Mooswa & Others of the Boundaries Part 23

"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 grat.i.tude, 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 a.s.suming 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 c.o.c.king his big heavy ears forward, listened intently. Yes, Francois was following; the shuffle of his snow-shoes over the snow was soft and low, like whispering wind through the harp branches of a dead Tamarack; but Mooswa could hear it--all his life he had been listening for just such music.

Wily as the Breed was, sometimes a twig would crack, sometimes the snow-crust crunch as he stepped over the white mound of a buried log. He had never seen a Moose act as this one did. Usually they raced at full speed for miles at first, tiring themselves out in the deep snow; while behind, never halting, never hesitating, followed the grim Hunter, skimming easily over the surface with his light-travelling snow-shoes--and the certainty that in the end he would overtake his victim. But this chase was on altogether new lines; something the Half-breed had never experienced. Mooswa kept just beyond range of his gun. A dozen times inside of the first hour Francois caught sight of the magnificent antlers. Once, exasperated by the tantalizing view of the giant Bull, he took a long-range chance-shot. That was the report Black King had heard.

When Francois came to the spot in which Mooswa had been standing, he examined the snow--there was no blood. "By Goss!" he muttered, "I t'ink some one put bad Medicine on me. P'raps dat Moose, he Debil Moose."

Hour after hour the hunter followed the Bull's trail; hour after hour Mooswa trotted, and walked, and rested, and doubled, and circled, just as it suited the game he was playing. Francois, like all Indians or Breeds, had no love for a long shot--ammunition was too precious to be wasted. He could wear the Moose down in two days, surely; then at twenty or thirty yards his gun would do the rest.

In the afternoon he tightened the loin-belt one hole--his stomach was getting empty; but that did not matter--he could travel better. If the fast lasted for three days it was of no moment; for when the Moose was slain and brought to the Shack by dog-train, the pot would boil night and day, and he would feast as long as he had fasted. The thought of the fat, b.u.t.ter-like nose of this misshapen Animal brought moisture to the parched lips of the long-striding Half-breed--that delicacy would soon be his. He travelled faster at the thought of it; also he must push his quarry to tire him, so the Moose would lie down and rest all night.

The dusk was beginning to settle down as Mooswa struck straight for Pelican Portage, though it was only four o'clock in the afternoon. Would Blue Wolf be there to turn back the pursuer? If by any chance his comrade missed, what a weary struggle he would have next day with the blood-thirsty Breed ever on his trail. As Mooswa neared the Portage, a low, whimpering note caught his ear. Then another answered close by; and another, and another joined in, until the woods rang with a fierce chorus--it was the Wolf-pack's Call of the Killing:--

"Wh-i-m-m-p! Wh-i-i-m-m-p! buh-h! bu-h-h! buh-h-h! O-o-o-o-h-h!

O-o-o-o-h-h! Bl-o-o-d! Bl-o-o-d!! Bl-o-o-o-o-d!!!" That was the Wolf-cry, sounding like silvery music in the ears of the tired Moose.

"Hungry, every one of them!" he muttered. "If Francois stumbles, or sleeps, or forgets the Man-look for a minute, Rof's Pack will slay him."

Then he coughed asthmatically, and Blue Wolf bounded into the open, shaking his s.h.a.ggy coat.

"Safe pa.s.sage, Brothers, for Mooswa," he growled, with authority; "also no killing for the Hunt-man, for the hunt is of our doing."

Francois heard the Wolf-call too, and a chill struck his heart. Night was coming on, he was alone in the woods, and in front of him a Pack of hungry Wolves. Turning, he glided swiftly over the back-trail.

"The Kill-Call, Brothers," cried Rof, his sharp eyes seeing this movement of the fleeing Breed. Once again the death-bells of the forest, the Blood Song of Blue Wolf, rang out: "W-a-h-h-h! W-a-h-h-h!

Gur-h-h-h! Yap! yap!! yap!!!" which is the snarl-fastening of teeth in flesh, the gurring choke of blood in the throat, and the satisfied note of victory.

The Hunter became the hunted, and into his throat crept the wild, unreasoning terror that Mooswa and every other living animal had known because of his desire for their lives. What would avail a rifle in the night against Blue Wolf's hungry Brethren? True, he could climb a tree--but only to freeze; the starlit sky would send down a steel-pointed frost that would soon bring on a death-sleep, and tumble him to the yellow fangs of the gray watchers.

Mile on mile the Half-breed fled, nursing his strength with a woodman's instinct. How useless, too, seemed the flight; those swift-rus.h.i.+ng, 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 antic.i.p.ated 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 e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, Francois panted huskily: "Holy Mudder, sabe me dis time. I give to de good Pere Lacombe de big offerin' for de Mission."

And all the time swinging along with far-reaching strides.

Memory-pictures of animals that had stood helplessly at bay before his merciless gun flashed through his mind. Once a Moose-mother had fronted him to defend her two calves--the big almond eyes of the heroic beast had pleaded for their lives. He had not understood it then; now, some way or another, it came back to him--they glared from the forest like avenging spirit eyes, as he toiled to leave that Wolf-call behind.

The Shack was still many miles away, for he had travelled far in the fulness of his seasoned strength in the Hunt-race of the daytime.

"I got me one c'ance," he muttered hoa.r.s.ely. "S'pose I get too weak make fire, I dead, soor." A big Birch, in its heavy frieze-coat of white cloth, seemed to whisper, "_Just one chance!_"

Eagerly Francois tore its resin-oiled blanket from the tree, took a match from his firebag, snapped the sulphur end with his thumb-nail, for his clothes were saturated with fear-damp perspiration, and lighted the quick-blazing Birch. A clump of dead Red Willows furnished eager timber. How his sinewy arms wrenched them from their rotted roots.

High he piled the defence beacon; the blaze shot up, and red-tinted the ghost forms of the silent trees.

Gray shadows circled the outer rim of blazing light--the Wolves were forming a living stockade about him. Blue Wolf placed the sentinels strategically. "Not too close, silly pups," he called warningly to two yearling grandsons; "the Firestick will scorch your sprouting mustaches if you poke your noses within reach. Remember, Comrades," he said to the older Wolves, "there is no Kill--only the Blood-fear for this Man."

The sparks fluttered waveringly skyward, like fire-flies at play; the Willows snapped and crackled like ice on a river when the water is falling. When the light blazed high the Wolves slunk back; when there was only a huge red glow of embers, they closed in again.

All night Francois toiled, never letting the rifle from his grasp. With one hand and his strong moccasined feet he crushed the dry, brittle Red Willows, and threw them on his life-guarding fire. No sleeping; a short-paced beat round and round the safety-light, and almost incessantly on his trembling lips a crude, pleading prayer: "Holy Mudder, dis time sabe Francois. I give de offerin' plenty--also what de good Pries' say, I hear me."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "HOLY MUDDER, DIS TIME SABE FRANcOIS."]

"Look at his face, Brothers," growled Blue Wolf. "Now thou hast seen the Man-fear. Is it not more terrible than the Death-look in the eyes of Buck? It is not well to kill Man, is it, Comrades?"

"No!" they admitted surlily--for they were hungry.

"Come," said Rof, when the bitter cold dawn hour--colder than any of the others--warned them that the light was on its way, "trot we back on Mooswa's trail, and if the Man continues to his Burrow, then go we our path."

When the light had grown stronger Francois peered about carefully.

"Blessed Virgin! Mos' Holy ob Mudders! I t'ink me dat prayer you hear; dat wolves is gone soor. To de good Pere Lacombe I give me big presen'

for de Mission. I keep me dat promise soor," crossing himself fervently, in confirmation.

Blue Wolf was saying to the Pack as he trotted along at their head: "Only for the promise to Mooswa the Hunt-man would have made a good meal for us, Brothers."

"What are promises in the Hunger Year--the Seventh Year of the Wapoos?"

cried a gaunt companion, stopping. "Let us go back, and--"