Mooswa & Others of the Boundaries Part 24

Blue Wolf turned in a pa.s.sion. "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, Francois," 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 Nok.u.m 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 Francois 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, Francois 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," a.s.serted Francois. "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." Francois 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, Francois, 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 Pere Lacombe some presen' for de Mission, an' mus' keel de fur for dat, soor."

CARCAJOU'S REVENGE

In the morning Francois 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'," Francois 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 sc.r.a.ps 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.

"h.e.l.lo!" 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.

"n.o.body," 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 sc.r.a.p 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 Francois's residence.

Like most Half-breeds Francois 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 mola.s.ses 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!