Chapter VI: Part 6

The pain crept up his leg, up his back, and, as the hours dragged on, the dreary, lonesome hours, it mounted to his brain, and the queer fancies of approaching delirium carried him to a fairy land peopled by unreal things. He had just sanity enough to keep the chimney fire going, but his little pile of wood dwindled until the last stick was placed on the coals. When in the afternoon Carcajou dropped three billets that Umisk had cut down the chimney, Roderick laughed. He was a King in delirium-land, and when he wanted anything all he had to do was pray, and the angels would send it.

Sometimes the sticks of wood rolled out on the floor as they clattered down--these The Boy put to one side.

"I suppose the angels won't come in the night," he whispered; then laughed. It was a grotesque idea, but the fire was kept blazing.

He had no rational thought of eating; when he felt hunger-pains he fried a little of the bacon and ate it. Sometimes he made a batter of flour and water, cooking the mixture in a frying-pan over the fire--turning out an almost impossible kind of pancake.

"He acts like Wapoos in the early Spring," Whisky-Jack told Mooswa: "laughs, and whistles, and cries, and sobs; but he eats, which is a good thing, and is also warm. I never thought that crop-eared Hunchback, Carcajou, had goodness enough in him to do anything for anybody."

"He's like yourself, Whisky-Jack, a bit of a th--sharp-tongued fellow, I mean" (thief, he was going to say, but checked himself just in time), "and full of queer tricks, but good-hearted enough when a Comrade is in trouble. How long will the Fat-eating, which is the food of you Meat-eaters, last The Boy?" Mooswa asked.

"Perhaps three days."

"Also, is it good food for the sick--is it not too strong? When I am not well there are certain plants that agree with me, and others I cannot touch."

"Fish would be better," declared Jack, with the air of a consulting physician.

"I thought so," said Mooswa. "The smell of that bacon at the door almost turned my stomach. If the Man-Cub could only eat sweet Birch-tips, or dried Moose-flower--it's delicious when well preserved under deep snow. Even unrotted moss would be better for him than that evil-scented Meat."

The Bird laughed, "He, he, he! fancy the Man-Cub chewing a great cud of mushy grass. Now Fish, as I have said, would be just the thing; there's nothing lies so sweet on one's stomach, unless it's Butter. Warm Roostings! but I wish that cat-faced Pisew had been hanged before he found my cache."

"Jack," continued Moose, "you might ask Nekik or Sakwasew to catch a Fish for The Boy; they are all bound by the promise to help take care of him."

"All right," said Jay. "Otter might do it, for he's a generous Chap, but Sakwasew is a greedy little snip, I think. I never knew a Mink yet that wasn't selfish."

"I don't know how long we shall have to look after this Man-Cub," Mooswa said, when he, and Rof, and Black King talked the matter over that evening. "Francois is a good Trapper, we all know that to our sorrow, and he likes The Boy, for he was years with his Father, the Factor, as servant to the Company, but still he's a Breed, and if there's any fire-water at The Landing it is hard to say when he may get back; besides, the breath of the mountain that shrivelled us all for two days may have got into his heart."

"My Pack hunts for three days in the far Boundaries," muttered Blue Wolf.

"Why?" asked the King, sharply.

"In three days I will tell Your Majesty," answered Rof, shutting his jaws with a snap.

"Well, well," exclaimed Black Fox, "in the Year of Starvation there is no preserve. We hunt where we find, and eat where we catch; and only the Kit-law and the Cub-law, and the Seventh Year Law of the Wapoos is binding."

Blue Wolf disappeared for three days; and for three days Umisk cut wood for The Boy, and Carcajou dropped it down the chimney. Mooswa went every day and rubbed his horns against the door. The coming of his Moose friend was also a part of the angel care the wounded boy had dreamed into his life. His eager joy at even this companionship was pitiable; but it was something to look forward to--something to pull him back out of the deeper levels of delirium-world.

Nekik, the Otter, caught a fish, at Mooswa's request, and Carcajou dropped it down the chimney.

"It will burn," objected Umisk, who was cutting wood.

"Then The Boy will find it with his nose," answered Carcajou.

After that Roderick asked the angels to bring him fish--it was better than bacon. They were queer angels, Nekik and Carcajou, but the sick lad got a fish every day.

On the third day Blue Wolf returned. "I found one of the Men-kind down the river," he announced to Mooswa and Black Fox; "he is trapping alone, I think."

"Well," queried Black King, "what of that?" for he did not quite understand.

"If we could get him to The Boy I thought it might be well," answered Blue Wolf.

"Ah! I see," cried the King. "That's why the Pack hunted for three days in the far Boundaries."

Wolf growled a deprecating objection.

"How far away is he?" asked Mooswa.

"Six hours of the Chase-lope," answered Blue Wolf.

"I could bring him, even as I led Francois away when you were not desirous of his company, Your Majesty," said the Moose.

"It's a dangerous game," muttered Black Fox. "I don't like it--one can't judge the strike of their Firesticks; and you're such a big mark--like the side of a Man's Shack."

"I saw The Boy's leg to-day," continued Mooswa, "and it's bigger, with this wound-poison, than my nose. Unless he gets help soon, he will die."

"Francois should be back in a day or two," declared the King.

"Francois is a Breed," asserted Mooswa; "and days are like the little sticks the Breed-men use when they play cards--something to gamble with."

"The Pack could be ready if the Man pressed too close as you led him to our Man-Cub," suggested Rof.

"I do not fear him the first day," continued Mooswa; "Man's speed is always the same and I can judge of it; it is the second day, when I am tired from the deep snow, that a little rest, too long drawn out, or a misjudged circle with one of the followers travelling wide of my trail, that may cause me to come within reach of their Firestick."

"Well, you might not reach Red Stone Brook in one day," asserted Blue Wolf; "so perchance you may need help the second. You'll find the Man just below Big Rapids."

"I'll start to-night," said Mooswa, "for The Boy must get help from his own kind soon. He is sick of the wounded leg--also of a half-filled stomach; but then there is another illness that neither I nor any of us can understand. Perhaps it is of that thing the Factor said Men had and would sell for the evil fire-water--the soul. One time the eyes of The Boy are all right, even as yours, Rof, or mine, seeing the things that are; and then a look comes in them that is like the darkening of a purple Moose-flower when the sunlight is suddenly chased away by a cloud. Then this Boy, that is a Man-Cub, talks to his Mother, and his Sister, and calls to the things he names Angels, up on the roof; though I know not what they may be, because it is only little humpbacked Carcajou dropping wood down the chimney. Yes, that's what it must be," Mooswa continued, reflectively, "the sickness of this Soul-thing the Men-kind have, for The Boy laughs, and cries, and his eyes blaze, and look soft like one's young, and flood with tears, and glare hot and dry. Yes, he must have help from his own kind, for we know not of this thing.

"With good fortune I may lead this Man to him by the coming of darkness the first day; if not, then Blue Wolf will stand guard on my trail the second."

"Yes, even the first day, also, will I be near," asserted Rof.

FRANCOIS AT THE LANDING

As Mooswa tramped down the wide roadbed of frozen river, Francois, up at The Landing, was doing very much as the Bull Moose had feared.

He had weathered the blizzard, lying huddled up with his dogs in the shelter of a cut-bank, not daring to stir even for food till the fury of the icy blast had passed. He had even come to The Landing with a full resolve to go back immediately after he had secured his outfit; alas! for the carrying out of it, he was but an easily influenced Half-breed. At The Landing were several of his own kind down from Little Slave Lake with the first kill of Winter fur. With these the possession of money or goods always meant an opportunity for gambling.

Francois had a "debt credit" at the Hudson's Bay Company's store equal to the value of his needs; any Trapper who has kept his slate clean in the Company's accounts can usually get credit for a small outfit.

When the Half-breed had completed his purchase, the Factor tossed him a large plug of smoking tobacco, which was the usual terminal act of a deal in goods in any of the Company's posts.

Francois filled his pipe, sat down by the hot box-stove with its roaring fire of dry Poplar-wood, and smoked, and spat, and dilated upon the severity of the blizzard, and regaled the other occupants of the Trading Post with stories of Wolverine's depredations. Suddenly he ceased speaking, held the pipe in his hand hesitatingly, and straightened his head up in a listening attitude. The deep, sonorous, monotonous "tum-tum, tum-tum, tum-tum" of a gambling outfit's drum-music came sleepily to his acute listening ear. It was like a blast from the huntsman's horn to a fox-hound; it tingled in his blood, and sent a longing creeping through his veins.

"There goes that Nichie outfit from Slave Lake again," cried the Factor, angrily. "They've gambled for three nights; if the police were here I'd have a stop put to it."

Francois tried to close his ears to the coaxing, throbbing, skin-covered tambourine the gambling party's music-maker was hammering that still, frosty night; but his hearing only became acuter, for it centred more and more on the thing he was trying to keep from his mind. Even the "Huh, huh!--huh, huh!--huh, huh!--huh, huh!" of the half-dozen Indians who sat about a blazing camp-fire, and rocked their bodies and swayed their arms in rhythmic time, came to him with malevolent fascination.

"I t'ink me I go sleep," Francois said, knocking the ashes from his pipe, and putting it in his bead-worked deerskin fire-bag.

"You'd better pull out sharp in the morning," commanded the Factor; "young McGregor will be running short of grub before you get back."

"I roun' up ever' t'ing to-night," returned Francois, "an' hit de trail firs' t'ing in de mornin', soor. I make me de S'ack in t'ree day."

Outside, the "Tum-tum" called to him; the "Huh, huh!" pleaded with him like the voice of a siren. He would go and sit by their fire just for a little, the Breed reasoned--not play! for more than once he had been stripped to his very shirt when luck set against him. True, other times he had accumulated furs, and dogs, and guns, even the caribou-skin coats, and Cow-boy hats--fine valuable hats worth ten dollars a piece,--when fortune smiled and he had guessed unerringly in which hand his opponent-player had hidden the cartridge shell, or whatever other token they used.

"Huh-huh! Francois! Huh, Boy--Welcome!" went round the circle of squatting figures when the Half-breed stood amongst them. The musician stopped beating his instrument; solemnly each player and onlooker held out a hand and gave Francois one sharp jerk of greeting. Two rows of men sat facing each other, a big blanket over their knees; room was made for the new arrival.

"S'pose I not gamble to-night me," said Francois, hesitatingly.

They laughed in astonishment--doubtingly.

"S'pose you 'fraid you lose, Man-who-saves-his-money," cried a Saltaux Indian, disdainfully.

Now a Breed or an Indian must not be accused of being afraid of anything; if he be, and submit to it, he is undone for all time. Half their bravery is due to this same moral cowardice. Francois hesitated, and the others, ignoring him, drew the blanket over their knees; the player secreted the tokens, and drawing forth his hands crossed his arms, always waving them in rhythmic time to the tum-tum. Then the Man-who-guesses in the opposite party indicated with his fingers where he thought the tokens were hidden.

It wasn't in human blood to stand out against this thing--not generations of gambler blood, and Francois cried, half fiercely: "Make room, Brothers! We'll see who's afraid."

That was the beginning. In the end, which came toward daylight, Francois had neither grub-stake, nor rifle, nor train-dogs. Time after time he took in exchange for some asset a little bundle of Red-willow counter sticks; time after time the little sticks, some long and some short, dwindled until they were all gone. The evil fate that had been his down at the trapping stuck to him in gambling.

Broken, and half numbed by loss of sleep and a sense of impending disaster, brought on by his despoiled condition, Francois crawled off to a friend's tepee, laid down like a train-dog, and fell asleep.

MOOSWA BRINGS HELP TO THE BOY

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.

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.

* * * * * * * *

By John B. Grant

OUR COMMON BIRDS
AND HOW TO KNOW THEM

BY JOHN B. GRANT. With 64 full-page plates. Oblong 12mo, $1.50 net.

PARTIAL LIST OF PLATES: HOOT OWL, BELTED KINGFISHER, WHIP-POOR-WILL, KINGBIRD, PHOEBE, BLUE JAY, BOBOLINK, MEADOWLARK, ORCHARD ORIOLE, PURPLE FINCH, RED CROSSBILL, SNOWFLAKE, SNOWBIRD, SONG SPARROW, CARDINAL, SUMMER REDBIRD, CEDARBIRD, MAGNOLIA WARBLER, BROWN THRUSH, WINTER WREN, WOOD THRUSH, ROBIN, and 42 Others.

The author of this attractive volume dwells upon some ninety specimens of our common birds, and between the remarkably lifelike illustrations and the straightforward, easily intelligible descriptions, no one need be at a loss for the name or habits of any bird an outdoor ramble reveals. A calendar of the times of arrival and departure of the various species in the latitude of New York enables the student to know what to look for at any given date, and the fine literary quality of the book adds a charm to its use quite dispelling any unpleasant "textbook" associations.

"The book is learned, but not too much so for common use, and, if carefully studied, it will introduce the student into that interesting world of bird life where a few favored mortals, such as the author, Bradford Torrey, Olive Thorne Miller and a small handful more, have won their way and brought back so much of delight. The book has more than sixty plates of the commoner American birds, with descriptions, and a very enjoyable and instructive introductory essay."--_The Congregationalist_.

"It gives plain, practical illustration regarding birds and how best to study them in their haunts and homes in the woods and fields. The plates adorn the pages and give value to the concise, clearly written text."--_Chicago Inter-Ocean_.

"With the fine illustrations and the simple and comprehensive text, there is no excuse for the lover of birds to remain in ignorance of all the information he needs to enable him to recognize at sight, and to name unerringly, any bird he is likely to see in his walks in wood and field,"--_Boston Saturday Gazette_.

By Ernest Seton-Thompson

WILD ANIMALS I HAVE KNOWN

Being the Personal Histories of Lobo the Wolf, Silverspot the Crow, Raggylug the Rabbit, Bingo my Dog, The Springfield Fox, The Pacing Mustang, Wully the Yaller Dog, and Redruff the Partridge. With 200 illustrations from drawings by the author. Fifty-first Thousand. Square 12mo, $2.00.

CRITICAL NOTICES

"It should be put with Kipling and Hans Christian Andersen as a classic."--_The Athenaeum_.

"Mr. Thompson is now drawing the best mammals of any American artist.. . . This is artistic fidelity to nature in high degree.... Nothing of equal simplicity could be more effective than these little marginal oddities and whimsies. The book is thoroughly good, both in purpose and execution."--_New York Evening Post_.

"This book is unique in conception and illustration.... One of the most valuable contributions to animal psychology and biography that has yet appeared. Mr. Seton-Thompson is not only a naturalist and an animal artist of very high attainments, but is master of a literary style that is at once graphic and fascinating.... The author of 'Wild Animals I Have Known' is a keen woodsman, as well as an accomplished artist and writer, and has given us a book that opens a new field to our vision."--_J. A. Allen in The American Naturalist_.

"In its mechanical make-up the book is a great success. The illustrations by the author are among the best of modern book-making."--_Boston Universalist Leader_.

"Nothing apart from 'The Jungle Book' has ever approached these tales in interest, and the 200 illustrations add greatly to their charm."--_New York World_.

"The originality and freshness of these stories is irresistible.... In everything he does, Mr. Thompson has a way peculiarly his own.... Even if naked and unadorned, the facts he tells us would be very interesting; but when we have the facts and the factors fairly dancing before us, clothed in all the quaint quips and droll persiflage of an accomplished humorist and born story-teller, they are--as I have said--irresistible."--_Mr. William T. Hornaday, Director N. Y. Zooelogical Park, in Recreation_.

By Ernest Seton-Thompson

THE TRAIL OF THE
SANDHILL STAG

Written and illustrated with 60 drawings, by ERNEST SETON-THOMPSON. Square 12mo, $1.50.

CRITICAL NOTICES

"One of the most thoroughly attractive of the autumn books.... The story is almost too perfect a whole to lend itself readily to quotation.... A story to be read and re-read, finding fresh beauty at each reading, and a book well worth the owning.... It is impossible to write too highly of the illustrations. Pictures which really illustrate are all too rare, and the combination of author-artist is usually a fascinating one."--_New York Times_.

"It is difficult to determine which gives one the most pleasure in a book by Mr. Ernest Seton-Thompson--the author-artist's narrative or the artist-author's pictures. The two together certainly, as in the case of 'The Trail of the Sandhill Stag,' unite to produce a singularly harmonious result. Mr. Seton-Thompson can read the heart of the hunted animal as well as count the pulse-beats of the huntsman himself, and in this tale is condensed the whole tragic story of the chase. This double point of view is unique with this writer."--"Droch" in _Life_.

"Bliss Carman, speaking of 'The Trail of the Sandhill Stag,' says: 'I had fancied that no one could touch 'The Jungle Book' for a generation at least, but Mr. Thompson has done it. We must give him place among the young masters at once.' And we agree with Mr. Carman."--_The Bookman_.

"Nothing more beautiful in a dainty way has been brought out in Canada."--_Toronto World_.

"It gives us again glimpses of the life of animals that are astonishing for their delicacy of perception, and charming by the deftness of their literary form."--_New York Mail and Express_.

"A breezy little narrative of outdoor life.... The author has celebrated the steadfast hunt and its interesting end with art and emotion"--_New York Tribune_.

"Is a truly poetic bit of impressionistic prose."--_Chicago Tribune_.

By Frances Theodora Parsons (Mrs. Dana)

HOW TO KNOW THE FERNS

A Guide to the Names, Haunts, and Habits of our Native Ferns. By FRANCES THEODORA PARSONS (Mrs. Dana). With 144 full-page illustrations, and 6 full-page illustrations from photographs. Crown 8vo, $1.50 net.

"Since the publication, six years ago, of 'How to Know the Wild Flowers,' I have received such convincing testimony of the eagerness of nature-lovers of all ages and conditions to familiarize themselves with the inhabitants of our woods and fields, and so many assurances of the joy which such a familiarity affords, that I have prepared this companion volume on 'How to Know the Ferns.' It has been my experience that the world of delight which opens before us when we are admitted into some sort of intimacy with our companions other than human, is enlarged with each new society into which we win our way."--_From the Author's Preface_.

"Of the ferns, as the flowers, she writes as one who not only knows but loves them. The charm of her fern-book is as irresistible and pervading as is the charm of nature itself. This gifted and enthusiastic naturalist knows the ferns literally 'like a book,' and her book makes the first lesson of the novice in the lore of fern-life an easy and a delightful task."--_New York Mail and Express_.

"This is a notably thorough little volume. The text is not voluminous, and even with its many full-page illustrations the book is small; but brevity, as we are glad to see so many writers on nature learning, is the first of virtues in this field.... The author of 'How to Know the Ferns' has mastered her subject, and she treats of it with authority."--_New York Tribune_.

"The inspiration that entered into and made 'How to Know the Wild Flowers' so deservedly popular has not been lost in 'How to Know the Ferns.'"--_New York Times_.

ACCORDING TO SEASON

Talks about the Flowers in the Order of their Appearance in the Woods and Fields. 16mo, 75 cents.

"Whoever shall start out for a country walk with this little book will add greatly to present enjoyments, and will be continually acquiring a fund of useful and agreeable knowledge."--_Public Opinion_.

A SELECTION OF FIFTY PLATES

From "How to Know the Wild Flowers." Printed on Special Paper suitable for Coloring by Hand, The set, in a portfolio, $1.00 net.

Books for Lovers of Nature

On Flowers, Animals and Birds

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, Publishers

HOW TO KNOW THE WILD FLOWERS

By MRS. WILLIAM STARR DANA

With 48 Colored Plates and New Black and White Drawings, Enlarged, Rewritten and Entirely Reset

A Guide to the Names, Haunts, and Habits of our Native Wild Flowers. With 48 full-page colored plates by ELSIE LOUISE SHAW, and no full-page illustrations by MARION SATTERLEE. 60th Thousand. Crown 8vo, $2.00 net.

This new edition has been enlarged, revised, and entirely reset, the illustrations have been remade, and it has in addition 48 full-page colored plates from drawings by Miss ELSIE LOUISE SHAW, made especially for this edition. _The Nation_ says: "Every flower-lover who has spent weary hours puzzling over a botanical key in the efforts to name unknown plants, will welcome this satisfactory book, which stands ready to lead him to the desired knowledge by a royal road. The book is well fitted to the need of many who have no botanical knowledge and yet are interested in wild flowers."

"I am delighted with it.... It is so exactly the kind of work needed for outdoor folks who live in the country but know little of systematic botany, that it is a wonder no one has written it before."--_Hon. Theodore Roosevelt_.

"It is not often that a book so suggestive of pleasure, pure and simple, comes our way. So far as we recall books on flowers, it is the first that makes country walks an intelligent joy for those who know nothing of botany but who have eyes to see and minds to question."--_The New York Times_.

By H. E. Parkhurst

HOW TO NAME THE BIRDS

Illustrated. 16mo, leather, $1.00 net.

"Mr. Parkhurst has compiled a convenient pocket guide to the birds of the New England States, New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania. He has greatly simplified the common system of bird classification for the beginner by omitting such details as are invisible at field-range, and by emphasizing such characteristics as color, size, and time of appearance."--_Review of Reviews_.

"He has given to his book every advantage essential to a plain, straight-forward account of honest observation."--_N. Y. Tribune_.