Front matter (continued 3)

"Most considerate Traitor!" snapped Whisky-Jack. "You would rather Black King fell into François's hands--wouldn't you?" For the Jay knew what Pisew had said to Carcajou when the latter was in the Trap.

"All right, Mooswa," growled Rof, admiringly; "you are a noble fellow. Go and lead François away--don't get within burning distance of his Firestick, though; I and my Pack will take care that the Man-enemy doesn't follow your trail after the closing of the light of day."

"I killed a Man once," answered Bull Moose; "but I'll never do it again, nor must you, Comrade. That is a thing to be settled amongst themselves--the Man-kill is not for us."

"I talk not of killing!" snarled Blue Wolf, surlily; "when our cry goes up, François will take the back-trail, and keep it till he is safe within the walls of his own Shack--that's what I mean."

"It is well!" affirmed the King, approvingly; "act thus, Comrades. We are not like Man, who slays for the sake of slaying, and calls it sport."

"Most generous Black King!" exclaimed Pisew, with an evil smirk.

Mooswa and Blue Wolf started off together. Umisk was driving his ivory chisels through the hard, dry Birch-stake that held the Trap. It was a slow job--almost like cutting metal.

Suddenly a thought struck Black Fox. "How am I to get home with this clumsy iron on my leg?" he asked. "Mooswa has gone, and there is no one to carry me."

"I could help you with the Trap," answered Umisk.

"And leave a trail to the house like a Rabbit-run? The Breed would find it, and murder the whole family; I'm not going to risk my Mother's skin in that manner."

"Thoughtful King!" lisped Pisew.

"True, true," confirmed Beaver. "François would surely find the trail. There is no other way, unless--unless--"

"Unless what, faithful Little Friend?"

"Unless you take the way of our People."

"And that way--Friend?"

"Cut off the leg!"

"Horrible!" ejaculated Lynx.

"Horrible for you, Frog-heart," interposed Jack. "The King is different--he's got pluck."

"Your Majesty will never get the Trap off," continued Beaver, "until Muskwa the Strong comes out in the Spring. Even if you did carry it home, your leg would go bad before that time."

Black Fox pondered for a minute, weighing carefully the terrible alternative. On one hand was the risk of leading the Trapper to his carefully concealed home, and months of tortured idleness with the Trap on his leg; on the other the permanent crippling of himself by amputation.

"Can you cut the leg off, wise Umisk?" he asked.

"I did it once for my own Brother, who was caught," Beaver answered, simply.

"Take off mine, then!" commanded the King, decisively; "it is the only way."

"You'll bleed to death," said Lynx, solicitously.

"Oh, that would be lovely!" sneered Jack; "for then we'd all choose Pisew as his successor--'Le Roi est mort, vive le Roi!' Excuse me, Comrades, that's an expression François uses sometimes when he drinks Fire-water; it means, a live Slink is better than a dead Hero."

When Black Fox gave the command to amputate his limb, Beaver ceased cutting the stake, scuttled over to a White Poplar, girdled the tree close to the ground, then, standing on his strong hind-legs, cut the bark again higher up. Next he peeled a strip, brought it over beside the Fox, and chiselled some of the white inner bark, chewing it to a pulp. "Hold this in your mouth, Pisew, and keep it warm," Beaver commanded, passing it to Lynx. "We shall manage to stop the blood, I think."

"You will poison our King," said Jack, "if you put that stuff on the wound after Slink has held it in his mouth."

Beaver paid no attention, but stripped three little threads from the cloth-like tree-lining, and drew the fibre through his teeth to soften it. Then he spoke to the Bird: "Come down here, Jack, and hold these threads--your beak should be as good as a needle at this job. Now for it, Your Majesty!" Umisk continued, and one might have fancied he was a celebrated surgeon rolling up his sleeves before going at a difficult amputation.

"This is horribly bitter stuff," muttered Pisew--"it tastes like the Wolf-willow berry."

"Good for the wound--will dry up the bleeding!" affirmed the little Doctor curtly.

"Is there anything the matter with this Bait, King--any White Death-powder?" he asked. "If not, stick it in your mouth--it will brace you up, and take your mind off the leg."

"There is no White Powder in it--I can guarantee that," snickered Jay. "I flew in the door yesterday when François and The Boy were out, stole the bottle off its roost, and dropped it through their water-hole in the river ice; just to save your life, Pisew, you know--you're such a silly Glutton you would eat anything."

"Jack," said the King, looking up gratefully, "your tongue is the worst part of you--your heart is all right."

"Even his tongue is all right now since he got over the fat Pork," sneered Pisew.

"Bird of Torture!" ejaculated Black King, "but that hurts, Umisk;" for Beaver had girdled the skin of the leg even as he had the bark of the tree.

"Think of the Meat in your mouth, King," advised Umisk. "Hold up this skin with your claw, Jack," he commanded. "There! pull it a little higher. I'll cut the bone here, you see; then we'll cover it with the skin-flap."

"Full-crop! but you have a great head, Umisk," cried Jack, admiringly.

"Wh-e-e! Wh-e-e-e-e!" squealed the Fox, crunching his sharp, white teeth to hold back the cries of pain.

"Quick, Pisew, hand out the Poplar-bread--it's off!" commanded Beaver. "Now, Jack, the thread. Hold one end in your beak, while I wrap it. There--let go! put a hole through the skin here!" Black King's tongue was lolling out with the pain, but with Jack's strong, sharp beak, Beaver's teeth-scalpel and deft fingers, the whole operation was completed in half an hour.

"What's that?" queried Black Fox suddenly, cocking his ears; "I heard the cough of François's Firestick--listen!"

"I heard it too," asserted Jack; "the Breed is after poor old Mooswa. If he kills our Comrade, Blue Wolf and his Pack will make short work of him."

"Now we are ready to take Your Majesty home. I think I've made a fairish job of it," said Umisk, holding up the shortened limb with great professional pride. "Bring the foot, Jack,--it must be buried. Pisew, you can carry the King, now that he is not loaded down with iron. There will be only your big-footed track to see; for I'll circle wide, double a few times, cross Long Lake under the ice, and our enemy will never know where I've gone."

"Leave the foot here," advised Jay; "the Breed will find it, see blood on the snow, discover Pisew's track leading away, and think Lynx has eaten Black Fox out of the Trap; knowing our friend's cannibal instincts, he'll believe this. That will give our Chief a chance to get well; for François, thinking he's dead, will not try again to catch him."

"I don't want my reputation ruined this way," whined Pisew.

"Ruin your reputation!" sneered the Bird. "That is rich! It's like Skunk complaining of a bad odour when you're about."

"You go with Pisew and Black King, Jack," ordered Umisk, who had taken full management of the arrangements; "better be off now before the cold-sting gets into the wound." He helped Black Fox on Lynx's back, and started them off; then struck out in a different direction himself.

The Red Widow's first intimation of this great calamity was Jack's thin voice calling for help to get Black Fox up into the Burrow. How the old lady wept. "First it was little Cross-stripes, my Babe," she moaned, caressing the King with her soft cheek; "now it's you, my beautiful Son. Poor Lad! you'll never be able to run again."

"Oh, yes I shall, Mother," replied Black Fox. "The leg will soon heal up, and I'll manage all right. I'm only too thankful to be out of that horrible Trap."

"Bless Umisk's clever little heart!" cried the Widow in her gratitude, as she stroked the black head with her paw.

"Not forgetting a word for his sharp teeth, eh, good Dame?" remarked Jack.

"I'll get food for the family," added Black King's younger Brother, proudly assuming the responsibility.

The Red Widow thanked Lynx and Whisky-Jack for bringing her wounded son home, and begged Pisew to walk back in his tracks a distance, and use every endeavour to cover up the trail leading to their burrow.

THE RUN OF THE WOLVES

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, François 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 François 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 François 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. François, 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 François 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."

François 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, François panted huskily: "Holy Mudder, sabe me dis time. I give to de good Père 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 François 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 François 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 François. I give de offerin' plenty--also what de good Pries' say, I hear me."

"HOLY MUDDER, DIS TIME SABE FRANÇOIS."

"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 François 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 Père 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, François," 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 François 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, François 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 François. "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." François 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, François, 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 Père Lacombe some presen' for de Mission, an' mus' keel de fur for dat, soor."

CARCAJOU'S REVENGE

In the morning François and Roderick started with their dog-train to pick up Traps from the Marten Road.

"S'pose it's better w'at I go to de Lan'ing firs'," François remarked reflectively, as they plodded along behind the dogs and carry-all; "we don' got plenty Trap now, an' I can' find dat poison bottle. Yesterday I look, but he's gone soor; I put him on de s'elf, but he's not dere now. P'r'aps dat Whisky-Jack steal him, for he take de spoon some time; but anyway can' trap proper wit'out de poison."

After they had left the Shack Whisky-Jack cleaned up the scraps that had been thrown out from breakfast, and having his crop full, started through the woods looking for a chance of gossip. He observed Carcajou scuttling awkwardly along through the deep snow; this was the first time Jack had seen him since he had been liberated from the Trap.

"Hello!" cried the Jay; "able to be about again?"

"Who's at the Man-shack?" queried the other in answer, entirely ignoring Jack's personal gibe.

"Nobody," piped the Bird; "left me in charge and went out on their Marten Road."

"And the Dogs, O One-in-charge?" asked Carcajou.

"Gone too; are you out for a scrap with the Huskies, my bad-tempered Friend?"

"Were you sweet-tempered, gentle Bird, when you burnt your toes, and scorched your gizzard with the Man-Cub's fat pork?"

"Well, sore toes are enough to ruffle one, aren't they, Hunchback,--Crop-eared Stealer of Things?"

"And your Men Friends took the leg off our King," continued Wolverine, ignoring the other's taunt. "The Red Widow is close to an attack of rabies with all this worry."

"You're full of stale news," retorted Jay.

"If they are all away," declared Carcajou, "I'm going to have another peep at that chimney. Also there are three debts to be paid."

The Bird chuckled. "Generous Little Lieutenant! leave my account out. But if you must go to the Shack, I'll keep watch and give you a call if I see them coming back."

"Fat-eating! but I hate climbing," grunted Wolverine, as he struggled up the over-reaching log-ends at one corner of the Shack. "If they had only left the door open--I never close the door of my Burrow."

He went down the chimney as though it were a ladder, his back braced against one side, and his strong curved claws holding in the dry mud of the other. Inside of the Shack he worked with exceeding diligence, deporting himself much after the manner of soldiers looting a King's palace.

Three bags of flour stood in a corner. "That's queer stuff," muttered Carcajou, ripping open the canvas. "Dry Eating!" and he scattered it with malignant fury. He pattered up and down in it, rolled in it, and generally had a pleasing, dusty time. The white stuff got in his throat and made him cough; the tickling developed a proper inebriate's thirst. Two zinc pails, full of water, sat on a wooden bench; the choking Animal perched on the edge of one, and tried to drink; but as he stooped over the spreading top his centre of gravity was disarranged somewhat, and his venture ended disastrously. The floor was clay, smooth-ironed by Francis's feet, so it held the fluid like a pot, and, incidentally, much batter of Wolverine's mixing was originated. He was still thirsty, and tried the other pail. That even did not last so long, for, as he was pulling himself up, somewhat out of temper, it tumbled heedlessly from the bench, and converted the Shack-floor into a white, alkaline-looking lake.

Then he puddled around in batter which clung to his short legs, and stuck to his toe-hairs, trying to get a drink from little pools, but only succeeding in getting something like liquid pancakes.

The stuff worked into his coat, and completely put to flight any feelings of restraint he might have had. A cyclone and an earthquake working arm in arm could not have more effectually disarranged the internal economy of François's residence.

Like most Half-breeds François played a concertina; and like most of his fellow tribesmen he hung up his things on the bed or floor. It was under the bed that Carcajou discovered the instrument, and when he had finished with it, it might have been put in paper boxes and sold as matches. Two feather pillows provided him with enthusiastic occupation for a time; mixed with batter the feathers entirely lost their elasticity, and refused to float about in the air. This puzzled the marauder--he couldn't understand it; for you see he knew nothing of specific gravity.

A jug of molasses was more rational--but it added to his thirst, also turned the white coat he had evolved from the flour-mixture into a dismal coffee colour.

Great Animals! but he was having a time. Whisky-Jack, from his post outside, kept encouraging him from time to time, as the din of things moving rapidly in the interior came to his delighted ears. "Bravo! What's broken?" he screamed, when the pail met with its downfall. The blankets dried the floor a bit after industrious little Wolverine had hauled them up and down a few times. This evidently gave him satisfaction, for he worked most energetically.

Two sides of fat bacon reclined sleepily under the bed--a mouthful filled Carcajou with joy. Great Eating! but if he had that much food in his Burrow he needn't do a stroke of work all Winter. He tried to carry a side up the chimney; and got started with it all right, for an iron bar had been built across the mud fire-place to hang pots on, which gave him a foothold; a little higher up he slipped, and clattered down, bacon and all, burning his feet in coals that lingered from the morning's fire. The sight of disturbed cinders floating from the chimney-top intimated to Jack what had happened, and he whistled with joy.

This was an excuse for another round of demolition. "If I could only open the Shack," thought Wolverine. Though a dweller in caves, yet he knew which was the door, for over its ill-fitting threshold came a strong glint of light; also up and down its length ran two cracks through which came more light. Most certainly it was the door, he decided, sniffing at the fresh air that whistled through the openings.

Close by stood a box on end, holding a wash-bowl. Carcajou climbed up on this, and examined a little iron thing that seemed to bear on the subject. It was somewhat like a Trap; if he could spring this thing, perhaps it had something to do with opening the door. As he fumbled at it, suddenly the wind blew a big square hole in the Shack's side; he had lifted the latch, only he didn't know it was a latch, of course--it was like a Trap, something to be sprung, that was all.

"By all the Loons!" screamed Jay; "now you're all right--what's inside? You have had your revenge, Carey, old Boy," he added, as he caught sight of his coffee-coloured friend.

Carcajou paid no attention to his volatile Comrade, for he was busily engaged in gutting the place. "My fingers are still sore from the Man's Trap," he muttered, "but I think I can cache this Fat-eating."

"François will trail you," declared the Bird.

"He may do that," admitted Wolverine, "but he'll not find the Eating. Has he a scent-nose of the Woods to see it through many covers of snow?"

"This is just lovely!" piped Jack, hopping about in the dough; "it's like the mud at White Clay River. Butter!" he screamed in delight, perching on the edge of a wooden firkin, off which his friend had knocked the top. "I just love this stuff--it puts a gloss on one's feathers. We are having our revenge, aren't we, old Plaster-coat?"

"I am--Whe-e-e-cugh!" cried the fat little desperado, coughing much flour from his clogged lungs.

"I say, Hunchback, wouldn't you like to be a Man, and have all these things to eat, without the eternal worry of stealing them? I should--I'd be eating butter all the time;" and Jack drove his beak with great rapidity into the firkin's yellow contents.

"I'll return in a minute after I've cached this," said Wolverine, as he backed out of the Shack dragging a big piece of bacon.

"Oh, my strong Friend of much Brain, please cache this wooden-thing of Yellow-eating for me," pleaded Jay, when Carcajou reappeared. "By the Year of Famine! but it's delicious--it must be great for a Singer's throat. Did I ever tell you how I was sold once at Wapiscaw over a bit of butter?"

"No, my guzzling Friend--nor would you now, if you didn't want me to do a favour," grunted the industrious toiler, rolling Whisky-Jack's tub of butter off into the Forest.

"Well, it was this way--I saw a cake of this Yellow-eating in the Factor's Shack; you know the square holes they leave for light--it was in one of those. I swooped down and tried to drive my beak into it--"

"Like the hot pork," interrupted the tub-roller.

"Never mind, Carey, old Boy,--let by-gones be by-gones--I dove my beak fair at the Yellow Thing, and, would you believe it, nearly broke my neck against something hard which was between me and the Eating--I couldn't see it, though."

"Ha, ha, he-e-e-e-!" laughed Carcajou. "You bone-headed Bird--that was glass--Man's glass--they put it in those holes to keep the frost, Whisky-Jacks, and other evil things out--I know what it is. There! now your Yellow-eating is safe--François won't find it," he added, pushing snow against the log under which lay the hidden firkin. "I wish you would fly and bring Rof and some of the other Fellows--tell them I'm giving a Feast-dance; make them hurry up, for the Men will be back before long."

"Oh, Carey, they'll guzzle my butter," replied the Bird.

"They won't find it. Tell the Red Widow to come and get a piece of this Fat-eating for the King. Fly like the wind. I'll have everything out of the Shack, and you must tell Blue Wolf and the others to come and help me carry it to the Meeting Place."

"Look here, Giver-of-the-Feast," said Jack, struck by a new thought, "what about The Boy? If you take all the food, he'll starve before they get to the Landing for more. We must remember our promise to Mooswa."

"That's so," replied Carcajou; "I'll leave enough Fish and Dry-eating to carry them out of the Boundaries; strange, though, that you should have thought of The Boy--hast forgotten the hot pork?"

"Neither have I forgotten my word to Mooswa," said the Bird, as he flew swiftly to summon the others to the feast.

Wolverine rounded up his day's work by caching the granite-ware dishes and rolling an iron pot down the bank, and into the water hole. At Carcajou's pot-latch there was rare hilarity.

"I'm proud of you, old Cunning," Blue Wolf said, patronizingly, as he sat with distended stomach licking the fat from his wire-haired mustache. "If anything should happen Black King, which Wiesahkechack forbid! we could not do better than make you our next Ruler. I have made a few good steals in my time, but never anything like this. To be able to give a Tea Dance of this sort! Ghur-r-r!" he gurgled in satisfaction, and rubbed his head and neck along Wolverine's plump side affectionately, as a dog caresses a man's leg.

"Not only wise, but so generous!" Lynx said, oilily, for he too had eaten of the salted fat. "To remember one's Friends in the Day of Plenty is truly noble; I shall never forget this kind invitation."

"Cheek!" muttered Jack, for he had not invited Pisew at all--had purposely left him out of the general call; but Lynx, always craftily suspicious, seeing a movement on among some of the Animals, had followed up and discovered the barbecue.

"I haven't eaten a meal like this since the year before the Big Fire," murmured the Red Widow, reminiscently. "Easy Catching! but the Birds were thick that year--and fat and lazy. 'Crouk, Crouk!' they'd say, when one walked politely with gentle tread amongst them, stretch their heads up, and patter a little out of the way with their short, feathered legs--actually not attempt to fly. But I never expect to see a year like that again," she sighed, regretfully. "Excuse me for mentioning it; but this fulness in my stomach has suggested the general condition of that time. The King will be delighted to have this nice, fat back-piece that I'm taking home to him. He did well to make you Lieutenant, Carcajou--you are a brainy Boundary Dweller. By my family crest, the White Spot at the end of my Tail, I'll never forget this kindness."

"Hear, hear!" cried Whisky-Jack; "you make the snub-nosed Robber blush. I had no idea how popular you were, Crop-ear. I've a notion to bring out the--Goodness!" he muttered to himself; "I nearly gave it away. Friendship is friendship, but butter is butter, and harder to get."

"Bring out what?" asked Pisew.

"The Castoreum, Prying-Cat," glibly answered Jay, cocking his head down and sticking out his tongue at Lynx.

"I remember the year you speak of, Good Widow; I also was fat that Fall," said Marten.

"So was I," declared Wuchak, the Fisher--"never had to climb a tree to get my dinner for months."

"It was the Fifth Year of the Wapoos," enjoined Pisew, "and we Animal Eaters were all fat. Why, my paw was the size of Panther's--I took great pride in the trail I left."

"Extraordinary taste!" remarked Jack, "to feel proud of your big feet. Now, if in the Year of Plenty you had run a little to brain--"

"Never mind, Jack," interrupted Blue Wolf, good-humouredly, for the feast-fulness made him well disposed toward all creatures, "we can't all be as smart as you are, you know. Tired jaws! I believe I don't care for any dessert," he continued, sniffing superciliously at a rib-bone Wolverine pushed toward him. But he picked it up, broke it in two with one clamp of his vise-like teeth, and swallowed the knuckle end. "Even if one is full," he remarked, giving a little gulp as it hitched in his throat, "a morsel of bone or something at the finish of the meal seems to top it off, and aids digestion."

"I take mine just as it comes, bone and meat together," declared Otter.

"So do I," affirmed Mink, for they had been given a great ration of Fish as their share of the banquet. Carcajou had purloined it from the Shack with his other loot.

"I must say that I like fresh Fish better than dried," declared Nekik to his companion, Mink; "but with the streams almost frozen to the bottom, and the stupid Tail-swimmers buried in the mud, one cannot be too thankful for anything in the way of Eating. The wealthiest one in all the Boundaries is old Umisk, the Beaver; he's got miles on miles of food that can't run away from him."

"Oh, I never could stand a vegetarian diet," grunted Carcajou. "I do eat Berries and Roots when Meat is scarce, but, taking it all round, you'll find that the brainiest, cleverest, most active Fellows in the Boundaries are the Flesh-eaters. Look at old Mooswa--good enough Chap; big and strong, too, in a way, but Safe-trails! what can he do? Nothing but trot, trot, trot, and try to rustle that big head-gear of his through the bush. Did you ever see a Flesh-eater have to run around with a small horn-forest on his head in the way of protection? Never! they don't run to horns--they run to brains."

"And teeth," added Blue Wolf, curling his upper lip and baring ivory fangs the length of a man's finger to the admiring gaze of his friends.

"I eat Meat," chirped Whisky-Jack, "and I don't run to horns or teeth either, so it must all go to brains, I suppose. Lucky for you fellows, too."

"No, Wise Bird," began Lynx, "you don't need horns or teeth to defend yourself; your tongue, like Sikak's tail, keeps everybody away."

"Let's go home," grunted Wolverine; "I'm so full I can hardly walk."

"I'll give you a ride on my back, generous Benefactor," smirked Pisew.

"He thinks you have cached some of the bacon," sneered Jack; "he'll be full of gratitude while the pork lasts."

Soon the Boundaries were silent, for full-stomached animals sleep well.

While there was feasting in the Boundaries there was much desolation in the Shack. François and The Boy had returned late to their wrecked home, and the Trapper's speech when he saw the débris, was something of wondrous entanglement, for an excited French Half-breed has a vocabulary all his own, and our friend was excited in the superlative degree. He knew it was Carcajou who had robbed him, for there were plaster casts of his brazen foot all over the mortar-like floor.

"We can't go to de new trap-place dis way," the Half-breed said; "we don' got no grub, de dis' he's gone, an' de poison, an' it jes' look like de Debil he's put bad Medicine on us himself. You stay here one week alone if I go me de Lan'ing?" he asked Rod. "I mus' get de flour, more bacon, some trap, an' de strykeen. I take me de dog-train for bring de grub stake. You jes' stop on de S'ack, an' when I come back we go down to Hay Riber."

It was late enough when François fell into a fitful troubled slumber, for the occasion demanded much recrimination against animals in general, and Carcajou in particular.

Whatever chance François might have had of discovering Carcajou's cache next morning, was that night utterly destroyed by a fall of snow.

PISEW STEALS THE BOY'S FOOD

In the morning, François, taking his loaded snake-whip, hammered the Huskie dogs into a submission sufficient to permit of their being harnessed; put a meagre ration for four days in the carryall, tied on his snow-shoes, and said to Roderick: "I go for pull out now, Boy; I s'pose t'ree day I make me de Lan'ing. I stop dere one day, hit de back-trail den, an' come de S'ack here wid de grub stake in fo'r more. You got grub lef for dat long, soor. Bes' not go far from de S'ack; de Blue Wolf he migh' come roun' dis side wit' hes Pack--bes' stick close de S'ack."

"I GO FOR PULL OUT NOW, BOY."

Then he slipped down the long-terraced river-bank with his train, and started up the avenue of its broad bosom toward The Landing.

With rather a dreary feeling of lonesomeness Rod watched him disappear around the first long, Spruce-covered point, then went back into the Shack and whistled to keep the mercury of his spirits from congealing.

Other eyes had seen François wind around the first turn that shut him out from Rod's vision: Blue Wolf's eyes; the little bead eyes of Carcajou; the shifting, treacherous, cat-like orbs of Pisew, the Lynx. Mooswa's big almond eyes blinked solemnly from a thicket of willow that lined the river bank.

"I wonder if he'll bring the same Huskies back in his train?" said Blue Wolf, as they returned through the Boundaries together.

"I should think he would," ventured Mooswa.

"Don't know about that," continued Rof, "these Breeds have no affection for their Dogs, nor anything else but their own Man-Cubs. They do like them, I must say. Why, I've heard one of them, a big, rough Man he was too, cry every night for Moons because of the death of his Cub. He was as savage as any Wolf, though, for he killed another Man in a fight just at that time, and thought no more of it than I did over killing a Sheep at Lac La Biche. But every night he howled, and moaned, and whimpered for his lost Cub, just as a Mother Wolf might when her young are trapped, or stricken with the breath of the Firestick, or killed in a Pack-riot. Yes, they're queer, the Men," he mused in a low growl. "When François goes to The Landing, if one of the other Breeds stumps him for a trade, he'll swap off the whole Train."

"I'm sure he'll stick to Marsh Maid," declared Pisew; "she'll be back again all right, Brother Rof." Blue Wolf looked sheepishly at Mooswa. What a devil this Lynx was to read his thoughts like that.

"I hope nothing will happen François, for the sake of The Boy," wheezed Mooswa. "These Breed Men also forget everything when the fire-water, that makes them like mad Bulls, is in camp; it is always at The Landing too," he muttered, despondently. "When I was a Calf at the Fort, I heard the old Factor say--I think I've told you about that time--"

"Yes, yes," interrupted Carcajou impatiently, for he was a quick-thinking little Animal, "what did the Factor say about these Breed Men?"

"I'm coming to that," asserted Mooswa, ponderously. "It was at the time I was a Calf in the Fort Corral, and the Factor, who was my Boy's father, said that a Breed would sell his Soul for a gallon of this Devil-water that puts madness in their blood."

"What's a Soul?" asked Carcajou. "I wonder if I smashed François's in the Shack."

"I don't know," answered Mooswa; "it's something Man has, but which we haven't--it's the thing that looks out of their eyes and makes us all turn our heads away. Even Rof there, who stands up against Cougar without flinching, drops his head when Man looks at him--is that not so, brave Comrade?"

"It is," answered Blue Wolf, dragging his tail a little.

"And a Breed will trade this thing for fire-water?" queried Carcajou.

"So the Factor said," answered the Moose.

"I wouldn't if I had it," declared Wolverine--"not even for the Fat-eating, and that is good for one. Was it that which made Wiesahkechack King of Men and Animals, and everything, when he was here--this Soul thing?" he asked pantingly, for the easy stride of his long-legged comrades made his lungs pump fast.

"I suppose so," replied Mooswa; "but if François gets fire-water at The Landing, I'm afraid it will be ill with The Boy. But, Comrades, you all remember your oath to me and the King, that for the Man-Cub shall be our help, and our care, and not the blood-feud that is against Man, because of his killing."

"I remember," cried Blue Wolf.

"And I," answered Pisew.

"I never forget anything," declared Carcajou. "When my paws ached because of François, I laid up hate against him; and when Black King's leg was lost because of this evil Man's Trap the hate grew stronger; but by the Bars on my Flanks do I bear not hate against The Boy, and bear the promise given to you, Mooswa."

"I'll carry you for a short trail, Lieutenant," said Blue Wolf, stopping beside Wolverine; "the Fat-eating has put new strength in my bones--jump up on my back. Your brains are nimbler than ours, but your short legs can't get over the deep snow so fast."

"Been to see him off, eh?" piped Whisky-Jack cheerily, fluttering up. "I heard him tell The Boy they'd go down to Hay River when he comes back from The Landing; but how did you Fellows know he was leaving this morning?"

"Rof got it from his Huskie sweetheart," said Lynx. "The Dogs were tied up last night, and the carryall outfit was lying ready at the door--that meant hitting the trail early this morning."

"Has the Man-Cub got Eating enough to last against François's return, Jack?" asked Bull Moose, solicitously.

"A dozen White Fish, a little flour, and some tea."

"That will keep the stomach-ache away, if the Breed comes back quickly," affirmed Mooswa.

Pisew cocked his Hair-plumed ears hungrily at the mention of Fish; and the thief-thought that was always in his heart kept whispering, "Fish! Fish! Fish that is in the Shack--The Boy's Fish!" The woods were so bare, too. It was the Seventh Year, the Famine Year, and a chance of eating came only at long intervals. Carcajou had robbed the Shack, and it had been accounted clever--all the Flesh Eaters had feasted merrily off the loot. Why should he not also steal the twelve Fish? But he was not like Carcajou, a feast-giver, an Animal to make himself popular by great gifts; if he stole the Fish he would cache them, and the eating would round up his lean stomach.

"Carrier of Messages," began Mooswa, addressing Whisky-Jack, "thy part of the Oath Promise is watching over The Boy. If aught goes wrong, bring thou the news."

"Very well, old Sober-sides," answered Jay, saucily. "I'll come and sit on your horns that have so many beautiful roosts for me, and whisper each day into your ear, that is big enough to hold my nest, all that happens at the Shack!"

"He'll keep you busy, Mooswa," smirked Pisew.

"Mooswa has time to spare for his Friends," answered Jack, "because he eats an honest dinner. You, Bob-tail, are so busy with your thieving and lying-in-wait for somebody's children to eat, that you have no time for honest talk."

"Here's your path, Carcajou," cried Blue Wolf, stopping while Wolverine jumped down. "I'm going on to see how Black King is."

"Last night a strong wind laid many acres of Birch Trees on their backs, two hours' swift trot from here--I'm going there for my dinner," declared the Moose; "it will be fine feeding. It is a pity you Chaps aren't vegetarians; the Blood Fever must be awful--killing, killing, killing,--it's dreadful!" he wheezed, turning to the left and striding away through the forest.

"I'll go and see Black King too," exclaimed Whisky-Jack.

"I'm off to the muskeg to hunt Mice," announced Pisew; "the Famine Year brings one pretty low."

"Your Father must have been born in a Famine Year," suggested Jack, "and you inherited the depravity from him."

Lynx snarled disagreeably, and as he slunk cat-like through the woods, spat in contemptuous anger. "Jack has gone to the King's Burrow," he muttered; "I'll have a look at The Boy's Shack. I wonder where he keeps that Fish, and if he leaves the door open at all. Perhaps when he goes down to the river for water--ah, yes, Cubs and Kittens are all careless--even the Man-Cub will not be wise, I think. Now, so soon, the pittance of food I had from that thief, Carcajou, has melted in my stomach, and the walls are collapsing again. I wonder where the hump-backed Lieutenant cached the rest of his stolen Fat-eating."

Thus treacherously planning, Lynx stealthily circled to the Shack, lay down behind a Cottonwood log fifty feet away, and watched with a ravenous look in his big round eyes. Presently he saw Rod open the door, look across the waste of snow, stretch his arms over his head wearily, turn back into the Shack, reappear with two metal pails in one hand and an axe in the other, and pass from view over the steep river bank.

With a swift, noiseless rush the yellow-gray thief darted into the building. His keen nose pointed out the dried White Fish lying on a box in the corner. Stretching his jaws to their utmost width, he seized four or five and bounded into the thick bush with them. Two hundred paces from the clearing Pisew dropped his booty behind a fallen tree. "I'll have time for the others," he snarled, pulling a white covering over the fish with his huge paw.

As he stole back again, a sound of ice-chopping came to his ears. "Plenty of time," he muttered, and once more his jaws were laden with The Boy's provision. In his eagerness to take them all, two fish slipped to the floor; Pisew became frightened, and bolted with those he had in his mouth. "I can't go back any more," he thought, as he rushed away; "but I've done well, I've done very well."

The Boy returned with the water, took his axe and cut some wood. He did not miss the fish. Pisew carried his stolen goods away and cached them.

That night Whisky-Jack, sitting on his perch under the extended end of the roof, heard something that gave him a start. Rod had discovered the loss of his Fish.

"My God! this is serious," the Bird heard him say. "Two fish and a handful of flour for ten days' food--perhaps longer. This is terrible. It's that Devil of the Woods, Carcajou, who has robbed me, I suppose--he stole the bacon before. If I only could get a chance at him with a rifle, I'd settle his thieving life."

The misery in The Boy's voice touched Whisky-Jack.

"Pisew has done this evil thing," he chirped to himself. "If he has, he has broken his oath of the Boy-care."

THE PUNISHING OF PISEW

In the morning Whisky-Jack flew early to the home of Black King, and told him of the fish-stealing.

"Yes," affirmed the Red Widow, "it was Pisew. His father before him was a Traitor and a Thief; they were always a mean, low lot. And wasn't this Man-Cub good and kind to my Babe, Stripes, when that brute of a Huskie Dog attacked him?"

"Yes, Good Dame," affirmed the Bird; "but for this Man-Cub your Pup would have lined the stomach of a Train Dog--now he may live to line the cloak of some Man-woman--that is, if François catches him. But what shall be done to this breaker of Boundary Laws and Sneak-thief, Pisew, Your Majesty?"

"Summon Carcajou, Mooswa, Blue Wolf, and others of the Council, my good Messenger," commanded the King. "There is no fear of the trail now, for François is gone, and The Boy hunts not."

When they had gathered, Whisky-Jack again told of what had been done.

"It is Pisew, of a certainty," cried Carcajou.

"Yes, it is that Traitor," concurred Rof, with a growl.

"I could hardly believe any Animal capable of such meanness," sighed Bull Moose; "we must investigate. If it be true--"

"Yes, if it prove true!" snapped Carcajou.

"Uhr-r-r, if this thing be true--!" growled Blue Wolf, and there was a perceptible gleam of white as his lip curled with terrible emphasis.

"Go and look!" commanded Black King; "the snow tells no false tales; the Thief will have written with his feet that which his tongue will lie to conceal."

The vigilants proceeded to the scene of Pisew's greedy outrage. "I thought so," said Carcajou, examining the ground minutely.

"Here he hid the stuff," cried Rof, from behind a fallen tree. "That odour is Dried Fish; and this--bah! it's worse--it's the foul smell of our Castoreum-loving Friend, Pisew;" and he curled his nose disdainfully in the half-muffled tracks of the detested Cat.

"I can see his big foot-prints plainly," added Mooswa. "There is no question as to who is the thief. Let us go back and summon the Council of the Boundaries, and decide what is to be done with this Breaker of Oaths."

When they had returned to the King's burrow, he commanded that Umisk, Nekik, Wapistan, Mink, Skunk, Wapoos, and all others, should be gathered, so that judgment might be passed upon the traitor. "Also summon Pisew," he said to Jay.

When the Council members had arrived, Whisky-Jack came back with a report that Lynx could not be found.

"Guilt and a full stomach have caused him to travel far; it is easier to keep out of the way than to answer eyes that are asking questions," declared Blue Wolf, in a thick voice.

"Then we shall decide without him," cried Black King, angrily.

The evidence was put clearly before the Council by Rof, Carcajou, and Mooswa; besides, each of the animals swore solemnly by their different tail-marks, which is an oath not to be broken, that they had not done this thing.

"Well," said Black Fox, "we arranged before that, in case of a serious breach of the Law, the Council should decide by numbers whether any one must die because of the Law breaking. Is that not so?"

"It is," they all answered.

"Then what of Pisew, who has undoubtedly broken the Oath-promise that was made unto Mooswa?"

"He must die!" snarled Blue Wolf.

"He must cease to be!" echoed Carcajou.

"Yes, it is not right that he live!" declared Mooswa. And from Bull Moose down to Wapistan, all agreed that Pisew deserved death for his traitorous conduct.

"But how?" asked the King.

Nobody answered for a time. Killing, except because of hunger, was a new thing to them; no one wanted to have the slaying of Lynx upon his conscience--the role of executioner was undesirable.

"He shall die after the manner of his Father,--by the Snare, and by the means of Man, which is just," announced Carcajou, presently.

"But François has gone, and the Man-Cub traps not," objected the Red Widow.

"He did not trouble to take up the Snares, though, Good Dame," affirmed Wolverine; "I know of three."

"You know of three, and didn't spring them?" queried Jack, incredulously.

"There was no Bait--only the vile smelling Castoreum," answered Carcajou, disdainfully. "And there was also a chance that Pisew might poke his traitorous head through one--I guard not for that Sneak."

"But how will you induce Pisew to thrust his worthless neck into the Snare?" asked Black King.

"There is some of the Fat-eating still left, Your Majesty," returned Carcajou, "and I'll forfeit a piece as Bait."

"That should tempt him," asserted the King.

"But he may be a long time discovering it," ventured Umisk, pointing out a seeming difficulty.

"Leave that to me," pleaded Whisky-Jack; "you provide the Bait, and I'll provide the Thief who'll try to steal it."

It being settled that way, the Council adjourned, Carcajou and Whisky-Jack being selected as a Committee of Execution. Wolverine showed Jay where the snare was placed, and while he cleverly arranged the bacon beyond its quick-slipping noose, the latter scoured the Forests and muskegs for Pisew until he found him.

"Hello, Feather-Feet!" he hailed the Lynx with.

"Good-day, Gossip!" retorted Pisew.

"You're looking well fed for this Year of Famine, my carnivorous Friend," said Whisky-Jack, pleasantly.

"Yes, I'm fat because of much fasting," answered Lynx. "The memory of Carcajou's Fat-eating alone keeps me alive; I'm starved--I'm as thin as a snow-shoe. It's days since my form would even cast a shadow--can you not see right through me, Eagle-eyed Bird?"

"I think I can," declared the Jay, meaning Lynx's methods, more than his thick-woolled body.

"I'm starving!" reasserted the Cat. "If Carcajou were half so generous as he pretends, he should give me another piece of that Fat-eating; it would save my life--really it would." He was pleading poverty with an exaggerated flourish, lest he be suspected of the ill-gotten wealth of Fish.

"Yes, Carcajou is a miser," affirmed Whisky-Jack. "He still has some of the Man's bacon cached."

"I wish I knew where," panted Lynx. "There is no wrong in stealing from a thief--is there, wise Bird?"

"I know where some of it is hidden," declared Jay, with an air of great satisfaction.

"Tell me," pleaded the other.

At first Jack refused utterly; then by diplomatic weakenings he succumbed to Pisew's eager solicitation, and veered around, consenting to point out some of Wolverine's stolen treasure.

"You are a true friend, Jack," asserted Pisew, encouragingly.

"To whom?" asked the Bird, pointedly.

"Oh, to me, of course; for Carcajou is a friend to nobody. But, Jack," he said suddenly, "you are fond of Yellow-eating, aren't you?"

"Yes, I like butter."

"Well, I'll tell you where you can get rare good picking--it's a good joke on Carcajou, too, though it was so badly covered up that I thought it more like a Man's cache."

The Jay started. Had this wily thief stolen his butter also--the butter that Carcajou had hidden for him at the Shack looting?

"You see," continued Lynx, "I stumbled upon it quite by accident as I was digging for Grubs, Beetles, and poor food of that sort--hardly enough to fill one's teeth. Oh, this Seventh Year is terrible! I was starving, Friend--really I was; the gaunt gnawing which never comes to you, and of which you know nothing, for you are always with the Men who have plenty, was in my stomach. I was thinking of the hunger-hardship, and of the great store of Fat-eating Carcajou must have cached, when I came upon this wooden-holder of stuff that is like yellow marrow."

"Butter," interrupted the Bird.

"I suppose so," whined Lynx.

"And you ate it?" queried Jack sharply, experiencing a sick feeling of desolation.

"There was only a little of it, only a little," iterated Pisew, deprecatingly; "hardly worth one's trouble in tearing the cover from the wooden-thing."

"The tub," advised Jack.

"Probably; I'm not familiar with the names of Man's things. But I just tasted it--that was all; just a little to oil my throat, and soothe the pain that was in my stomach. It is still there, really--under a big rotten log, where the water falls for the length of Panther's spring over high rocks in Summer."

"What's there,--the tub?" queried Jack, incredulously.

"Also the yellow marrow--the butter," affirmed Pisew.

"Oh!" exclaimed Whisky-Jack, drily. He knew the other was lying; if Pisew had found the tub he would have licked it clean as a washed platter. But the revenge he had in hand for this Prince of all Thieves was so complete that it was not worth while reviling him.

"Still I think you had better not touch Carcajou's Fat-eating," he advised.

Lynx laughed at this. Why shouldn't he--he was so very hungry?

"Well," said the Bird, "mind I don't wish to lead you to it--don't ask you to go--in fact, I think you had better keep away; but Dumpty's Fat-eating is hidden under the roots of that big up-turned Spruce, just where Mooswa's trail crosses the Pelican on its way to his Moose-yard."

"Do you really think it was hidden there by Carcajou?" asked Lynx. "Is it not François's cache--or some last year's cache of another Man? They are always wandering about through the Boundaries, looking for the yellow dust that is washed down by running waters, or for the white metal that sleeps in rocks."

"No, the white Meat belongs to our hump-backed Comrade--at least he rustled it from the Breed's Shack," answered Jay.

"Perhaps after all it would not be fair to take it, then," whined Lynx. "I am hungry--oh, so hungry, but to steal from one of our Comrades, even to save one's life--I would rather die, I believe."

"Prince of deceitful wretches!" muttered Jay to himself. "Oh, the cant of it! now he means to steal it sure, but is afraid that I may inform against him."

"I'll not touch the Fat-eating," continued Pisew. "True, the Little Lieutenant stole it from François; but that is different, is it not, wise Brother--you who are learned in the Law of the Boundaries? To take from them who would rob us of our clothes is not wrong, is it?"

"No; that is understood by all of us," answered Jack, aloud; to himself he said, "the prating hypocrite!"

"So Carcajou is entitled by our law to half of the spoil, and I suppose that is the Fat-eating he has cached; the other half went in the love feast."

"Yes."

"Then I'll not touch it--I will starve to death first," and Pisew sat meekly on his haunches and rolled his eyes sanctimoniously.

"I had no idea there was so much honourable observance of the law in your nature," sneered Jack. "In the Plenty Year we are all honest; but in this, the Season of Starvation, to be honourable and regardful of each other's Eating is indeed noble. Will he swallow that?" queried the Jay to himself.

"Thank you, sayer-of-wise-words," murmured Pisew. "I always have been misunderstood--accused of the vilest things--even to the eating of Lodge-Builder's Children."

"Disgusting!" exclaimed Jack, smartly. "They must be horrible eating, those young wearers of Castoreum."

"No--they're delicious!" interrupted Pisew, unwarily,--"I mean--I mean--they're delightful little creatures," he added, lamely.

"Well, I must be off, you-who-keep-the-fast," declared Jack. "I'm glad you have resisted the temptation, for I must admit that I was only trying you."

"I thought so--I thought so!" snickered Lynx; "and at first I joked to draw you on--pretended that I would do this disgraceful thing--take our most worthy Lieutenant's store of Eating."

"Now I must warn the Council," thought Jack, as he flew swiftly through the forest, "for Pisew will make straight for Carcajou's bacon. Deceitful wretch! he deserves to be hanged. His death will save many a Fox-Cub, many a Kit-Beaver, and many a Bird's egg."

"Wise Bird, indeed!" sneered Lynx. "I've deceived him. I'll soon have Gulo the Glutton's Fat-eating; and Whisky-Jack will bear witness to my honesty. They are all so wise; but Pisew, the despised, fares better than any one. No; nobody will know if I take it--not even the Devil-eyes of Carcajou will discover whose trail it is, for I will drag the Fat-eating, walking backwards, so it will look more like the trough-trail of Nekik, who slides on his belly through the deep snow. And Blue Wolf's nose will discover only the scent of smoke-tainted meat, for it will come last over my tracks. Ha, ha!" he laughed disagreeably; "we'll see who lives through the Year of Distress by the aid of his brains."

And while Pisew chuckled and made straight for the big Spruce where was hidden the bacon, Jack flew to the Council. To them the Bird said, "Keep you all well hid in the bush close to the Bait; I will hide in the big tree which has a hollow, and when Pisew's neck is in the noose will signal."

* * * * *

With long springing lopes Lynx bounded close to where Mooswa's road crossed the ice-bridge of the Pelican. Nearing it he walked steadily, making as little trail as possible.

"Yes, it is cached in there," he muttered, spreading his broad nostrils, and filling them with the tantalizing perfume of bacon. "Carcajou has also been to look at it this morning, for here are his tracks."

He wasted little time investigating--there was no fear of a Trap, for it was not Man's work; also he must not leave tell-tale tracks about; besides, it would not do to remain long in the vicinity for fear of being seen. Swiftly, stealthily, he slunk to the very spot, and pushed his round head through a little bush-opening that seemed designed by Carcajou to conceal his stolen Meat. Yes, it was there. Pisew seized the bacon hungrily and started to back out with his booty. As he did so there was the swishing rush of a straightening-up Birch-sapling, and something gripped him by the throat, carrying him off his feet. The startled Cat screamed, and wrenched violently at the snare as he scooted skyward. His contortions caused the strong cod-line which was about his neck to carry away from the swaying Birch, and he dropped back to earth, only to find himself fighting with a heavy stick which dangled at the other end of the line.

What a fiendish thing the snare-stick seemed to Pisew. It fought back--it jumped, and reeled, and struck him in the ribs, and tugged at the snare which was strangling him, and ran away from him, pulling the hot-cord tight about his throat with the strength of Muskwa; it was a Devil-stick surely--also would it kill him if no help came. The bacon fell from his mouth, and he tried to call for assistance, but only a queer, guzzling, half-choked gasp came from his clogged throat.

As if in answer to his muffled call he heard, faintly, a Bird-voice--it was Jack's--would he help him? Lynx felt that he would not.

"He-e-e-p, he-e-e-p! qu-e-e-k, que-e-e-e-k! come one, come all," cried Whisky-Jack.

Violently Lynx struggled. Tighter and tighter gathered the cord-noose, his own efforts drawing the death-circle closer. His fast-glazing eyes could just make out, in a shadowy way, the forms of gathering Comrades. He had been trapped--they were in at the death to witness the execution by his own hand. It did not last long. That merciless noose, ever tightening, ever closing in on the air pipes, was doing its work--drying up the lungs.

"It's terrible!" Mooswa blurted out. "He's dead now--I'm glad of it."

"IT'S TERRIBLE!" MOOSWA BLURTED OUT.

"Yes, he's dead," declared Carcajou, putting his short-eared head down to Pisew's side, for well he knew the old Forest trick of shamming death to escape its reality.

"What of the carcass?" asked Mooswa; "shall I carry it far in the bowl of my horns? One of our Comrades, though he die the just death as declared by Law should not fall into the hands of the Hunt-men."

"Leave him," muttered Blue Wolf; "the Pack pass this trail to-night."

"How fares The Boy, Swift-flyer?" Mooswa asked of the Jay.

"Badly, great Bull, badly. One time he takes the two Fish this dead thief left,--unwillingly enough no doubt,--in his hand, and looks at them pitiably; takes the white Dry-eating--Flour, Men call it,--and decides of its weight: then with the little stick which makes a black mark he lines cross-trails on a board, and mutters about so many pounds of Eating for so many days, and always ends by saying: 'It can't be done--I shall starve.' Then he comes to the door and looks over the river trail which way went François, as though he too would pull out for The Landing."

"That he must not attempt," cried Mooswa, decidedly. "Turn your noses, Brothers, to the wind which comes from the big West-hills--moisten them first, so!" and a bluish-gray tongue damped the cushion bulk of his nostrils. All the Council pointed their heads up wind, and it smote raw in their questioning faces.

"Gh-u-r-r!" growled Blue Wolf, "I know; when comes this wind-wrath of the Mountains, Mooswa?"

"To-night, or to-morrow," answered the Bull.

"Then lie we close from the time the light fails this day until it is all over; each to his Burrow, each to his hollow tree, each to his thick bush," continued Rof. "François will not have reached The Landing yet, either. Dogs are not like Wolves--perhaps the blizzard will smother them."

"The Breed-man has the cunning of all Animals together," asserted Carcajou. "He will choose a good shelter under a cut-bank, even perhaps put the fire-medicine to the dry-wood, then all together, as Brothers, he and the Dogs will lie huddled like a Fox Pack, and though the wrath howl for three days none of their lives will go out." The deep-thinking little Wolverine knew that Rof was fretting, not for François, but because of Marsh Maid.

"But the Man-Cub is not like that," declared Bull Moose, "and if he starts, good Jay, do thou fly quickly and bring us tidings. Rof, thou and thy Pack must turn him in the trail."

"We will," assented Blue Wolf. "All this trouble because of that carrion!" and he threw snow over the dead body of Lynx disdainfully with his powerful hind-feet.

THE CARING FOR THE BOY

Whatever Rod's intentions might have been about following on after François, their carrying out was utterly destroyed by the terrific blizzard which started that night. All the next day, and the night after, no living thing stirred from its nest or burrow.

Whisky-Jack cowered in the lee-side shelter of the roof; and inside, Roderick listened to the howling and sobbing of the storm-demons that rocked the rude Shack like a cradle. Even through the moss-chinked, mud-plastered log-cracks the fine steel-dust of the ice-hard snow drove. It was like emery in its minute fierceness.

Spirit voices called to Rod from the moaning Forest; his imagination pictured the weird storm-sounds as the voice of his friend pleading for help. Many times he threw the big wooden door-bar from its place, and peered out into the dark as the angry wind pushed against him with fretful swing. Each time he was sure he heard his Comrade's voice, or the howl of train-dogs; but there was nothing; only the blinding, driving, frozen hail--fine and sharp-cutting as the grit of a sandstone. Once he thought the call of a rifle struck on his ear--it was the crash of an uprooted tree, almost deadened by the torturing wind-noises.

The cold crept into his marrow. All night he kept the fire going, and by dawn his supply of wood had dwindled to nothing; he must have more, or perish. Just outside in the yard François had left a pile of dry Poplar. Almost choked by the snow-powdered air, Rod laboured with his axe to cut enough for the day. At intervals he worked, from time to time thawing out his numbed muscles by the fire-place. "One trip more," he muttered, throwing down an armful in the Shack, "and I'll have enough to last until to-morrow--by that time the storm will have ceased, I hope."

But on that last short journey a terrible thing happened. Blinded by the white-veil of blizzard Rod swayed as he brought the axe down, and the sharp steel buried in his moccasined foot. "O God!" The Boy cried, in despairing agony. He hobbled into the Shack, threw the wooden bar into place, tore up a cotton shirt, and from the crude medicine knowledge he had acquired from François, soaked a plug of tobacco, separated the leaves, and putting them next the cut, bound the torn cloth tightly about his foot.

That night the storm still raged, and his wound brought a delirium pain which made his fancies even more realistic. Whisky-Jack heard him moaning and talking to strange people.

Next morning a cold sun came up on a still, tired atmosphere. The fierce blizzard had sucked all life out of the air: the Spruces' long arms, worn out with swaying and battling, hung asleep in the dead calm: a whisper might have been heard a mile away.

At the first glint of light Jack spread his wings, and, travelling fast to the home of Black Fox, told of Rod's helpless condition. "Before it was the hunger-death that threatened; now the frost-sleep will come surely, for he cannot walk, only crawl on his hands and knees like a Bear-Cub," said Jay Bird, with a world of pity in his voice.

"Call Mooswa and Carcajou," cried the Red Widow, "The Boy is in their keeping."

When Wolverine had come he said: "There is still a piece of Fat-eating cached, if I can find it under this mountain of white-fur that covers the breast of The Boundaries."

"That is well, good Comrade," declared Black King; "but how shall we get it to the hands of our Man-Cub?"

"Place it in the bowl of my horns," said Mooswa, "and I will lay it at his door."

"Yet the Fat-eating may be on one side of the wooden gate, and The Boy starve on the other," remarked Whisky-Jack, thoughtfully.

"I will knock with my horns, and The Boy will open the gate thinking it is François."

"Even with a full stomach he may perish from the frost-death," continued Jack; "for now he cannot cut wood for his chimney--though the fire still lives, for I saw its blue breath above the roof as I came away."

"Call Umisk," ordered Black King; "he is a wood-cutter."

"Excellent, excellent!" sneezed Carcajou, in a wheezy voice, for the blizzard had set a cold on his lungs. "If Chisel-tooth will cut fire-wood I'll drop it down the chimney, and The Boy may yet be kept alive until François returns. Come with me, Daddy Long-legs," he continued, addressing Mooswa, "and we'll have a look for that cached Fat-eating in this wilderness of white-frosted water."

After a tiresome search they found the bacon that had been hidden by the little hunchback. Mooswa carried it to the Shack, dropping it at the door, against which there was a great drifted snow-bank; then he rubbed his horns gently up and down the boards.

"Is that you, François?" cried a voice that trembled with gladness, from inside the Shack. There was a fumbling at the door, and the next instant it was pulled open.

Mooswa almost cried at sight of the pain-pinched, ghost-like face that confronted him, and The Boy recoiled with a look of dismay--the huge head frightened him. Then catching sight of the bacon, he looked from it to the Bull-Moose questioningly; all at once an idea came to him.

"You are hungry too, Mr. Moose, are you?" for he remembered stories of severe storms having driven deer and other wild animals to the haunts of Man for food. Evidently the smell of bacon had attracted the Moose; but where in the world had it come from? Had it been left by some chance on the roof, and knocked off by the strong blizzard wind? That seemed a likely solution. The Moose was so unafraid, too--it was curious! He reached out and pulled in the bacon--it was like the manna shower.

"Poor old Chap!" he said, stretching out a hand and patting the big fat nose timidly; "you've come to a bad place for food. There's nothing here you can eat."

"POOR OLD CHAP!"

Mooswa stuck out his rough tongue, and caressed the wrist. Rod scratched the Bull's forehead in return, and they were friends.

The big eyes of Mooswa wandered about the bare pathetic interior. It was a poor enough place for a crippled Boy--but what could be done. "I wish I could speak to him," he thought, rubbing his massive face against the flannel shirt reassuringly. Then he turned and walked solemnly through the little clearing, and disappeared in the thick wood.

The bacon put new heart in Roderick.

A rational explanation of this advent of the pork appeared to be that it had fallen from the roof; but all through that night of distress The Boy had muttered broken little prayers, just as he had done for years at his mother's knee, and whether it had actually fallen from the roof or from the skies was not the real issue, for he was convinced that it had come in answer to his prayers.

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. "François 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 François 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."

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

"François 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.

FRANÇOIS AT THE LANDING

As Mooswa tramped down the wide roadbed of frozen river, François, 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.

François 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.

François 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."

François 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," François 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 François, "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! François! 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 François 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 François, 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. François 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 François cried, half fiercely: "Make room, Brothers! We'll see who's afraid."

That was the beginning. In the end, which came toward daylight, François 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, François 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.