It was a dispirited enough party that, under the stars, retraced its way
from the camp of the little gray man, who at first, seeming so harmless
and helpless, had turned out to be so venomous and vindictive. Tom and
Jack had little to say.
The case was different with old Joe Picquet. He cried out aloud to the
stars for vengeance on the Wolf. He abused his name in English, French
and every one of half a dozen Indian dialects.
“Oh, what’s the use,” said Tom at length, interrupting a diatribe. “The
fellow had the whip hand of us from the moment we let ourselves be taken
in by believing he really was sick and helpless.”
“Think of that wood we chopped,” muttered Jack, with a groan.
Jack was not a lover of that form of exercise which is taken with the
assistance of an axe. He felt like joining old Joe’s lamentations as he
thought of the vigor with which he had worked to relieve the seemingly
sick man’s necessities.
“It is a good lesson to us,” went on Tom, “although it has been a mighty
costly one. If we hadn’t shilly-shallied about that tent we would have
been well on our way with the stolen skins by this time.”
“No use crying over spilt milk,” counseled Jack. “It is done now and
can’t be undone. Wonder if we will ever see those rascals again?”
“Impossible to say. If only we could get to a trading post or a station
we might raise a posse and take after them. In this part of the country
it is a mighty bad offense to steal skins.”
“What do they do with such fellows?” asked Jack.
“Hang dem!” burst out old Joe.
“Oh, not quite as bad as that!” exclaimed Tom.
“Boosh! To hang, it ees too good for dem.”
They journeyed on for some time in silence. Then Joe told them that he
was building his hopes on finding some of his Indian friends, from whom
they could get meat of some kind. For they had no rifles and no means of
procuring food, and their supply, except for flour and salt, was running
low.
He hoped, he said, to make an Indian encampment, possibly the one where
they had last stopped, before the next night. About midnight they paused
near one of the numerous, small, unnamed lakes that are frequent in that
part of the country. At one place in it was a hole which the Indians had
chopped to spear fish. This was skimmed over with ice which, however,
Joe surmised could be easily broken through.
The old trapper had in one of his numerous pockets the head of a fish
spear. Cutting a stick, he soon fitted a handle to this head and Jack,
with the lantern to act as a lure and make the fish rise, was despatched
to the ice hole to catch all he could. It was important that the dogs
should be fed without delay, for they were getting hungry, the fish at
the Wolf’s camp having been sufficient only for his own mamelukes.
Spearing fish is work that calls for an adept hand. But the boys had had
plenty of practice at their own camp, for the silver foxes had not lost
their appetites with captivity and would greedily eat all that they
could get. This had kept the boys busy securing fish and they were all
experts at the work. Jack, especially, liked it, and was exceptionally
good at it.
After he had fished less than half an hour he had speared a good number
of fine fresh fish. The dogs, who appeared to guess what was going
forward, barked shrilly and appealingly as he started back toward the
spot where the sled had been halted.
“Got any?” hailed Tom, as he saw the lantern Jack carried come bobbing
toward him.
“I should say I had.”
“Good ones?”
“They’ll stuff the dogs full and give us a meal besides.”
“That’s the stuff, the mamelukes are very hungry.”
“So they are saying.”
“We’ll have to hurry up and feed them while Joe gets something to eat.”
“I guess we are as famished as they are. I know I——”
Jack, who had been hurrying forward with his fish, uttered a sharp cry
of pain and fell to the ground.
At the same time Tom heard a clicking sound not unlike the sliding back
of a rifle magazine, only louder. He rushed forward to where Jack lay
upon the ground.
The boy was writhing with pain and Tom could not make out what had
happened.
“Jack! Jack, old fellow, what is it?” he cried.
“I—I don’t know. Something gripped my foot—as I was hurrying back.”
“It’s got hold of it now?”
“Yes.” Jack’s voice was very faint. It was apparent that he was
suffering great pain. But he tried to bear up manfully and steady his
voice while Tom bent over him.
“Can’t you move?”
“No, I’m caught fast.”
“Let me look. Great Scott, no wonder!”
Tom’s voice was vibrant with sympathy. The next instant he set up a
shout.
“Joe! Oh, Joe!”
“Oui, mon garçon! What ees mattaire?” came Joe’s voice.
“Come here, quick. It’s Jack!”
“Wha’s happen heem?” cried old Joe, dropping what he was doing and
running through the snow toward the boys.
“His foot. It’s—it’s caught in an old trap, and—and, Joe, I’m afraid
that it has bitten to the bone!”
“Sacre nom!”
But of all this Jack heard nothing. He had fainted under the
excruciating pain of the pressure of the steel jaws that gripped him
fast like a helpless animal.