came. They are like the Men themselves--on, on,
rush and hold. Deep-chested, small-gutted as Caribou; with long legs
that carry them over the snow like those of my own family; gray-haired
and strong-jawed, like Blue Wolf: but weak in the feet--small-footed,
with hair between their toes which balls up in the snow and makes them
go lame." Then Mooswa considered the task he had undertaken.
"If the Man slips the Dogs, and the snow keeps hard and dry, there will
be more fighting than running," he said to himself, "for these brutes
will come faster than I care to go. But there is a strong crust, strong
enough to bear me, and if the sun warms the snow so that it will ball in
the haired toes, then I'll have a chance in the run. The Man moves," he
continued, whiffing at the air. "Two of them!" he muttered, as their
forms outlined against the morning sky; "Rof brought tidings of but one.
Now for it! I'm coming, Boy!"
He turned and walked slowly back on his track, breaking into a shuffling
trot farther on.
In a few minutes the two men, snow-shoe clad, rifle in hand, and
cartridge-belted, reappeared circling through the woods on the bank.
With one of them were four Scotch Stag-hounds in leash. Mooswa's eyes
took in the situation as he trotted, carrying his head a little to one
side. "The flank movement," he muttered, "and a stolen shot at the next
bend--they'll not slip the Dogs while they have hope of a shot."
When the first river-bank point hid him from their sight he raced.
"They're running now," he thought, for he was down wind from them, and
the telegraph was working.
When the two hunters reached the belly of the next bend they saw a big
Bull Moose quietly browsing at the point beyond. He was walking slowly,
snipping at the tree branches as he moved.
"Keep the dogs back," one hunter said; "we are sure to get a quiet shot
at him, for he's on the feed."
Point after point, bend succeeding bend, Mooswa played this game; mile
after mile they toiled, the tantalizing expectation of a stolen shot
leading them an amazing distance on the Moose trail.
"It's the Stag-hounds that keep him moving," remarked the man who had
spoken before; "he's down wind, and gets them in his big, fat nose--if I
could rustle a shot into his carcass, I'd slip them quick enough; but if
we let them go now it will be a play of twenty or thirty miles before we
get another sight of him. I'm not struck on following a Bull Moose
under full trot with a pack of dogs behind him."
"We'll get a shot on the quiet soon," remarked his comrade. "He is a
bit on edge just now, but will settle down after he has seen us a few
times." They had given up travelling in the bush, and were following
straight on the hoof-marks in the river-bed.
"Hello!" sang out one, pointing to a depression in the snow, "he's been
lying down resting here--he's getting fagged. Somebody else must have
been running him before we struck his trail--he's nearly beat."
As they crossed the Wolf trail Mooswa had found on his way down, the
Trapper in the lead said, significantly, "It's the Gray Hunters have
done the Bull up; they've been after him, and he's dead beat."
The big Stag-hounds sniffed the Wolf trail, dropped their long, bony
tails in sullen fear, raised their heads, and bayed a howling note of
defiance.
"Shut up, Bruce!" exclaimed one of the men, pulling at the raw-hide
leash, "you'll be better up against a Moose than tackling that gang."
Now the mark in the snow had been made by Mooswa just to draw the
hunters on; he wasn't tired, for the hard crust held him up, and he
could have kept that gait for two days.
They had travelled probably thirty miles when the leader said, "Better
slip the dogs, Mac, this Moose is putting up a game on us; he's as
cunning as an old fox, and we'll lose him to-night, I'm afraid."
When the straps were unbuckled the Scotch hounds broke into a chorus of
delight: "Yi, yi, yi, yi! yap! yap! yi, yi! Bah-h-h! Bah-h-h!"
stretched their long limbs and raced on the Bull Moose's trail. That
showed a strain of Collie blood in their veins, for if they had been
pure bred they would have run silent, and by sight only.
"Pleasant greeting that," muttered Mooswa, as his flanks lengthened out
in a terrific pacing gait.
"We're coming--we're coming! yi, yi!" sang the Stag-hounds, their heads
low to the snow; their lean flanks stretching out until they seemed like
something shot from a catapult. But swift as they were, Mooswa was
swifter. They were running at high pressure, straining every nerve,
using every ounce of speed that was in their wire-haired bodies; the
Bull was running with a little in hand--something in reserve. "They will
upset everything," he thought. "Those blood thirsters will chase me on
past the Shack, and the Men may never see it."
At the Second Rapid, with its tortuous ice-humps, the Bull lost a little
ground--he had to go slower. The dogs, quicker of foot, and able to
turn sharper, gained on him. Each time they caught sight of their prey
they gave a savage yelp of eager exultation, and ran with heads
high--ran by the eye.
"Sing, gaunt Brothers!" said Mooswa; "on the level you'll have to run
with your bellies closer to the trail to keep your advantage."
Well clear of the Rapid ice, the Bull again swung his awkward-looking
body forward with increased pace. Suddenly a hoof crashed through the
crust almost bringing him on his nose; before he had gone a hundred
yards this happened again. Fringed by giant Spruce, tall banks on
either side had stood as barrier between the fierce biting frost-wind
and snow crust; also the day's hot sun was beginning to rot its brittle
shell. Oftener and oftener it broke under the racing Moose; the lighter
dogs ran freely over its treacherous surface. The Bull looked over his
shoulder at his pursuers; they were gaining--he could see that. "Six
points more to the Shack," he muttered, as he rounded a low-reaching
headland that turned the river wide in its snake-like course. Animals
count river distances as do the Indians, so many land points from one
place to another; Mooswa's six points were a good ten miles.
Each time he floundered in the deep Snow his swift-running enemies
gained at least a dozen yards.
"I wish Blue Wolf were here," thought Mooswa; "I'll never make the
Shack. I'll try a Boundary Call." He stretched his throat, and called,
"Wha-a-a--i-i-n-g," which is not unlike the cry of a Rook. The hounds
answered with an ironical yell; but another sound struck the runner's
ear, very faint, and very far ahead; it was the Help-call of The
Boundaries--Blue Wolf's voice.
"Good old Rof!" cried the Moose, as he shot forward with revived
strength.
The hounds were now running by sight, head up all the time. Every few
minutes Mooswa repeated his signal--each time it was answered ahead,
stronger and closer; and behind him the eager yap! of the pursuers was
drawing nearer. "There'll be more fighting than running presently," he
thought; "it's just as well--if Rof has the Pack, it won't take long to
settle these hungry Hunters."
Rounding the next bend a clear stretch of two miles lay straight away,
and at the farther end of it his trained eye discovered three moving
specks. Behind him, not thirty yards back, raced the dogs.
"It will be a battle," he muttered; "four against four--four of the
Boundaries in the Starvation Year, against four Fish-fed Dwellers in
Man's camp."
Another mile and the foremost dog was snapping at the Bull's hocks, just
falling short each jump; but Blue Wolf and his comrades were only a
stone's-throw off.
As Mooswa and his pursuers neared the great, gaunt, blue-coated Wolf,
the latter crouched--chest, and neck, and jaw flat on the snow; behind,
well spread in rigid leverage, were the strong, gnarled legs. A length
off two younger wolves waited ready for battle, flat-lying as their
leader. Mooswa understood. As he slashed by Blue Wolf, almost touching
him, the close-following Stag-hound sprang for his quarters, all but
dragging him to earth; but the fangs failed to hold, tearing a gash down
Moose's thigh, and as the Dog fell sideways a pair of jaws, strong as a
bear-trap, closed on his lean throat.
"Hold fast, Brother!" wheezed Mooswa, swinging around in his own length,
and making a vicious sword-cut at the hound's back with his iron hoof.
A second dog sprang at the Bull's throat, only to strike the big antlers
quickly lowered to guard it.
Rof's two sons had closed with the other hounds, and a battle to the
death raged. There was not much noise, only a snarling sucking from
where Blue Wolf's fangs were fastened in the throat of the hound he had
pinned down.
Once Mooswa got a clean slash at his fighting dog with a fore-foot that
laid the brute's shoulder open; once the dog fastened in Mooswa's throat
as the treacherous crust gave way and threw him off his guard. It
seemed anybody's battle. Blue Wolf knew better than to let go the first
hold he had taken. It was said in the Boundaries that long ago, two or
three generations back, a Bull-dog had mated with one of his ancestors,
and the strong strain had more than held its own--the way of the
Bull-dog, which is to catch and hold, against the way of the Wolf, which
is to cut and jump, cut and jump. Certain it is that Rof fought as no
other Wolf ever did--except his two Sons, holding and sucking, and
working his jaws saw-like, as an Otter-hound does, more and more into
the grip. But the Stag-hound had a well-fed strength which stood him in
good stead. Over and over the two rolled; the hound's jaws fastened on
one of Blue Wolf's fore-legs, close to the paw. The bone had been
broken long ago--chewed into splinters, and the pain was terrific; but
if Blue Wolf had the tenacity of the Bull-dog strain, he also had the
wild wisdom of the Wolf brain, and he knew that to let go meant death.
Once something swept the hound sideways with terrific force from over
the top of Rof, almost breaking the dog's back; that was a little side
help from the shovel-horns of Bull Moose. Up to that time it had been
all hoarse growls from the strong-fighting animals, for the advantage
had lain not much on either side. Suddenly a "Wh-u-f-f!
ki-yi-yi-yi--wh-e-e-e, yi-i-i," dying into a piercing treble, went up.
Mooswa was grinding his dog into the snow-crust with his hundred-pound
antlers. A lucky pass with a fore-foot had brought the hound down, and
before he could recover, Mooswa had thrown the weight of his fighting
charge upon him, and was cutting his steel-gray body into fragments.
There was still hot work to be done, for one of the young Wolves had
been overcome, stretched out with a broken neck, and the released dog
was helping his comrade pull down the other. They were both at him when
Mooswa charged. Once, twice, three times, as a trip-hammer hits hot
iron, the heart-shaped hoofs, knife-like on the edges, smote the dogs,
for they were taken unawares; then, as before, his horns made the work
complete.
As Mooswa straightened himself a little staggeringly, for his throat was
badly torn, there were only two left fighting; all the rest were
dead--the two sons of Blue Wolf, and the three Stag-hounds.
"Thanks, Brother," said Blue Wolf, rising on weak legs, as a deft,
dragging blow from Moose's right arm laid open the hound's stomach, and
finished the work Rof's fast-tiring strength was hardly equal to. "Very
neatly done--I could almost fancy it was a rip from Muskwa's paw. My
two Lads are done for," he whined piteously, looking at the gaunt, gray
bodies stretched out on the white snow, all splashed crimson with red
wine from their veins. "Wolf-blood and Dog-blood--it scents much
alike," he said, turning his head away, as he sat on his haunches
holding up a broken leg. Drip, drip-drip, drip, little red drops ate
their hot way into the snow from Bull-Moose's neck.
"That is a nasty slash, Mooswa," sympathized Blue Wolf, looking at his
companion's wound.
"We twig-feeders have strong gullets," answered the Bull, "else it had
been worse. There's nothing torn, for I still breathe through my nose;
but for many a day you'll hunt on three legs because of me, Comrade."
"I suppose so," moaned Blue Wolf, regretfully, licking nervously at his
crushed paw. "I'll mate well with Black King. But it is all in the
life of the Pack, and not your fault; no one takes blame to himself who
calls when his life is at bay. Where go you, Brother--how far back are
the Hunters?"
Mooswa straightened his head sharp into the wind--it still held steady
from the North. "Their scent comes from the second point, and we must
trail again; the Firestick is not like a Dog--it bites beyond reach.
Get in my horns, Rof, and I'll carry you."
"No," said Blue Wolf, decidedly; "each takes his own hurt to his
Burrow--that is the way of the Pack; each to himself in the fight--one
down is all on top. Besides, Comrade, your long legs are knocking
together in weariness; the snow drinks much of your red blood."
"Come," called Mooswa, "the Man-scent turns the first point."
Blue Wolf, whining piteously, was rubbing his red-stained jowl up the
neck of one of his dead Sons. He turned, balanced himself unsteadily,
and tried to kick snow over their dead bodies. Bull-Moose, seeing this,
lowered his head, gave three or four mighty scrapes with his wide horns,
and piled great white mounds over Blue Wolf's dead children.
"Come away now," he commanded again; "the Hunt-men sight us--they are
racing."
"They'll have a fair trail to follow for a little," answered Wolf; "then
it will be dark, and we'll lose them. I go to the Pack for safety; had
I known of the Dogs and this other Man I should have brought more than
two Cub-wolves."
"I go to the Shack," said Mooswa, shortening his steps to keep pace with
Wolf.
"To be killed by the Hunt-men?"
"I don't know; I go to The Boy."
As they climbed the bank, "Bang! pin-g-g-g!" sang a leaden messenger,
fairly whistling through the crotches of Mooswa's horns.
"The Firestick!" he grunted; "sight of his dead Train-dogs has angered
the Hunt-man. Slip off to your Pack now," he continued, as they trailed
through the little clearing surrounding the Shack. "Get Umisk to fix up
your foot as he did Black King's."
"And you?" queried Blue Wolf.
"I stop here!" the other answered, swaying as he stood in his tracks for
a second.
"Come with me," pleaded Rof; "my Pack shall turn back the Hunters."
"Here they come--off to the Woods!" Mooswa answered, going himself to
the Shack door and rattling his horns against the boards. The noise
wakened Whisky-Jack, who had curled up for his night's sleep under the
eave.
"Thieves!--Hello, Mooswa!" he piped, craning his neck around the corner,
and seeing the big horned head.
Inside a faint querulous voice asked impatiently, "Is that you,
Francois, or is it the angels with wood? If it is, throw it down the
chimney, please--I'm too sick to get up."
Mooswa "whuffed," blowing the wind through his blood-coated nostrils
with a sound The Boy knew, and scraped his horn up and down the door
again. There was a muffled, slipping noise of some one crawling to the
door. The bar dropped, Mooswa pushed it gently open, staggered in, and
plumped down exhausted on the floor.
Carcajou had heaped the fire-place well with wood for the night--dry
Tamarack to make it blaze, and green Poplar to make it last; the bright
light shone on Mooswa's blood-matted body and revealed to Roderick his
terrible condition.
"Mooswa, Mooswa!" he cried, dragging himself close and putting his arm
around the big nose, "who has done this? You are wounded." Just then
two men, with the blood-thirst of the chase hot in their hearts, glided
to the door on snow-shoes. One had thrust forward a rifle, but his
companion knocked it up with his arm. "What would you shoot?" he asked.
"I don't know," answered the other, his Winchester almost falling from
shaking fingers, as he caught sight of a small boy-figure huddled
against the animal's head. "Is it a banshee, Donald?" he continued, in
a frightened, husky whisper.
"Is that you, Francois?" cried Rod, sitting up in his eagerness, as the
voices came to him from the outer dusk.
"Great Powers!" exclaimed the man Donald, stepping through the door,
"that's Factor McGregor's kid, Rod. I heard he was down here somewhere
trapping with that Breed, Francois. What's the matter, Laddie?" the
thick Scotch voice burred.
"Well, I'm hanged if I ever outspanned anything like this," said the
other man; "it's like that thing we used to read, 'Babes in the Woods.'"
"Where's your mate--Francois?" asked Donald again. "And what's the
matter with you--scurvy?"
"Francois," answered the Boy hesitatingly, for days of wound-fever had
clouded his young brain,--"Francois? oh, yes, I remember--he went to The
Landing long ago."
"And left a kid like that here alone!" cried Donald's companion.
"What's the matter with your leg--scurvy?" asked the leader again.
"My leg? yes, it's sore--awfully sore. Sometimes I dream that it's
another person, and I talk to it."
"What's the matter with it?" the man reiterated huskily, pulling the
roll of a fur cap down over his eyes to hide something, for the little,
pale, pinched face, backed by a mass of yellow knotted hair, made him
feel queer.
"My leg? oh, yes--yes, there was so much snow, and I slipped, and the
axe cut it."
"Better get in the blankets, Laddie;" and standing his rifle against the
wall Donald reached down with his strong arms to lift up Roderick.
The little fellow shrank away, and clasped the Moose's head closer.
Mooswa's big ears were flipping back and forth nervously; he knew that
something was being settled, and lay still, waiting.
"Come, Laddie," said the big man again, coaxingly, "don't be afraid;
don't you remember me?--I worked for your daddy, old Factor McGregor, at
Fort Resolution--Donald Bain is my name."
The small pinched face looked up at him. "I'm not afraid, but you'll
hurt Mooswa; you've shot him now--see the blood. He's been taking care
of me."
Donald Bain straightened himself up and looked at his comrade. His
companion understood, and nodded encouragingly.
"No, Laddie, I'll give you the word of a Scotchman that we'll not harm
him. God's truth! in the old land if one's enemy came hard pressed to
the house for shelter it would be a blackguard that would injure him, or
give him away. Get in the blankets, now, Laddie, and we'll take care of
both you and the Moose."
The presence of friends, and a cup of hot tea which they brewed him,
soothed The Boy, and he became quite rational.
"This is the queerest thing I ever saw in my life," said Donald Bain.
"I've heard of a hunted fox, close run, taking refuge in a house, but
this Moose staggering into the Shack is very extraordinary. Who kept
the fire going and fed you, McGregor?" he asked.
"Oh, I prayed every night, and in the day too, and the Angels came and
dropped wood down the chimney, and fish, and bacon."
Donald's companion tapped his forehead significantly, and, turning his
face away, stalked over to the fire and poked it vigorously.
"Mooswa came every day," added The Boy. "He's the Moose Father used to
have at the Fort--I didn't know him at first, and was afraid."
"Oh, ho-o-o!" exclaimed the big man, ending with a distinct whistle. "I
remember him. He took to the bush when he was a two-year-old. That
accounts for his coming to the Shack--he couldn't quite shake off the
civilization he got. Here, Dave," he continued, addressing the other
man, "get a pail of water, and give the wounded beast a drink."
"He's killed four of the best hounds ever came to the North-west," Dave
remonstrated, looking at Mooswa.
"So would you, man, if you could, when they tried to pull you down. It
was a fair fight, and not of his seeking either."
The Boy also pleaded for Mooswa.
"Now, we've got to get young McGregor to The Landing just as quick as we
can," declared Donald Bain, as he examined The Boy's limb. "Look at the
size of it--it'll be a case of blood-poisoning, I'm afeerd."
"How will you manage it?" queried Dave, sullenly. "This brute has
killed our dogs--will you carry him on your shoulders?"
"That's so," mused Donald, taking off his cap, and scratching the thick
grizzled hair; "I suppose we'll have to rig up a carryall, and pull him
ourselves."
"You want to go to The Landing?" asked Roderick.
"We don't want to--" commenced Donald, but checked himself, and added,
"yes, me and Dave must go up for more dogs, and some baccy," fabricating
with chivalrous ingenuity, to reassure the sick boy. "We was thinking
you'd better go along too; there's no dog-train, but me and Dave could
track you up on a small jumper--does there happen to be one about?"
"I think Mooswa would drag the sleigh--he used to at the Fort,"
suggested Rod.
"By the Great Wallace!" exclaimed Bain, slapping his thigh, "that he
will--if he's not grown too wild. Hitched to a sled, he could run clean
away from a dog-train, in the old days."
"He's been harnessed right enough, some time or another," declared Dave.
"Here are two white-haired spots on his back--that means saddle-galls.
Gracious! he's as quiet as an old horse."
They put in a busy evening, the two men, bathing The Boy's leg, and with
a sailor's needle they found in his outfit sealing up the torn wounds in
Mooswa's neck. He never moved, just looked on stolidly. He knew they
meant him no harm. Any animal can tell from the touch of a man's
finger, or the look in his eye, whether it's war or kindness.
Whisky-Jack had been intensely interested in all this--the clatter and
noise kept even his bird eyes open. "Wonderful doings!" he exclaimed;
"the Boundaries are being turned into a regular Sun-dance--but I'm glad
I saw it all. The Boy will be all right now--_Good old Mooswa!_" He
flopped about drunkenly outside, for his eyes were not quite like Owl's,
and the different lights bothered him.
Then he fired a word of encouragement at Mooswa. "Stick to The Boy, old
Dainty-head-gear; you're Big Buck of the Boundaries--I'll tell Black
King and all the fellows so. Stupid light this--fancy they'll get on
without me now," and scrambling up to the eave he stuck his head under
wing and went fast asleep.
In the morning a carryall was made, a rude harness constructed from
shaganappi, Trap-chains, and straps, and before noon they were on their
way to The Landing; Mooswa submitting to be hitched up with patient
gentleness.
Whisky-Jack grinned when he saw the Moose decked out in these trappings.
"Now you're a dandy, my fine fellow," he said, patronizingly. "We'll
never see you again. Remember me to Francois when you see him, and tell
him not to hurry back--Good-bye, good old Mooswa."
"I guess our Shack and things will be all right till we get back," said
Donald. "At any rate, Factor McGregor's kid has first call, I reckon.
I'd like to put a bullet through that Breed, though."
"What if the Moose bolts?" asked Dave. "Here's a tracking-line they used
on their canoe,--suppose we take a hitch on his horns or his nose with
it; we could stop him if he tried to get away."
"Yes," answered Donald, "and if we can't, if the worst comes to the
worst, we can drop him with a bullet before any harm's done."
But they need not have bothered their heads about the line, for Mooswa
knew just what was being done; he was taking his Boy to the land of good
care. Like an old cart-horse, he plodded along. The snow was
frost-hardened again, and the going was good.
In three days they arrived at The Landing. Francois was just ready to
start with a new outfit the Factor had given him debt for. Then for
days he had to hide from Donald Bain, for there was sheer murder in the
big Scotchman's heart.
[Illustration: IN THREE DAYS THEY ARRIVED AT THE LANDING]
The day after their arrival Mooswa disappeared. When he got back to his
comrades he found that Whisky-Jack had told them everything, and next to
Black King he was the greatest hero in the Boundaries.
The Factor sent Roderick in to Edmonton with his own team, and nursing
soon put him right.
When he told about the angels feeding him, and keeping his fire going,
the people listened a little awe-stricken, for they saw that he believed
it firmly. Also the two Hunters asserted that the fire was burning
brightly when they came. Perhaps after all it was the angels.
* * * * * * * *