.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 42226
   :PG.Title: Mooswa & Others of the Boundaries
   :PG.Released: 2013-02-27
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: \W. \A. Fraser
   :MARCREL.ill: Arthur Heming
   :DC.Title: Mooswa & Others of the Boundaries
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1900
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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MOOSWA & OTHERS OF THE BOUNDARIES
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   .. _`Cover`:

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      Cover

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   .. _`"Well, let me see," continued Black Fox, "here Ye have all assembled; for form's sake I will call your names"`:

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      :alt: "WELL, LET ME SEE," CONTINUED BLACK FOX, "HERE YE HAVE ALL ASSEMBLED; FOR FORM'S SAKE I WILL CALL YOUR NAMES."

      "WELL, LET ME SEE," CONTINUED BLACK FOX, "HERE YE HAVE ALL ASSEMBLED; FOR FORM'S SAKE I WILL CALL YOUR NAMES."

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      MOOSWA & OTHERS
      OF THE BOUNDARIES

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      *By* \W. \A. FRASER

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      *Illustrated by* ARTHUR HEMING

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      CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
      *NEW YORK*
      MDCCCC   

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      *Copyright, 1900, by*
      CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
      ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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      UNIVERSITY PRESS -- JOHN WILSON
      AND SON -- CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.

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   Contents

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   `Introduction`_
   `The Dwellers of the Boundaries`_
   `Choosing the King`_
   `The Value of their Fur`_
   `The Law of the Boundaries`_
   `The Building of the Shack`_
   `The Exploration of Carcajou`_
   `The Setting Out of the Traps`_
   `The Otter Slide`_
   `The Trapping of Wolverine`_
   `The Coming of the Train Dogs`_
   `The Trapping of Black Fox`_
   `The Run of the Wolves`_
   `Carcajou's Revenge`_
   `Pisew Steals The Boy's Food`_
   `The Punishing of Pisew`_
   `The Caring for The Boy`_
   `François at The Landing`_
   `Mooswa brings Help to The Boy`_

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   Illustrations

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   *From drawings by Arthur Heming*

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`"Well, let me see," continued Black Fox, "here Ye
have all assembled; for form's sake I will call
your names"`_ . . . Frontispiece

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`"So I lay still, pretending to be asleep"`_

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`"The ball struck me in the shoulder, and made me
furious with rage"`_

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`"Wuf!" sniffed Muskwa, gently.  "Our Man burns the
stink-weed in his mouth"`_

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`"Cat," answered François; "dat's Mister Lynk"`_

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`Rof was going with so much speed, ... that he couldn't
gather for a spring`_

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`They were a funny-looking party`_

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`"Holy Mudder, dis time sabe François"`_

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`"I go for pull out now, Boy"`_

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`"It's terrible!" Mooswa blurted out`_

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`"Poor old Chap!"`_

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`In three days they arrived at The Landing`_

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.. _`Introduction`:

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   Introduction

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This simple romance of a simple people, the
furred dwellers of the Northern forests,
came to me from time to time during the six
seasons I spent on the Athabasca and Saskatchewan
Rivers in the far North-West of Canada.

Long evenings have passed pleasantly, swiftly,
as sitting over a smouldering camp-fire I have
listened to famous Trappers as they spoke with
enthusiastic vividness of the most fascinating life
in the world,--the fur-winner's calling.

If the incidents and tales in this book fail of
interest the fault is mine, for, coming from their
lips, they pleased as did the song of the Minstrel
in the heroic past.

Several of the little tales are absolutely true.
Black Fox was trapped as here described, by a
Half-breed, Johnnie Groat, who was with me for
a season.

Carcajou has raided, not one, but many shacks
through the chimney, as fifty Trappers in the
North-West could be brought to testify.  The
trapping of this clever little animal by means of
a hollow stump, all other schemes having failed,
was an actual occurrence.  It is a well known
fact that many a Trapper has had to abandon his
"marten road" and move to another locality
when Carcajou has set up to drive him out.

Mooswa is still plentiful in the forests of the
Athabasca, and is the embodiment of dignity
among animals.

There is no living thing more characteristic
of the Northern land than Whisky-Jack, the Jay.
Wherever a traveller stops, on plain or in forest,
and uncovers food, there will be one or two of
these saucy, thieving birds.  Where they nest,
or how, is much of a mystery.  I never met but
one man who claimed to have found Jack's nest,
and this man, a Trapper, was of rather an
imaginative turn of mind.

The Rabbit of that land is really a hare, never
burrowing, but living quite in the open.  As told
in the story they go on multiplying at a
tremendous rate for six years; the seventh, a plague
carries a great number of them off, and very few
are seen for the next couple of years.  The
supply of fur depends almost entirely upon the
rabbit--he is the food reserve for the other
forest dwellers.

Blue Wolf is also an actuality.  Once in a
while one of the gray wolves grows larger than
his fellows, and wears a rich blue-gray coat.  I
have one of these pelts in my house now--they
are very rare, and are known to the Traders and
Trappers as Blue Wolf.

Perhaps this story is too simple, too light,
too prolific of natural history, too something
or other--I don't know; I have but tried to
tell the things that appeared very fascinating to
me under the giant spruce and the white-barked
poplars, with the dark-faced Indians and
open-handed white Trappers sitting about a
spirit-soothing camp-fire.

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.. _`THE DWELLERS OF THE BOUNDARIES`:

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   THE DWELLERS OF THE BOUNDARIES AND
   THEIR NAMES IN THE CREE
   INDIAN LANGUAGE

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   MOOSWA, *the Moose*.  Protector of The Boy.

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   MUSKWA, *the Bear*.

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  BLACK FOX, *King of the Boundaries*.

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   THE RED WIDOW, *Black Fox's Mother*.

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   CROSS-STRIPES, *Black Fox's Baby Brother*.

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   ROF, *the Blue Wolf*.  Leader of the Gray Wolf Pack.

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   CARCAJOU, *the Wolverine*.  Lieutenant to Black King,
   and known as the "Devil of the Woods."

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   PISEW, *the Lynx*.  Possessed of a cat-like treachery.

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   UMISK, *the Beaver*.  Known for his honest industry.

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   WAPOOS, *the Rabbit* (really a Hare).  The meat food
   for Man and Beast in the Boundaries.

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   WAPISTAN, *the Marten*.  With fur like the Sable.

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   NEKIK, *the Otter*.  An eater of Fish.

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   SAKWASEW, *the Mink*.  Would sell his Mother for a Fish.

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   WUCHUSK, *the Muskrat*.  A houseless vagabond who
   admired Umisk, the Beaver.

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   SIKAK, *the Skunk*.  A chap to be avoided, and who
   broke up the party at Nekik's slide.

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   WENUSK, *the Badger*.

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   WUCHAK, *the Fisher*.

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   WHISKY-JACK, *the Canada Jay*.  A sharp-tongued Gossip.

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   COUGAR, EAGLE, BUFFALO, ANT, and CARIBOU.

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   WIE-SAH-KE-CHACK.  Legendary God of the Indians,
   who could change himself into an animal at will.

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   FRANÇOIS, *French Half-breed Trapper*.

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   NICHEMOUS, *Half-breed hunter who tried to kill Muskwa*.

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   TRAPPERS, HALF-BREEDS, and TRAIN DOGS.

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   ROD, *The Boy*.  Son of Donald MacGregor, formerly
   Factor to Hudson's Bay Company at Fort Resolution.

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   When Rod was a little chap, Mooswa had been brought into
   Fort Resolution as a calf, his mother having been killed, and they
   became playmates.  Then MacGregor was moved to Edmonton,
   and Rod was brought up in civilization until he was fourteen, when
   he got permission to go back to the Athabasca for a Winter's
   trapping with François, who was an old servant of the Factor's.
   This story is of that Winter.  Mooswa had been turned loose in
   the forest by Factor MacGregor when leaving the Fort.

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   THE BOUNDARIES.  The great Spruce forests and
   Muskeg lands lying between the Saskatchewan River,
   the Arctic Ocean, and the Rocky Mountains--being
   the home of the fur-bearing animals.

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.. _`CHOOSING THE KING`:

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   Mooswa
   
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   And Others of the Boundaries

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   CHOOSING THE KING

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The short, hot Summer, with its long-drawn-out
days full of coaxing sunshine, had
ripened Nature's harvest of purple-belled
pea-vine, and yellow-blossomed gaillardia, and tall
straight-growing moose weed; had turned the
heart-shaped leaves of the poplars into new
sovereigns that fell with softened clink from the
branches to earth, waiting for its brilliant
mantle--a fairy mantle all splashed blood-red by
crimson maple woven in a woof of tawny
bunch-grass and lace-fronded fern.

Oh, but it was beautiful! that land of the
Boundaries, where Black Fox was King; and
which stretched from the Saskatchewan to where
the Peace first bounded in splashing leaps from
the boulder-lined foothills of the Rockies; all
beautiful, spruce-forested, and muskeg-dotted--the
soft muskegs knee deep under a moss carpet
of silver and green.

The Saskatoons, big brother to the Huckleberry,
were drying on the bush where they had
ripened; the Raspberries had grown red in their
time and gladdened the heart of Muskwa, the
Bear; the Currants clustered like strings of black
pearls in the cool beds of lazy streams, where
pin-tailed Grouse, and Pheasant in big, red cravat,
strutted and crouked in this glorious
feeding-ground so like a miniature vineyard; the
Cranberries nestled shyly in the moss; and the Wolf
and Willow-berries gleamed like tiny white stars
along the banks of the swift-running,
emerald-green Saskatchewan and Athabasca.  All this
was in the heritage land of Black Fox, and
Muskwa, and Mooswa.

It was at this time, in the full Autumn, that
Whisky-Jack flew North and South, and East and
West, and called to a meeting the Dwellers that
were in the Boundaries.  This was for the
choosing of their King, a yearly observance, and
for the settling of other matters.

When they had gathered, Black Fox greeted
the Animals:--

"Good Year to you, Subjects, and much
eating, each unto his own way of life!"

Whisky-Jack preened his mischievous head,
ruffled his blue-gray feathers, broke into the
harsh, cackling laugh of the Jay, and sneered,
"Eating! always of eating; and never a more
beautiful song to you, or--"

"Less thieving to you, eh, Mister Jay,"
growled Muskwa.  "You who come by your
eating easily have it not so heavily on your mind
as we Toilers."

"Well, let me see," continued Black Fox, with
reflective dignity, "here Ye have all assembled;
for form's sake I will call your names."

From Mooswa to Wapoos each one of the
Dwellers as his name was spoken stepped forward
in the circle and saluted the King.

"Jack has been a faithful messenger," said
Black King; "but where are Cougar, and Buffalo,
and Eagle?"

"They had notice, thank you, Majesty, for
your praise.  Cougar says the mountain is his
King, and that he wouldn't trust himself among
a lot of Plain Dwellers."

"He's a Highway Robber and an Outlaw,
anyway, so it doesn't matter," asserted Carcajou.

"You wouldn't talk that way if he were at
your throat, my fat little Friend," lisped
Whisky-Jack.  "Buffalo is afraid of Man, and won't
come; nearly all his brothers have been killed
off, and he is hiding in the Spruce woods near
Athabasca Lake."

"I saw a herd of them last Summer," declared
Mooswa; "fine big fellows they have grown to be,
too.  Their hair is longer, and blacker, and
curlier than it was when they were on the Plains.
There's no more than fifty of them left alive
in all the North woods; it's awful to think of
how they were slaughtered.  That's why I stick
to the Timber Boundaries."

"Eagle won't come, Your Majesty, because
Jay's chatter makes his head ache," declared
Carcajou.

"Blame me," cried Whisky-Jack, "if anybody
doesn't turn up at the meeting--say it's my
fault; I don't mind."

"You know why we meet as usual?" queried
Black Fox, placing his big white-tipped brush
affectedly about his feet.

"That they do," piped Whisky-Jack; "it's
because they're afraid of losing their hides.  I'm
not--nobody tries to rob me."

"Worthless Gabbler!" growled Muskwa.

"Jack is right," declared Black Fox; "if we
do not help each other with the things we have
learned, our warm coats will soon be on the
shoulders of the White Men's Wives."

"Is that why the Men are always chasing us?"
asked Beaver, turning his sharp-pointed head with
the little bead eyes toward the King.

"Not in your case," snapped Whisky-Jack,
"for they eat you, old Fat Tail.  I heard the two
White Men who camped on our river last Winter
say that your Brother, whom they caught when
they raided your little round lodge, tasted like
beefsteak, whatever that is.--He, he!  And
François the Guide ate his tail and said it was
equal to fat bacon."

"Unthinking Wretch!" cried Umisk angrily,
bringing his broad tail down on a stone like the
crack of a pistol.

"I picked his bones," taunted the Jay; "he
was dead, and cooked too, so it didn't matter."

"Cannibal!" grunted Bear.

"They eat you also, Muskwa; only when
they're very hungry though,--they say your
flesh is like bad pork, strong and tough."

Black Fox interrupted the discord.  "Comrades,"
he pleaded, "don't mind Jack; he's
only a Jay, and you know what chatterers they
are.  He means well--does he not tell us when
the Trappers are coming, and where the Traps are?"

"Yes, and steal the Bait so you won't get
caught," added Jay.  "Oh, I am good--I help
you.  You're a lot of crawling fools--all but
the King.  You can run, and fight, but you don't
know things.  That's because you don't
associate with Man, and sit in his camp as I do."

"I've been in his camp," asserted Carcajou,
picking up a small stone slyly to shy at Jack.

"Not when he was home," retorted the Jay;
"you sneaked in to steal when he was away."

"Stop!" commanded the King, angrily.  "Your
chatter spoils everything, do stop!"

Whisky-Jack spread his feathers till he looked
like a woollen ball, and subsided.

"This is the end of the year," continued Black
Fox, "and the great question is, are you
satisfied with the rule--is it good?"

Wolverine spoke: "I have been Lieutenant
to the Black King for four years--I am
satisfied.  When our enemies, the Trappers, have
tried to catch us by new wiles His Majesty has
told us how to escape."

"Did he, always?" demanded the Bird.
"Who knew of the little White Powder that
François put in the Meat--the White Medicine
Powder he had in a bottle?  Neither you,
Carcajou, nor Black King, nor any one tasted
that--did you?  Even now you do not know the name
of it; but I can tell you--it's strychnine.  Ha,
ha! but that was funny.  They put it out, and
I, Whisky-Jack, whom you call a Tramp, told
you.  I, Jack the Gabbler, flew till my wings
were tired warning you to beware."

"You might have saved yourself the trouble,"
retorted Wolverine; "Black King would have
found it with his nose.  Can he not tell even
if any Man has touched the Meat that is always
a Bait?"

"Stupid!" exclaimed Jack; "do you think
the Men are such fools?  They handle not the
Bait which is put in the Traps--they know that
all the brains you chaps have are in your noses.
Catch François, the Half-breed, doing that; he's
too clever.  He cuts it with a long knife, and
handles it with a stick.  The little White Powder
that is the essence of death is put in a hole in
the Meat.  I know; I've seen them at it.
Haven't their Train-Dogs noses also--and
didn't two of them that time eat the Bait, and
die before they had travelled the length of a
Rabbit-run.  I saw them--they grew stiff and
quiet, like the White Man who fell in the snow
last Winter when he was lost.  But I'm
satisfied with Black Fox; and you can be his
Lieutenant--I don't care."

"Yes," continued Carcajou, "who among us
is more fitted to be King?  Muskwa is strong,
and big, and brave; but soon he will go into
his house, and sleep until Spring.  What would
become of us with no King for months?"

"Yes, I'm sleepy," answered Bear--"and
tired.  I've tramped up and down the banks
of the river eating white Buffalo-berries and red
Cranberries until I'm weary.  They are so small,
and I am so big; it keeps me busy all day."

"You've got stout on it," chuckled Jack.
"I wish I could get fat."

"You talk too much, and fret yourself to death
over other people's business," growled Bear.
"You're a meddling Tramp."

"Muskwa," said Mink, "there are bushels
and bushels of big, juicy, Black Currants up in
the Muskeg, near the creek I fish in--I wish I
could eat them.  Swimming, swimming all day
after little frightened Fish, that are getting so
cunning.  Why, they hide under sticks, and get
up in shallow water among the stones, so that I
can hardly see them.  It must be pleasant to sit
up on your quarters, nice and dry, pull down the
bushes and eat great, juicy Berries.  I wish I
lived on fruit."

"No you don't," snarled Jay; "you'd sell
your Mother for a fish."

"If you're quite through wrangling,"
interrupted Wolverine, "I'll go on talking about
the King.  Who is better suited than Black
Fox?  Is it Mooswa?  He would make a very
magnificent-looking King.  See his great horns.
He would protect us--just now; but do you
not know that in the Spring they will drop off,
and our Comrade will be like a Man without
hands all Summer.  Why, even his own Wife
won't look at him while he is in that condition.
Then the young horns come out soft and pulpy,
all covered with velvet, and until they get hard
again are tender, and he's afraid to strike
anything with them.  You see, we must have
somebody that is King all the year round.  Why,
Mooswa couldn't tell us about the Bait; he can't
put his nose to the ground; he can't even eat
grass, because of his short neck."

"I wish I could," sighed the Moose.  "I get
tired of the purple-headed Moose-weed, and the
leaves and twigs.  The young grass looks so
sweet and fresh.  But Carcajou is right; I was
made this way--I don't know why, though."

"No, you weren't!" objected Whisky-Jack;
"you're such a lordly chap when you get your
horns in good order, and have gone around so
much with that big nose stuck up in the air, that
you've just got into that shape--He, he!  I've
seen Men like you.  The Hudson's Bay Factor,
at Slave Lake, is just your sort.  Bah!  I don't
want you for a King."

The Bull Moose waved his tasselled beard back
and forth angrily, and stamped a sharp, powerful
fore-foot on the ground like a trip-hammer.

Black Fox interfered again.  "Why do you
make everybody angry, you silly Bird?" he said
to the Jay.  "Do you learn this bitter talk from
listening to your Men friends while you are
waiting for their scraps?"

"Perhaps so; I learn many things from them,
and you learn from me.  But go on, Bully
Carcajou.  Tell us all why we're not fit to be Kings.
Perhaps Rof, there, would like to hear of his
failings."

"I don't want to be King," growled Rof, the
big Blue Wolf, surlily.

"No, your manners are against you," sneered
Jack; "you'd do better as executioner."

"Well," commenced Carcajou, taking up the
challenge, "to tell you the truth, we're all just a
little afraid of Rof.  We don't want a despotic
Ruler if we can help it.  I don't wish to hurt his
feelings, but when Blue Wolf got hungry his
subjects might suffer."

"I don't want him for King," piped Mink;
"his jaws are too strong and his legs too long."

"Oh, I couldn't stay here," declared Blue
Wolf, "and manage things for you fellows.
Next month I'm going away down below Grand
Rapids.  My Brother has been hunting there
with a Pack of twenty good fellows, and says the
Rabbits are so thick that he's actually getting
fat;" and Wolf licked his steel jaws with a
hungry movement that made them all shudder.  His
big lolling tongue looked like a firebrand.

"You needn't fret," squeaked Jay; "we don't
want you.  We don't want a rowdy Ruler.  I
saw you fighting with the Train Dogs over at
Wapiscaw last Winter.  You're as disgraceful as
any domestic cur."

"Now, Pisew--" began Carcajou.

As he mentioned the Lynx's name, a smile
went round the meeting.  Whisky-Jack took a
fit of chuckling laughter, until he fell off his
perch.  This made him cranky in an instant.
"Of all the silly Sneaks!" he exclaimed
scornfully, as he fluttered up on a small Jack-pine, and
stuck out his ruffled breast.  "That Spear-eared
Creature for King!  Oh, my!  Oh, my! that's
too rich!  He'd have you all catching Rabbits
for him to eat.  Kings are great gourmands, I
know, but they don't eat Field Mice, and Frogs,
and Snails, and trash of that sort--not raw, anyway."

Carcajou proceeded more gravely with his
objection.  "As I said before, this is purely a
matter of business with us; and anything I say must
not be taken as a personal affront."

"Of course not, of course not," interrupted
Jack.  "Go on with your candid observations,
Hump-back."

"We all know our Friend's weakness for
perfume," continued Wolverine.

"Do you call Castoreum a perfume?" questioned
Whisky-Jack.  "It's a vile, diabolical
stink--that's what it is.  Why, the Trappers
won't keep it in their Shacks--it smells so bad;
they bury it outside.  Nobody but a gaunt,
brainless creature, like the Cat there, would risk
his neck for a whiff of that horrible-smelling stuff."

"Order!" commanded Black King; "you get
so personal, Jack.  You know that our Comrade,
Beaver, furnishes the Castoreum, don't you?"

"Yes, I know; and he ought to be ashamed of it."

"It's not my fault," declared Umisk; "your
friends, the cruel Trappers, don't get it from us
till we're dead."

"Well, never mind about that," objected
Carcajou.  "We know, and the Trappers know,
that Lynx is the easiest caught of all our fellows;
if he were our King they'd snare him in a
week--then we'd be without a Ruler.  We must
have some one that not only can take care of
us, but of himself too."

"Pisew can't do that--he can't take care of
his own family," twittered Jay.  "His big furry
feet make a trail in the snow like Panther's,
and then when you come up to him, he's just
a great starved Cat, with less brains than a Tadpole."

Carcajou suddenly reared on his hind quarters
and let fly the stone with his short, strong, right
arm at the Bird.  "Evil Chatterer!" he
exclaimed angrily, "you are always making mischief."

Jack hopped nimbly to one side, cocked his
saucy silvered head downward, and piped:
"Proceed with the meeting; the Prince of all
Mischief-makers, Carcajou, the Devil of the Woods,
lectures us on morality."

"Yes, let us proceed with the discussion,"
commanded Black Fox.

"Brothers," said the Moose, in a voice that
was strangely plaintive, coming from such a big,
deep throat, "I am satisfied with Black Fox for
King; but if anything were to happen requiring
us to choose another, one of almost equal
wisdom, I should like to nominate Beaver.  We
know that when the world was destroyed by the
great flood, and there was nothing but water, that
Umisk took a little mud, made it into a ball with
his handy tail, and the ball grew, and they built
it up until it became dry land again.  Wiesahkechack
has told us all about that.  I have travelled
from the Athabasca across Peace River, and up
to the foothills of the big mountains, to the
head-waters of the Smoky, and have seen much
of Brother Umisk's clever work, and careful,
cautious way of life.  I never heard any one say a
word against his honesty."

"That's something," interrupted Jay; "that's
more than can be said for many of us."

The big melancholy eyes of the Moose simply
blinked solemnly, and he proceeded: "Brother
Umisk has constructed dams across streams, and
turned miles of forest into rich, moist Muskeg,
where the loveliest long grasses grow--most
delicious eating.  These dams are like the great hard
roads you have seen the White Men cut through
our country to pull their stupid carts over; I
can cross the softest Muskeg on one and my
sharp hoofs hardly bury to the fetlock.  Is that
not work worthy of an Animal King?  And he
has more forethought, more care for the Winter,
than any of us.  Some of you have seen his stock
of food."

"I have," eagerly interrupted Nekik, the Otter.

"And I," said Fisher.

"I too, Mooswa," cried Mink.

"I have seen it," quoth Muskrat; "it's just
beautiful!"

"You tell them about Umisk's food supply,
Brother Muskrat," commanded the Moose.  "I
can't dive under the water like you and see it
ready stored, but I have observed the trees cut
down by his chisel-teeth."

"You make me blush," remonstrated Beaver,
modestly.

"Beautiful White Poplar trees," went on
Mooswa; "and always cut so they fall just
on the edge of the stream.  Is that not clever
for one of us?  Man can't do it every time."

"Trowel Tail only cuts the leaning trees--that's
why!" explained Whisky-Jack.

Mooswa was too haughty to notice the interruption,
but continued his laudation of Beaver's
cunning work.

"Then our Brother Umisk cuts the Poplar
into pieces the length of my leg; and, while I
think of it, I'd like to ask him why he leaves on
the end of each stick a piece like the handle of a
rolling-pin."

"What's a rolling-pin?" gasped Jay.

"Something the Cook throws at your head
when you're trying to steal his dinner," interjected
Carcajou.

Lynx laughed maliciously at this thrust.  "Isn't
Wolverine a witty chap?" he said, fawningly, to
Blue Wolf.

"I know what that cunning little end is for,"
declared Muskrat; "I'll tell you what Beaver
does with the sticks under water, and then you'll
understand."

Black King yawned as though all this bored
him.  "He doesn't like to hear his rival
praised," sneered Whisky-Jack; "it makes him sleepy."

"Well," continued Wuchusk, "Beaver floats
the Poplar down to his pond, to a little place just
up stream from his lodge, with a nice, soft bottom.
There he dives swiftly with each piece, and the
small round end you speak of, Mooswa, sticks in
the mud, see?  Oh, it is clever; I wish I could
do it,--but I can't.  I have to rummage around
all Winter for my dinner.  All the sticks stand
there close together on end; the ice forms on top
of the water, and nobody can see them.  When
Umisk wants his dinner, he swims up the pond,
selects a nice, fat, juicy Poplar, pulls it out of the
mud, floats it in the front door of his pretty,
round-roofed lodge, strips off the rough covering,
and eats the white, mealy inner-bark.  It's
delicious!  No wonder Beaver is fat."

"I should think it would be indigestible," said
Lynx.  "But isn't Umisk kind to his family--dear
little Chap!"

"Must be hard on the teeth," remarked Mink.
"I find fishbones tough enough."

"Oh, it's just lovely!" sighed Beaver.  "I like it."

"What do you do with the logs after you've
eaten the crust?" asked Black King, pretending
to be interested.

"Float them down against the dam," answered
Beaver.  "They come in handy for repairing breaks."

"What breaks the dam?" mumbled Blue Wolf, gruffly.

"I know," screamed Jay; "the Trappers.  I
saw François knock a hole in one last Winter.
That's how he caught your cousins, Umisk,
when they rushed to fix the break."

"How do you know when it's damaged,
Beaver?" queried Mooswa.  "Supposing it was
done when you were asleep--you don't make
your bed in the water, I suppose."

"No, we have a nice, dry shelf all around on
the inside of the lodge, just above--we call it
the second-story; but we keep our tails in the
water always, so as soon as it commences to lower
we feel it, you know."

"That is wise," gravely assented Mooswa.
"Have I not said that Umisk is almost as clever
as our King?"

"He may be," chirruped Jay; "but François
never caught the Black King, and he catches
many Beaver.  Last winter he took out a Pack
of their thick, brown coats, and I heard him say
there were fifty pelts in it."

"That's just it," concurred Carcajou.  "I
admire Umisk as much as anybody.  He's an
honest, hard-working little chap, and looks after
his family and relations better than any of us;
but if there was any trouble on we couldn't
consult him, for at the first crack of a Firestick, or
bark of a Train Dog, he's down under the water,
and either hidden away in his lodge, or in one of
the many hiding-holes he has dug in the banks
for just such emergencies.  We must have some
one who can get about and warn us all."

"I object to him because he's got Fleas,"
declared Jay, solemnly.

"Fleas!" a chorus of voices exclaimed in
indignant protest.

The Coyote, who had been digging viciously at
the back of his ear with a sharp-clawed foot,
dropped his leg, got up, and stretched himself,
with a yawn, hoping that nobody had observed
his petulant scratching.

"That's silly!" declared Mooswa.  "A chap
that lives under the water have Fleas?"

"Is it?" piped Whisky-Jack.  "What's his
thick fur coat, with the strong, black guard-hairs
for?  Do you suppose that doesn't keep his
hide dry?  If one of you land-dwellers were out
in a stiff shower you'd be wet to the skin; but he
won't, though he stay under water a month.  If
he hasn't got Fleas, what is that double nail on
his left hind-foot for?"

"Perhaps he hasn't got a split-nail," ventured
Fisher--"I haven't."

"Nor I!" declared Mink.

"My nails are all single!" asserted Muskrat.

"Look for yourselves if you don't believe
me," commanded Jack.  "If he hasn't got it,
I'll take back what I said, and you can make
him King if you wish."

This made Black Fox nervous.  "Will you
show our Comrades your toes, please?" he
commanded Beaver, with great politeness.

Umisk held up his foot deprecatingly.  There
sure enough, on the second toe, was a long, black,
double claw, like a tiny pincers.  "What did I
tell you?" shrieked Jack.  "He can pin a Flea
with that as easily as Mink seizes a wriggling
Trout.  He's got half-a-dozen different kinds of
Fleas, has Umisk.  I won't have a King who is
little better than a bug-nursery.  A King must
be above that sort of thing."

"This is all nonsense," exclaimed Carcajou
angrily, for he had fleas himself; "it's got
nothing to do with the matter.  Umisk has to live
under the ice nearly all Winter, and would be of
no more service to us than Muskwa--that's the
real objection."

"My!" cried Beaver, patting the ground
irritably with his trowel-tail, "one really never
knows just how vile he is till he gets running for
office.  Besides, I don't want to be King--I'm
too busy.  Perhaps sometime when I was here
governing the Council, François, or another
enemy, would break my dam and murder the
whole family; besides, it's too dusty out
here--I like the nice, clean water.  My feet get sore
walking on the land."

"Oh, he doesn't want to be King!" declared
Jay, ironically.  "Next! next!  Who else is there,
Frog-legged Carcajou?"

"Well, there's Muskrat," suggested Lynx;
"I like him."

"Yes, to eat!" interrupted Whisky-Jack.
"If Wuchusk were King, we'd come home some
day and find that he'd been eaten by one of his
own subjects--by the sneaking Lynx--'Slink'
it should be."

"You shouldn't say that," declared Black Fox;
"because you're our Mail Carrier you shouldn't
take so many liberties."

"I'm only telling the truth.  It has always
been the custom at these meetings for each one
to speak just what he thought, and no hard
feelings afterward."

Carcajou pulled his long, curved claws through
his whiskers reflectively.  "What's the use of
wrangling like this--we're as silly as a lot of
Men.  Last Winter when I was down at Grand
Rapids I sat up on the roof of a Shack listening
to those two-legged creatures squabbling.  They
were all arguing fiercely about the different ways
of getting to Heaven.  According to each one
he was on the right road, and the rest were all
wrong.  Fresh Meat! but it was stupid; for I
gathered from what they said that the one way to
get there was to be good; only each had a different way."

"What place did you say?" queried the Jay.

"Grand Rapids."

"No, no! the place they all wanted to go to."

"Heaven."

"Where's that?"

"I don't know, and you needn't bother; for
the Men said it was a place for the good, only."

Beaver's fat sides fairly shook as he chuckled
delightedly over the snub Carcajou had given Jack.

"Ha, ha!" roared Bear; "Sweet Berries! but
Humpback is too many for you, Birdie," and the
woods echoed with his laughter.

"Rats!" screamed the Jay; "that's the
subject under discussion.  Our friend wanders from
his theme trying to be personal."

"Oh, nobody's personal here," sighed Lynx.
"I'm a 'Slink,' but that doesn't count."

"Yes, talking of Rats," recommenced Carcajou,
"like Lynx, I admire our busy little Brother,
Beaver, though I never ate one in my life--"

"Pisew did!" chirruped the bird-voice from
over their heads.

"Though I never ate one," solemnly repeated
Wolverine; "but if Umisk won't do for King,
there is no use discussing Wuchusk's chances.
He has all Trowel Tail's failings, without his
great wisdom, and even can't build a decent
house, though he lives in one.  Half the time
he hasn't anything to eat for his family; you'll
see him skirmishing about Winter or Summer,
eating Roots, or, like our friends Mink and Otter,
chasing Fish.  Anyway, I get tired of that
horrible odour of musk always.  His house smells
as bad as a Trapper's Shack with piles of fur in
it--I hate people who use musk, it shows bad
taste; and to carry a little bag of it around with
one all the time--it's detestable!"

"You should take a trip to the Barren Lands,
my fastidious friend, as I did once," interposed
Mooswa, "and get a whiff of the Musk Ox.
Much Fodder! it turned my stomach."

"You took too much of it, old Blubbernose,"
yelled Jay, fiendishly; "Wolverine hasn't
got a nose like the head of a Sturgeon Fish.
Anyway, you're out of it, Mister Rat; if the
Lieutenant says you're not fit for King, why
you're not--I must say I'm glad of it."

"There are still the two cousins, Otter, and
Mink," said Carcajou.

"Fish Thieves--both of them," declared
Whisky-Jack.  "So is Fisher, only he hasn't
nerve to go in the water after Fish; he waits till
Man catches and dries them, then robs the cache.
That's why they call him Fisher--they should
name him Fish-stealer."

"Look here, Jack," retorted Wolverine, "last
Winter I heard François say that you stole even
his soap."

"I thought it was butter," chuckled Jay--"it
made me horribly sick.  But their butter
was so bad, I thought the soap was an extra
good pat of it."

"I may say," continued Carcajou, "that these
two cousins, Otter and Mink, like Muskrat, have
too limited a knowledge for either to be Chief of
the Boundaries.  While they know all about
streams and water powers, they'd be lost on
land.  Why, in deep snow, Nekik with his
short, little legs makes a track as though
somebody had pulled a log along--that wouldn't do."

"I don't want to be King!" declared Otter.

"Nor I!" added Mink.

"And we don't want you--so that settles
it; all agreed!" cried Whisky-Jack, gleefully.
"Nothing like having peace and harmony in
the meeting.  It always comes to the same thing:
people's names are put up, they're blackguarded
and abused, and in the end nobody's fit for the
billet but Black Fox; and Carcajou, of course, is
his Lieutenant."

"We have now considered everybody's claims,"
began Carcajou--

"You've modestly forgotten yourself,"
interrupted Whisky-Jack.  "You'd make a fine, fat,
portly Ruler."

"No, I withdraw in favour of Black Fox, and
we won't even mention your name.  Black Fox
has been a good King; he has saved many of
us from a Trap; besides, he wears the Royal
Robe.  Look at him! his Mother and all his
Brothers and Sisters are red, except Stripes, the
Baby, who is a Cross; does that not show that
he has been selected for royal honours?  Among
ourselves each one is like his Brother--there is
little difference.  The Minks are alike, the Otter
are alike, the Wolves are alike--all are alike;
except, of course, that one may be a little larger
or a little darker than the other.  Look at the
King's magnificent Robe--blacker than Fisher's
coat; and the silver tip of the white
guard-hairs make it more beautiful than any of our
jackets."

"It's just lovely!" purred Pisew, with a fine
sycophantic touch.

"I'm glad I haven't a coat like that," sang
out Jay; "His Majesty will be assassinated some
day for it.  Do you fellows know what he's
worth to the Trappers--do any of you know
your market value?  I thought not--let me tell you."

"For the sake of a mild Winter, don't--not
just now," pleaded Carcajou.  "Let us settle
this business of the King first, then you can all
spin yarns."

"Yes, we're wasting time," declared Umisk.
"I've got work to do on my house, so let us
select a Chief, by all means.  There's Coyote,
and Wapoos, and Sikak the Skunk, who have
not yet been mentioned."  But each of these,
dreading Jack's sharp tongue, hastily asserted
they were not in the campaign as candidates.

"Well, then," asked Carcajou, "are you all
agreed to have Black Fox as Leader until the
fulness of another year?"

"I'm satisfied!" said Bear, gruffly.

"It's an honour to have him," ventured Pisew
the Lynx.

"He's a good enough King," declared Nekik
the Otter.

"I'm agreed!" exclaimed Beaver; "I want
to get home to my work."

"Long live the King!" barked Blue Wolf.

"Long live the King!" repeated Mink, and
Fisher, and the rest of them in chorus.

"Now that's settled," announced Wolverine.

"Thank you, Comrades," said Black Fox;
"you honour me.  I will try to be just, and look
after you carefully.  May I have Wolverine as
Lieutenant again?"

They all agreed to this.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE VALUE OF THEIR FUR`:

.. class:: center large

   THE VALUE OF THEIR FUR

.. vspace:: 2

"Now that's serious business enough for
one day," declared the King; "Jack,
you may tell us about the fur, and perhaps some
of the others also have interesting tales to relate."

Whisky-Jack hopped down from his perch,
and strutted proudly about in the circle.

"Mink," he began, snapping his beak to clear
his throat, "you can chase a silly, addle-headed
Fish into the mud and eat him, but you don't
know the price of your own coat.  Listen!  The
Black King's jacket is worth more than your
fur and all the others put together.  I heard
the Factor at Wapiscaw tell his clerk about it
last Winter when I dined with him."

"You mean when you dined with the Train
Dogs," sneered Pisew.

"You'll dine with them some day, and their
stomachs will be fuller than yours," retorted the
Bird.  "Mink, your pelt is worth a dollar and a
half--'three skins,' as the Company Men say
when they are trading with the Indians, for a skin
means fifty cents.  You wood-dwellers didn't
know that, I suppose."

"What do they sell my coat for?" queried Beaver.

"Six dollars--twelve skins, for a prime, dark
one.  Kit-Beaver, that's one of your Babies, old
Trowel Tail, sells for fifty cents--or is given
away.  You, Fisher, and you, Otter, are nip
and tuck--eight or ten dollars, according to
whether your fur is black or of a dirty coffee
colour.  But there's Pisew; he's got a hide as
big as a blanket, and it sells for only two dollars.
Do you know what they do with your skin,
Slink?  They line long cloaks for the White
Wives with it; because it's soft and warm,--also
cheap and nasty.  He, he! old Feather-bed Fur.

"Now, Wapistan, the Marten, they call a
little gentleman.  It's wonderful how he has
grown in their affections, though.  Why, I
remember, five years ago the Company was paying only
three skins for prime Marten; and what do you
suppose your hide sells for now, wee Brother?"

"Please don't," pleaded Marten, "it's a
painful subject; I wish they couldn't sell it at all.
I'm almost afraid to touch anything to eat--there's
sure to be a Trap underneath.  The other
day I saw a nice, fat White Fish head, and
thought Mink had left a bite for me; but when
I reached for it, bang! went a pair of steel jaws,
scraping my very nose.  Fat Fish! it was a
close shave--I'm trembling yet; the jagged
teeth looked so viciously cruel.  If my leg had
got in them I know what I should have had
to do."

"So do I," asserted Jack.

"What would he have done, Babbler--you
who know all things?" asked Lynx.

"Died!" solemnly croaked Jay.

"I should have had to cut off my leg, as a
cousin of mine did," declared Wapistan.  "He's
still alive, but we all help him get a living now.
I wish my skin was as cheap as Muskrat's."

"Oh, bless us! he's only worth fifteen cents,"
remonstrated Jack.  "His wool is but used for
lining--put on the inside of Men's big coats
where it won't show.  But your fur, dear Pussy
Marten, is worth eight dollars; think of that!
Of course that's for a prime pelt.  That
Brother of yours, sitting over there with the
faded yellow jacket, wouldn't fetch more than
three or four at the outside; but I'll give you
seven for yours now, and chance it--shouldn't
wonder if you'd fetch twelve when they skin you,
for your coat is nice and black."

"I suppose there's no price on your hide,"
whined Lynx; "it's nice to be of no value in
the world--isn't it?"

"There's always a price on brains; but that
doesn't interest you, Silly, does it?  You're
not in the market.  Your understanding runs
to a fine discrimination in perfumes--prominent
odours, like Castoreum, or dead Fish.  If you
were a Man you'd have been a hair-dresser.

"Muskwa, your pelt's a useful one; still it
doesn't sell for a very great figure.  Last year at
Wapiscaw I saw pictures on the Factor's walls of
men they call Soldiers, and they had the queerest,
great, tall head-covers, made from the skins
of cousins of yours.  And the Factor also had a
Bear pelt on the floor, which he said was a good
one, worth twenty dollars--that's your value
dead, twenty dollars.

"Mooswa's shaggy shirt is good; but they
scrape the hair off and make moccasins of the
leather.  Think of that, Weed-eater; perhaps
next year the Trappers will be walking around in
your hide, killing your Brother, or your Daddy,
or some other big-nosed, spindle-legged member
of your family.  The homeliest man in the
whole Chippewa tribe they have named 'The
Moose,' and he's the ugliest creature I ever
saw; you'd be ashamed of him--he's even
ashamed of himself."

"What's the hide worth?" asked Carcajou.

"Seven dollars the Factor pays in trade, which
is another name for robbery; but I think it's
dear at that price, with no hair on, for it is
tanned, of course--the Squaws make the skin
into leather.  You wouldn't believe, though,
that they'd ever be able to skin Bushy-tail,
would you?"

"What! the Skunk?" cried Lynx.  "Haven't
the Men any noses?"

"Not like yours, Slink; but they take his pelt
right enough; and the white stripes down his
back that he's so proud of are dyed, and these
Men, who are full of lies, sell it as some kind of
Sable.  And Marten, too, they sell him as
Sable--Canadian Sable."

"I'm sure we are all enjoying this," suggested
Black King, sarcastically.

"Yes, Brothers," assented Whisky-Jack,
"Black Fox's silver hide is worth more than
all the rest put together.  Sometimes it fetches
*Five Hundred Dollars*!"

"Oh!" exclaimed Otter, enviously; "is that
true, Jack?"

"It is, Bandy-legs--I always speak the truth;
but it is only a fad.  A tribe of Men called
Russians buy Silver Fox; it is said they have a lot of
money, but, like Pisew, little brains.  For my
part, I'd rather have feathers; they don't rub
off, and are nicer in every way.  Do you know
who likes your coat, Carcajou?"

"The Russians!" piped Mink, like a little
school-boy.

"Stupid Fish-eater!  Bigger fools than the
Russians buy Wolverine--the Eskimo, who live
away down at the mouth of the big river that
runs to the icebergs."

"What are icebergs, Brother?" asked Mink.

"Pieces of ice," answered Jack.  "Now you
know everything, go and catch a Goldeye for
your supper."

"Goldeye don't come up the creeks, you ignorant
Bird," retorted Sakwasew.  "I wish they
did, though; one can see their big, yellow eyes so
far in the water--they're easily caught."

"Suckers are more useful," chimed in Fisher;
"when they crowd the river banks in Autumn,
eating those black water-bugs, I get fat, and
hardly wet a foot; I hate the water, but I do
like a plump, juicy Sucker."

"Not to be compared to a Goldeye or
Doré," objected Mink; "they're too soft and
flabby."

"Fish, Fish, Fish! always about Fish, or
something to eat, with you Water-Rats,"
interrupted Carcajou, disgustedly.  "Do let us get
back to the subject.  Do you know what the
Men say of our Black King, Comrades?"

"They call him The Devil!" declared Jay.

"No they don't," objected Carcajou; "they
aver he's Wiesahkechack, the great Indian God,
who could change himself into Animals--that's
what they think.  You all know François, the
French Half-breed, who trapped at Hay River
last Winter."

"He killed my First Cousin," sighed Marten.

"I lost a Son by him--poisoned," moaned
Black King's Mother, the Red Widow, who
had been sitting quietly during the meeting
watching with maternal pride the form of her son.

"Yes, he tried to catch me," boasted Carcajou,
"but I outwitted him, and threw a Number Four
Steel Trap in the river.  He had a fight with
a Chippewa Indian over it--blamed him for
the theft.  Oh, I enjoyed that.  I was hidden
under a Spruce log, and watched François
pummel the Indian until he ran away.  I don't
understand much French, but the Half-breed
used awful language.  I wish they'd always fight
amongst themselves."

"Why didn't the Chippewa squeeze François
till he was dead?--that's what I should have
done," growled Muskwa.  "Do you remember
Nichemous, the Cree Half-breed, who always
keeps his hat tied on with a handkerchief?"

"I saw him once," declared Black Fox.

"Well, he tried to shoot me--crept up close
to a log I was lying behind, and poked his
Ironstick over it, thinking I was asleep.  That was
in the Winter--I think it was the Second of
February: but do you know, sometimes I get
my dates mixed.  One year I forgot in my sleep,
and came out on the First to see what the weather
was like.  Ha, ha! fancy that; coming out on
the First and thought it was the Second."

"What has that got to do with Nichemous,
old Garrulity?" squeaked Whisky-Jack.

Muskwa licked his gray nose apologetically
for having wandered from the subject.  "Well,
as I have said, it was the Second of February; I
had been lying up all Winter in a tremendously
snug nest in a little coulee that runs off
Pembina River.  Hunger! but I was weak when I
came out that day."

"I should think you would have been,"
sympathized the Bird, mockingly.

"I had pains, too; the hard Red-willow Berries
that I always eat before I lay up were griping me
horribly--they always do that--they're my
medicine, you know."

"Muskwa is getting old," interrupted Jay.
"He's garrulous--it's his pains and aches now."

Bear took no notice of the Bird.  "I was tired
and cross; the sun was nice and warm, and I lay
down behind a log to rest a little.  Suddenly
there was a sound of the crisp hide of the snow
cracking, and at first I thought it was something
to eat coming,--something for my hunger.  I
looked cautiously over the tree, and there was
Nichemous trailing me; his snow-shoe had cut
through the crust; but it was too late to run, for
that Ironstick of his would have reached; so I lay
still, pretending to be asleep.  Nichemous crept
up, oh, so cunningly.  He didn't want to wake
poor old Muskwa, you see--not until he woke
me with the bark of his Ironstick.  Talk about
smells, Mister Lynx.  Wifh! the breath of
that when it coughs is worse than the smell of
Coyote--it's fairly blue in the air, it's so bad."

.. _`"SO I LAY STILL, PRETENDING TO BE ASLEEP"`:

.. figure:: images/img-036.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "SO I LAY STILL, PRETENDING TO BE ASLEEP."

   "SO I LAY STILL, PRETENDING TO BE ASLEEP."

"Where was Nichemous all this time?" cried
Jack, mockingly.

"Have patience, little shaganappi (cheap) Bird.
Nichemous saw my trail leading up to the log,
but could not see it going away on the other side.
I had just one eye cocked up where I could
watch his face.  Wheeze! it was a study.  He'd
raise one foot, shove it forward gently, put that
big gut-woven shoe down slowly on the snow,
and carry his body forward; then the other foot
the same way, so as not to disturb me.  Good,
kind Nichemous!  What a queer scent he gave
to the air.  Have any of you ever stepped on
hot coals, and burned your foot?"

"I have!" cried Blue Wolf; "I had a fight
with three Train Dogs once, at Wapiscaw, when
their Masters were asleep.  It was all over a
miserable frozen White Fish that even the Dogs
wouldn't eat.  They were husky fighters.
Wur-r-r! we rolled over and over, and finally I
fetched up in the camp-fire."

"Then you know what your paw smelled like
when the coals scorched it; and that is just the
nasty scent that came down the air from
Nichemous--like burnt skin.  I could have nosed
him a mile away had he been up wind, but he
wasn't at first.  When Nichemous got to the big
log, he reached his yellow face over, with the
Ironstick in line with his nose, and I saw
murder in his eyes, so I just took one swipe at the
top of his head with my right paw and scalped
him clean.  Whu-u-o-o-f-f-! but he yelled.  The
Ironstick barked as he went head first into the
snow, and its hot breath scorched my arm--underneath
where there's little hair; but the round
iron thing it spits out didn't touch me.  I gave
Nichemous a squeeze, threw him down, and went
away.  I was mad enough to have slain him, but
I'm glad I didn't.  It's not good to kill a Man.
You see I was cross," he added, apologetically,
"and my head ached from living in that stuffy
hole all Winter."

"Didn't it hurt your paw?" queried Jack.
"I should have thought your fingers would have
been tender from sucking them so much while
you were sleeping in the nest."

"That's what saved Nichemous's life,"
answered Muskwa.  "My fist was swollen up like
a moss-bag, else the blow would have crushed
his skull.  But I knocked the fur all off the
top; and his wife, who is a great medicine
woman, couldn't make it grow again; though she
patched the skin up some way or other.  That
is why you'll see Nichemous's hat tied on with a
red handkerchief always."

"I also know of this Man," wheezed Otter.
"Nichemous stepped on my slide once when he
was poaching my preserve--I had it all nice and
smooth, and slippery, and the silly creature,
without a claw to his foot, tried to walk on it."

"What happened, Long-Back?" asked Jack, eagerly.

"Well, he went down the slide faster than
ever I did, head first; but, would you believe it,
on his back."

"Into the water?" queried Muskrat.  "That
wouldn't hurt him."

"He was nearly drowned," laughed Nekik.
"The current carried him under some logs, but
he got out, I'm sorry to say.  That's the worst
of it, we never manage to kill these Men."

"I killed one once," proclaimed Mooswa--"stamped
him with my front feet, and his
friends never found him; but I wouldn't do it
again, the look in his eyes was awful--no, I'll
never do it again."

"They'll kill you some day, Marrow-Bones,"
declared Jay, blithely.

"That's what this Man tried to do."

"Tell us about it, Comrade," cried Carcajou,
"for I like to hear of the tables being turned once
in a while.  Why, Mistress Carcajou frightens the
babies to sleep by telling them that François, or
Nichemous, or some other Trapper will catch them
if they don't close their eyes and stop crying--it's
just awful to live in continual dread of Man."

"He was an Indian named Grasshead," began
Mooswa, lying down to tell the little tale
comfortably.  "I had just crossed the Athabasca on
the ice; he'd been watching, no doubt, and as I
went up the bank his Firestick coughed, and the
ball struck me in the neck.  Of course I cleared
off into the woods at a great rate."

"Didn't stop to thank the Man, eh, old
Pretty Legs?" questioned Jack, ironically.

"There was a treacherous crust on the snow;
sometimes it would bear me up, and sometimes
I would go through up to my chest, for it was
deep.  Grasshead wore those big shoes that
Muskwa speaks of, and glided along the top;
but my feet are small and hard, you know, and
cut the crust."

"See!" piped Jay, "there's where pride comes
in.  All of you horned creatures are so proud of
your little feet, and unless the ground is hard you
soon get done up."

"Well," continued Mooswa, "sometimes I'd
draw away many miles from the Indian.  Once I
circled wide, went back close to my trail, laid
down in a thicket, and watched for him.  He
passed quite close, trailing along easily on top of
the snow, chewing a piece of dried moose-meat--think
of that, Brothers! stuck in his loose shirt was
dried-meat, cut from the bodies of some of my
relatives; even the shirt itself was made from one
of their hides.  His little eyes were vicious and
cruel; and several times I heard him give the
call of our wives, which is, 'Wh-e-a-u-h-h-h!'  That
was that I might come back, thinking it
was one of my tribe calling.  All day he trailed
me that way, and twice I rested as I speak of.
Then Grasshead got cunning.  He travelled
wide of my trail, off to one side, meaning to come
upon me lying down or circling.  The second
day of his pursuit I was very tired, and the
Indian was always coming closer and closer.

"Getting desperate, I laid a trap for him.  It
was the Firestick I feared really; for without that
he was no match for me.  With our natural
strength, he with his arms and teeth, and I
with my hoofs and horns, I could kill him easily.
Why, once I slew three Wolves, nearly as large
as Rof; they were murderous chaps who tackled
me in the night.  It wouldn't do to fight
Grasshead where the crust was bad on the deep snow,
so I made for a Jack-pine bluff."

"I know," interrupted Black Fox, nodding
his head; "nice open ground with no underbrush
to bother--just the place for a rush when you've
marked down your Bird.  Many a Partridge I've
pinned in one of those bluffs."

"Yes," went on Mooswa, "the pine needles
kill out everything but the silver-green moss.
The snow wasn't very deep there; it was an ideal
place for a charge--nothing to catch one's horns,
or trip a fellow.  As Grasshead came up he saw
me leaning wearily against a tree, and thought I
was ready to drop.  I was tired, but not quite
that badly used up.  You all know, Comrades,
how careful an Indian is not to waste the breath
of his Ironstick; he will creep, and creep, and
sneak, just like--"

"Lynx," suggested Whisky-Jack.

"Well, Grasshead, seeing that I couldn't get
away, as he thought, came cautiously to within
about five lengths, meaning to make sure of my
death, you know, Brothers; and just as he raised
his Ironstick I charged.  He didn't expect
that--it frightened him.  The ball struck me in the
shoulder, and made me furious with rage.  The
Indian turned to run; but I cut him down, and
trampled him to death--I ground him into the
frozen earth with my antlers.  He gave the queer
Man-cry that is of fear and pain--it's awful!
I wish he hadn't followed me--I wish I hadn't
killed him."

.. _`"THE BALL STRUCK ME IN THE SHOULDER, AND MADE ME FURIOUS WITH RAGE"`:

.. figure:: images/img-042.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "THE BALL STRUCK ME IN THE SHOULDER, AND MADE ME FURIOUS WITH RAGE."

   "THE BALL STRUCK ME IN THE SHOULDER, AND MADE ME FURIOUS WITH RAGE."

"You were justified, Mooswa," said Black
King; "there is no blame--that is the Law of
the Forest:--

   |  "'First we run for our lives,
   |  Then we fight for our lives:
   |  And we turn at bay when the killer drives."
   |

"Bravo, bravo!" applauded Whisky-Jack.
"Don't fret about the Indian, old Jelly-Nose.
I'm glad you killed him.  I've heard the White
Trappers say that the only good Indians are the
dead ones."

"My own opinion is that Indians are a fat-meat
sight better than the Whites," declared Carcajou;
"they don't tell as many lies, and they won't
steal.  They never lock a door here, but they
do in the Whiteman's land.  An Indian just puts
his food down any place, or up on a cache, and
nobody touches it; only, of course, the White
Men who were here in the Boundaries last year
looking for the yellow-sand--they stole from the
caches."

"Nobody?" screamed Jay.  "Nobody?
What do you call yourself, Carcajou?  How
many bags of flour have you ripped open that
didn't belong to you?  How many pounds of
bacon have melted away because of your hot
mouth?  I know.  I've heard Ambrose, and
François, and every other Trapper from the
Landing to Fort Simpson swear you're the
biggest thief since the time of Wiesahkechack.
Why, you're as bad as a White Man by your
own showing."

"Gently, Brother, gently.  Didst ever hear
your Men Friends tell the story of the pot and
the kettle?  Besides, is it unfair that I, or any of
us, take a little from those who come here to
steal the coats off our backs, and the lives from
our hearts?"

"Indeed thou art the pot, Carcajou," retorted
Jack; "but what do I steal?  True, I took the
piece of soap thinking it was butter; but that was
a trifle, not the size of a Trap Bait; and if I take
the Meat out of their Traps I do so that my
Comrades may not be caught?"

"It is written in the Law of the Forest that is
not stealing," said Black King, solemnly.  "The
Bait that is put in the Trap is for those of the
Forest, so come it they be not caught; and even
though the Trappers say otherwise, there is no
wrong in taking it."

"I also take the Bait-meat," cried Wolverine,
"for the good of my Brothers; but I spring the
Trap too, lest by accident they put their foot
in it."

"I also know Nichemous," broke in Umisk,
the Beaver.  "He cut a hole in the roof of my
house one day, first blocking up the front door
thinking we were inside, and meaning to catch
us; he had his trouble for nothing, for I got
the whole family out just in the nick of time;
but I'd like to make him pay for repairs to
the roof.  I don't know any animal so bad as a
Man, unless it's a Hermit Beaver."

"What's a Hermit Beaver, you of the little
fore-feet?" asked Jay.

Umisk sighed wearily.  "For a Bird that has
travelled as much as you have, Jack, you are
wondrous devoid of knowledge.  Have you never
seen Red Jack, the Hermit?"

"I have," declared Pisew, "he has a piece out
of the side of his tail."

"Perhaps you have, perhaps you have; but
all hermits are marked that way--that's the
sign.  You see, once in a while a Beaver is born
lazy--won't work--will do nothing but steal
other people's Poplar and eat it.  First we
reason with him, and try to encourage him to
work; if that fails we bite a piece out of his tail
as a brand, and turn him out of the community.
I marked Red Jack that way myself; I boarded
him for a whole Winter, though, first."

"Served him right," concurred Whisky-Jack.

"Yes, Nichemous is a bad lot," said Carcajou,
reflectively; "but he's no worse than François."

Black Fox rose, stretched himself, yawned, and
said: "The Meeting is over for to-day; three
spaces of darkness from this we meet here again;
there is some business of the Hunting Boundaries
to do, and Wapoos has a complaint to make."

"I'm off," whistled Whisky-Jack.  "Good-bye,
Your Majesty.  You fellows have got to
hunt your dinner, I'm going to dine with some
Men--I like my food cooked."

Each of the Animals slipped away, leaving
Black Fox and his Mother, the Red Widow.

"I'm proud of you, my Son," said the Fox
Mother.  "Come home with me, I've got
something rare for dinner."

"What is it, Dame?"

"A nice, fat Wavey" (kind of goose).

"What!  Wawao, who nests in the Athabasca
Lake?  You make my mouth water, Mother.
These Mossberry-fed Partridge are so dry they
give me indigestion; besides, I never saw them so
scarce as they are this year."

"It was the great fire the river Boatmen started
in the Summer which burnt up all their eggs that
makes them so scarce, Son.  Do you not remember
how we had to fly to the river, and lie for
days with our noses just above water to escape
the heat?"

"It's an ill wind, Mother, that blows nobody
good, for it nearly cured me of fleas.  My fur is
not like Beaver's.  But the Wavies fly high, and
do not nest hereabout--how came you by the
Fat Bird?"

"A Hunter hurt it with his Firestick, and it
fell in the water with a broken wing.  I was
watching.  I think he is still looking down the
river for his Wavey."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE LAW OF THE BOUNDARIES`:

.. class:: center large

   THE LAW OF THE BOUNDARIES

.. vspace:: 2

Three days later, as had been spoken in
the Council, Black King, accompanied
by three Fox Brothers, and his Mother the
Red Widow, crept cautiously into the open
space that was fringed by a tangle of Red and
Gray Willows, inside of which grew a second
frieze of Raspberry Bushes, sat on his haunches
and peered discontentedly, furtively about.
There was nobody, nothing in sight--nothing
but the dilapidated old Hudson's Bay Company's
Log Shack that had been a Trading Post, and
against which Time had leaned so heavily that
the rotted logs were sent sprawling in a
disconsolate heap.

"This does not look overmuch like our
Council Court, does it, Dame?" he asked of the Red
Widow.  "I, the King, am first to arrive--ah,
here is Rof!" as Blue Wolf slouched into
the open, his froth-lined jaws swinging low in
suspicious watchfulness.

"I'm late," he growled, sniffing at each bush
and stump as he made the circuit of the Court.
"What! only Your Majesty and the Red Widow
here as yet.  It's bad form for our Comrades to
keep the King waiting."

While Blue Wolf was still speaking the
Willows were thrust open as though a tree had
crashed through them, and Mooswa's massive
head protruded, just for all the world as if
hanging from a wall in the hall of some great
house.  His Chinese-shaped eyes blinked at the
light.  "May I be knock-kneed," he wheezed
plaintively, "if it didn't take me longer to do
those thirty miles this morning than I thought it
would--the going was so soft.  I should have
been here on time, though, if I hadn't struck
just the loveliest patch of my favourite weed at
Little Rapids--where the fire swept last year, you know."

"That's what the Men call Fire-weed," cried
Carcajou, pushing his strong body through the
fringe of berry bushes.

"That's because they don't know," retorted
Mooswa; "and because it always grows in good
soil after the Fire has passed, I suppose."

"Where does the seed come from, Mooswa?"
asked Lynx, who had come up while they were
talking.  "Does the Fire bring it?"

"I don't know," answered the Bull Moose.

"It is not written in Man's books, either,"
affirmed Carcajou.

"Can the King, who is so wise, tell us?"
pleaded Fisher, who had arrived.

"Manitou sends it!" Black Fox asserted decisively.

"The King answers worthily," declared Wolverine.
"If Mooswa can stand in the Fire-flower
until it tops his back, and eat of the juice-filled
stalk without straining his short neck until his
belly is like the gorge of a Sturgeon, what
matters how it has come.  Let the Men, who are
silly creatures, bother over that.  Manitou has
sent it, and it is good; that is enough for
Mooswa."

"You are late, Nekik," said the King, severely;
"and you, too, Sakwasu."

"I am lame!" pleaded Otter.

"My ear is bleeding!" said Mink.

"Who got the Fish?" queried Carcajou.
They both tried to look very innocent.

"What Fish?" asked Black Fox.

"My Fish," replied Mink.

"Mine!" claimed Otter, in the same breath.

Wolverine winked solemnly at the Red Widow.

"Yap! that won't do--been fighting!" came
from the King.

"It was a Doré, Your Majesty," pleaded
Sakwasu, "and I caught him first."

"Just as I dove for him," declared Otter,
"Sakwasu followed after and tried to take him
from me--a great big Fish it was.  I've been
fishing for four years, but this was the biggest
Doré I ever saw--why, he was the length of Pisew."

"A Fisherman's lie," quoth the Red Widow.

"Who got the Doré?  That's the main
question," demanded Carcajou.

"He escaped," replied Nekik, sorrowfully;
"and we have come to the Meeting without
any breakfast."

"Bah!  Bah!  Bah!" laughed Blue Wolf;
"that's rich!  Hey, Muskwa, you heard the
end of the story--isn't it good?"

"I, too, have had no breakfast," declared
Muskwa, "so I don't see the point--it's not
a bit funny.  Seven hard-baked Ant Hills have
I torn up in the grass-flat down by the river, and
not a single dweller in one of them.  My arms
ache, for the clay was hard; and the dust has
choked up my lungs.  Wuf-f-f!  I could hardly
get my breath coming up the hill, and I have more
mortar in my lungs than Ants in my stomach."

"Are there no Berries to be had, then,
Muskwa?" asked Wapistan.

"Oh, yes; there are Berries hereabouts, but
they're all hard and bitter.  The white
Dogberries, and the pink Buffalo-berries, and the
Wolf-willow berries--what are they?  Perhaps
not to be despised in this Year of Famine, for
they pucker up one's stomach until a Cub's
ration fills it; but the Saskatoons are now dry on
the Bush, and I miss them sorely.  Gluck! they're
the berries--full of oil, not vinegar; a
feed of them is like eating a little Sucking Pig."

"What's a Sucking Pig?" queried Lynx; "I
never saw one growing."

"I know," declared Carcajou.  "The Priest
over at Wapiscaw had six little white fellows
in a small corral.  They had voices like Pallas,
the Black Eagle.  I could always tell when they
were being fed, their wondrous song reached a
good three miles."

"That's where I got mine," remarked Muskwa,
looking cautiously about to see that there were no
eavesdroppers; "I had three, and the Priest
keeps three.  But talking of food, one Summer
I crossed the great up-hills that Men call Rockies,
and along the rivers of that land grows just the
loveliest Berry any poor Bear ever ate."

"Saskatoons?" queried Carcajou.

"No, the Salmon Berry--great, yellow, juicy
chaps, the size of Mooswa's nose."

"Fat Birds! what a sized Berry!" ejaculated
the Widow, dubiously.

"Well, almost as big," modified Muskwa;
"and sweet and nippy.  Ugh! ugh!  It was
like eating a handful of the fattest black Ants
you ever tasted."

"I don't eat Ants," declared the Red Widow.

"Neither did I this morning, I'm sorry to
say," added Bear, hungrily.

"Weren't they hairy little Beggars, Muskwa?"
asked Blue Wolf, harking back longingly to the
meat food.

"What, the Salmon Berries?"

"No; the Padre's little Pigs at Wapiscaw."

"Yes, somewhat; I had bristles in my teeth
for a week--awfully coarse fur they wore.  But
they were noisy little rats--the screeching gave
me an earache.  Huf, huf, huh!  You should
have seen the Factor, who is a fat, pot-bellied
little Chap, built like Carcajou, come running
with his short Otter-shaped legs when he heard
me among the Pigs."

"What did you do, Muskwa--weren't you
afraid?" asked the Red Widow.

"I threw a little Pig out of the corral and
he took to the Forest.  The Factor in his
excitement ran after him, and I laughed so much
to see this that I really couldn't eat a fourth Pig."

"But you did well," cried Black King; "there's
nothing like a good laugh at meal-time to aid
digestion."

"I thought they would eat like that,
Muskwa," continued Blue Wolf.  "You remember
the thick, white-furred animals they once brought
to the Mission at Lac La Biche?"

"Sheep," interposed Mooswa, "I remember
them; stupid creatures they were--always
frightened by something; and always bunching up
together like the Plain Buffalo, so that a Killer
had more slaying than running to do amongst them."

"That was the worst of it," declared Blue Wolf.
"My Pack acted as foolishly as Man did with
the Buffalo--killed them all off in a single
season, for that very reason."

"And for that trick Man put the blood-bounty
on your scalp," cried Carcajou.

"Oh, the bounty doesn't matter so long as
I keep the scalp on my own head.  But, as I
was going to say, the queer fur they had got into
my teeth, and made me fair furious.  Where one
Sheep would have sufficed for my supper, I killed
three--though I'm generally of an even temper.
The Priest did much good in this country--"

"Bringing in the Sheep, eh?" interrupted
Carcajou.

"Perhaps, perhaps; each one according as his
interests are affected."

"The Priests are a benefit," asserted Marten.
"The Father at Little Slave Lake had a corral
full of the loveliest tame Grouse--Chickens, they
called them.  They were like the Sheep, silly
enough to please the laziest Hunter."

"Did you join the Mission, Brother?" asked
Carcajou, licking his chops hungrily.

"For three nights," answered Wapistan, "then
I left it, carrying a scar on my hip from the snap
of a white bob-tailed Dog they call a Fox-terrier.
A busy, meddlesome, yelping little cur, lacking
the composure of a Dweller in the Boundaries.
I became disgusted at his clatter and cleared out."

"A Fox *what*?" asked the Red Widow.
"He was not of our tribe to interfere with a
Comrade's Kill."

"It must have been great hunting," remarked
Black King, his mouth watering at the idea of a
corral full of Chickens.

"It was!" asserted Wapistan.  "All in a row
they sat, shoulder to shoulder--it was night,
you know.  They simply blinked at me with
their glassy eyes, and exclaimed, 'Peek!  Peek!'
until I cut their throats.  Yes, the Mission is a
good thing."

"It is," concurred Black King--"they should
establish more of them.  But where in the world
is Chatterbox, the Jay?"

"Gabbler the Fool must have trailed in with
a party of Men going down the river," suggested
Carcajou.  "Nothing but eating would keep him
away from a party of talkers."

"Well, Comrades," said Black King, "shall
the Boundaries be the same as last year?  Are
there any changes to be made?"

"I roam everywhere; is that not so, King?"
asked Muskwa.

"Yes; but not eat everywhere.  There is
truce for the young Beaver, because workmen
are not free to the Kill."

"I have not eaten of Trowel Tail's Children,"
declared Muskwa, proudly.  "I have kept the
Law of the Boundaries."

"And yet he has lost two sons," said Black
Fox, looking sternly about.

A tear trickled down the sandy beard of Beaver
and glistened on his black nose.

"Two sturdy Sons, Your Majesty, a year old.
Next year, or the year after, they would have
gone out and built lodges of their own.  Such
plasterers I never saw in my life.  Why, their
work was as smooth as the inner bark of the
Poplar; and no two Beavers on the whole length
of Pelican River could cut down a tree with them."

"Oh, never mind their virtues, Trowel Tail,"
interrupted Carcajou, heartlessly; "they are
dead--that is the main thing; and who killed them,
the question.  Who broke the Boundary Law
is what we want to know."

"Whisky-Jack should be here during the
inquiry," grumbled the King.  "He's our
detective--Jack sees everything, tells everything, and
finds out everything.  Shouldn't wonder but he
knows--strange that he's not with us."

"Must have struck some Men friends, Your
Majesty," said the Bull Moose.  "As I drank
at the river, twenty miles up, one of those
floating houses the Traders use passed with two Men
in it.  There was the smell of hot Meat came
to me, and if Jack was within a Bird's scent of
the river, which is a long distance, he also would
know of the food."

"Very likely, Mooswa," rejoined Black King.
"A cooked pork rind would coax Jay from his
duty any time.  We must go on with the
enquiry without him.  Who broke the Law of
the Boundaries and killed Umisk's two Sons?"
he demanded sternly.

"I didn't," wheezed Mooswa, rubbing his
big, soft nose caressingly down Beaver's back, as
the latter sat on one of the old stumps.  "I have
kept the law.  Like Muskwa I roam from lake
to lake, and from river to river; but I kill no
one--that is, with one exception."

"That was within the law," asserted the King,
"for we kill in our own defence."

"I think it was Pisew," whispered the Red
Widow.  "See the Sneak's eye.  Call him up,
O Son, and command him to look straight
into your Royal Face and say if he has kept the law."

"Pisew," commanded Black Fox, "come closer!"

Lynx started guiltily at the call of his name.
There was something soft and unpleasant in the
slipping sound of his big muffled feet as he
walked toward the King.

"Has Pisew kept the Law of the Boundaries?"
asked Black King, sternly, looking full in
the mustached face of the slim-bodied cat.

Lynx turned his head sideways, and his eyes
sought to avoid those of the questioner.

"Your Majesty, I roam from the Pelican on
one side, to Fish Creek on the other; and the
law is that therein I, who eat flesh, may kill
Wapoos the Rabbit.  This year it has been hard
living, Your Majesty--hard living.  Because of
the fire, Wapoos fled beyond the waters of the
creeks, and I have eaten of the things that could
not fly the Boundaries--Mice, and Frogs, and
Slugs: a diet that is horrible to think of.  Look,
Your Majesty, at my gaunt sides--am I not
like one that is already skinned by the Trappers?"

"He is making much talk," whispered the
Red Widow, "to the end that you forget the
murder of Trowel Tail's Sons."

"Didst like Beaver Meat?" queried Black
King, abruptly.

"I am not the slayer of Umisk's children,"
denied Lynx.  "It was Wapoos, or Whisky-Jack;
they are mischief makers, and ready for
any evil."

"Oh, you silly liar!" cried Carcajou, in
derision.  "Wapoos the Rabbit kill a Beaver?
Why not say the Moon came down and ate
them up.  Thou hast a sharp nose and a full
appetite, but little brain."

"He is a poor liar!" remarked the Red Widow.

"I have kept the law," whined Lynx.  "I
have eaten so little that I am starved."

"What shall we do, Brothers, about the
murdered Sons of Umisk?  Beaver is the worker
of our lands.  But for him, and the dams he
builds, the Muskegs would soon dry up, the fires
would burn the Forests, and we should have no
place to live.  If we kill the Sons, presently
there will be no workers--nobody but ourselves
who are Killers."  Black Fox thus put the case
wisely to the others.

"Gr-a-a-h-wuh! let me speak," cried Blue
Wolf.  "Pisew has done this thing.  If any in
my Pack make a kill and I come to speak of it,
do I not know from their eyes that grow tired,
which it is?"

Said the Lieutenant, Carcajou: "I think you
are right, Rof; but you can't hang a Comrade
because he has weak eyes.  No one has seen
Pisew make the kill.  We must have a new law,
Your Majesty.  That if again Kit-Beaver, or
Cub-Fox, or Babe-Wapoos, or Young-Anyone is
slain for eating, we shall all, sitting in Council,
decide who is to pay the penalty.  I think that
will stop this murderous poaching."

"It will," whispered the Red Widow.  "Lynx
will never touch one of them again.  He knows
what Carcajou means."

"That is a new law, then," cried the King.
"If any of Umisk's children are killed by one of
us, sitting in Council we shall decide who is to
be executed for the crime."

"Please, Your Majesty," squeaked Rabbit,
"I keep the Boundary Law, but others do not.
From Beaver's dam to the Pelican, straighter
than a Man's trail, are my three Run-ways.  My
Cousin's family has three more; and in the
Muskeg our streets run clear to view.  Beyond
our Run-ways we do not go.  Nor do we build
houses in violation of the law--only roads are
we allowed, and these we have made.  In the
Muskeg parks, the nice open places Beaver has
formed by damming back the waters, we labor.

"When the young Spruce are growing, and
would choke up the park, we strip the bark off
and they die, and the open is still with us.
Neither do we kill any Animal, nor make trouble
for them--keeping well within the law.  Are
we not ourselves food for all the Animal
Kingdom?  Lynx lives off us, and Marten lives off
us, and Fox lives off us, and Wolf and Bear
sometimes.  Neither I nor my Tribe complains,
because that law is older than the laws we make
ourselves.

"But have we not certain rights which are
known to the Council?  For one hour in the
morning, and one hour in the evening, just when
the Sun and the Stars change their season of toil,
are we not to be free from the Hunting?"

"Yes, it is written," replied Black King,
"that no one shall kill Wapoos at the hour of
dusk and the hour of dawn.  Has anyone done so?"

"If they have, it's a shame!" cried Carcajou.
"I do not eat Wapoos; but if everything else
fails--if the Fish fail, if there are no Berries, if
the Nuts and the Seeds are dried in the heart
before they ripen, we still have Wapoos to carry
us over.  The Indians know this--it is of their
history; and many a time has Wapoos, the Rabbit,
our Little Brother, saved them from starvation."

"Who has slain Wapoos at the forbidden
hour?" thundered Black King.

Again there was denial all around the circle;
and again everybody felt convinced that Lynx
was the breaker of the law.  Said Black Fox:
"It is well because of the new ruling we have
passed, I think.  If again Wapoos is killed or
hunted at the forbidden hours, we shall decide in
Council who must die."

"Also, O King," still pleaded Rabbit, "for all
time have we claimed another protection.  You
know our way of life.  For seven years we go
on peopling the streets of our Muskeg Cities,
growing more plentiful all the time, until there
is a great population.  Then comes the sickness
on The Seventh Year, and we die off like Flies."

"It has been so for sixty years," assented
Mooswa.  "My father, who is sixty, has always
known of this thing."

"For a hundred times sixty, Brother," quoth
Carcajou; "it is so written in the legends of the
Indians."

"It is a queer sickness," continued Wapoos.
"The lumps come in our throats, and under our
arms, and it kills.  Your Majesty knows the Law
of the Seventh Season."

"Yes, it is that no one shall eat Wapoos that
year, or next."

"Most wise ruling!" concurred Carcajou.
"The Rabbits with the lumps in their necks
are poisonous.  Besides, when there are so few
of them, if they were eaten, the food supply of
the Boundaries would be forever gone.  A most
wise rule."

"Has any one violated this protection-right?"
asked the King.

"Yes, Your Majesty.  This is the Seventh
Year, is it not?" said Rabbit.

"Bless me! so it is," exclaimed Mooswa,
thoughtfully.  "I, who do not eat Rabbits, have
paid no attention to the calendar.  I wondered
what made the woods so silent and dreary; that's
just it.  No pudgy little Wapooses darting across
one's path.  Why, now I remember, last year,
The Year of the Plenty, when I laid down for a
rest they'd be all about me.  Actually sat up on
my side many a time."

"Yes, it's the Seventh Year," whined Lynx;
"look how thin I am.  Perhaps miles and miles
of river bank, and not even a Frog to be had."

"Alas! it's the Plague-year," declared
Wapoos; "and my whole family were stricken with
the sickness.  They died off one--by--one--"  Here
he stopped, and covered his big,
sympathetic eyes with soft, fur-ruffed hands.  His
tender heart choked.

Mooswa sniffed through his big nose, and
browsed absent-mindedly off the Gray-willows.
My! but they were bitter--he never ate them
at any time; but one must do something when a
Father is talking about his dead Children.

"Did they all die, Wapoos?" asked Otter;
and in his black snake-like eyes there actually
glistened a tear of sympathy.

"Yes; and our whole city was almost depopulated."

"Dreadful!" cried Carcajou.

"The nearest neighbor left me was a Widow
on the third main Run-way--two cross-paths
from my lane.  All her family died off, even the
Husband.  We were a great help to each other
in the way of consolation, and became fast friends.
Yesterday morning, when I called to talk over
our affliction, there was nothing left of her but a
beautiful, white, fluffy tail."

"Horrible! oh, the Wretch!" screamed Black
Fox's Mother; "to treat a Widow that way--eat her!"

"If I knew who did it," growled Muskwa,
savagely, "I would break his neck with one
stroke of my fist.  Poor little Wapoos! come
over here.  Eat these Black Currants that I've
just picked--I don't want them."

"That is a most criminal breach of the law,"
said the King, with emphasis.  "If Wapoos can
prove who did it, we'll give the culprit quick
justice."

"Flif--fluf, flif--fluf," came the sound of
wings at this juncture, and with an erratic swoop
Whisky-Jack shot into the circle.

He was trembling with excitement--something
of tremendous importance had occurred;
every blue-gray feather of his coat vibrated with
it.  He strutted about to catch his breath, and
his walk was the walk of one who feels his superiority.

"Good-morning, Glib-tongue!" greeted Carcajou.

"Welcome, Clerk!" said the King, graciously.

"Hop up on my antler," murmured Mooswa,
condescendingly; "you'll get your throat full of
dust down there."

Whisky-Jack swished up on the big platter-like
leaf that was the first spread of Mooswa's
lordly crown.  He picked a remnant of meat
food from his beak with his big toe, coughed
three times impressively, and commenced:--

"Comrades, who do you suppose has come
within our Boundaries?"

"Is it Cougar, the Slayer?" asked Black King,
apprehensively.

"Is it Death Song, the Rattler, he who
glides?" cried Marten, his little legs trembling
with fear.

"Has my cousin, Ookistutoowan the Grizzly,
come down from his home in the up-hills to
dispute with me the way of the road?" queried
Black Bear, Muskwa.  "I am ready for him!"
he declared, shaking his back like a huge St. Bernard.

"Didst see Train Dogs, bearer of ill news?"
demanded Wolf.  "Ur-r-r!  I fear not!" and he
bared his great yellow fangs viciously.

"Worse, worse still!" piped Whisky-Jack,
spreading his wings out, and sloping his small
round head down toward them.  "Worse than
any you have mentioned--some one to make
you all tremble."

"Tell us, tell us!" cried Carcajou.  "One
would think Wiesahkechack had come back
from his Spirit Home where the Northern
Lights grow."

"*François has come!*" declared the Jay, in an
even, dramatic voice.

The silence of consternation settled over the group.

"François and *The Boy!*" added Jack.

"What's a Boy?" asked Lynx.

"I know," asserted Mooswa.  "When I was
a calf in the Company's corral at Fort Resolution,
I played with a Boy, the Factor's Man-Cub.
Great Horns! he was nice.  Many a time he gave
me to eat the queer grass things that grew in the
Factor's garden."

"Where is François?" queried the King.

"At Red Stone Brook--he and The Boy.
I had breakfast with them."

"Renegade!" sneered Carcajou.

"And François says they will stay here all
Winter and kill fur.  There are three big Bear
Traps in the outfit--I saw them, Muskwa;
what think you?  Great steel jaws to them,
with hungry teeth.  They would crack the leg of
a Moose, even a Buffalo; and there are
Number Four Traps for Umisk and Nekik; and
smaller ones for you, Mister Marten--many
of them.  Oh, my! but it's nice to have an
eight-dollar coat.  All the Thief-trappers in the
land covet it.

"And François has an Ironstick, and The
Boy has an Ironstick, and there will be great
sport here all Winter.  That's what François
said, and I think it is true--not that a
Half-breed sticks to the truth over-close."

The Hunt-fear settled over the gathering.
No one had heart even to check the spiteful
gibes of their feathered Clerk.  The Law of the
Boundaries, and the suspicious evidence of its
violation that pointed to Lynx, were forgotten--which
was, perhaps, a good thing for that unprincipled poacher.

Black King was first to break the fear-silence.

"Subjects, draw close, for already it has come
to us that we have need of all our wisdom, and
all our loyalty one to another, and the full
strength of our laws."

Silently they bunched up; then he proceeded:--

"François is a great Hunter.  He has the
cunning of Wolverine, the strength of Muskwa,
the speed of mine own people, and the endurance
of Mooswa.  Besides, there are the Traps, and the
Ironstick; and Snares made from Deer-sinew and
Cod-line.  The soft strong cord which Man weaves.
Also will this Evil Slayer, who is but a vile
Half-breed, have the White Powder of Death in a tiny
bottle--such a small bottle, and yet holding
enough Devil-medicine to slay every Dweller in
the Boundaries."

"That it will, Your Majesty," confirmed Jack;
"and it kills while you breathe thrice--so,
If-f-h, if-f-h, if-f-h! and you fall--your legs
kick out stiff, and you are dead.  I've seen it
do its terrible work."

"Just so," assented Black King.  "The use
of that is against Man's law, even; but
François cares not, so be it the Red-coats know
not of its use.  Now must we take an oath to
help one the other, if we prefer not to have our
coats nailed on the Hunt-Man's Shack walls,
or stretched on the wedge-boards he uses for
the hides of Otter, and Mink, and Fisher, and
myself.  Even Muskrat and Pisew go on a
wedge-board when they are skinned.  You, Beaver, and
Muskwa, and Mooswa have your skins stretched
by iron thorns on the side of a Shack.

"Now take we the oath?" he asked, looking
from one to the other.

A murmur of eager assent started with the
deep bass of Blue Wolf and died away in the
plaintive treble of Wapoos.

"Then, listen and repeat with me," he commanded.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium

   THE OATH OF THE BOUNDARIES.

.. vspace:: 2

"'We, Dwellers within the Boundaries, swear
by the Spirit of Wiesahkechack, who is God
of the Indians and all Animals, that, come
Trap, come Ironstick, come White-powdered
Bait, come Snare, come Arrow, come what
soe'er may, we will help each other, and warn
each other, and keep ward for each other; in
the Star-time and the Sun-time, in the
Flower-time and the Snow-time; that the call of one
for help shall be the call of all; and the fight
of one shall be the fight of all; and the enemy
of one shall be the enemy of all.

"'By the Mark that is on the tail of each of
us, we swear this.  By the White Tip that is on
the tail of Fox; by the Black Gloss that is on the
tail of Marten; by the Perfume that is on the tail
of Sikak; by the great, bushy tail of Blue Wolf,
and the short tail of Bear; the broad, hairless
tail of Beaver, and the strong tapered tail of
Otter; by the Kink that is in the tail of Mink;
by the much-haired tail of Fisher; the white
Cotton-tail of Rabbit, the fawn-coloured tail of
Mooswa, and the Bob-tail of Lynx; by the
feathered tail of Whisky-Jack: and all others
according to their Tail-mark, we swear it.'"

.. vspace:: 2

"Now," said Black King, "François will have
his work cut out, for we are many against one."

"You forget The Boy, Your Majesty," interrupted Carcajou.

"Oh, he doesn't count," cried Jack,
disdainfully.  "He's a Moneas--which means a
greenhorn.  He's new to the Forest--has lived
where the paths of Man are more plentiful than
the Run-ways in Wapoos's Muskeg.

"Of course, personally, I don't mind their
coming--like it; it means free food without far
flying.  Oh, but The Boy is a wasteful
greenhorn.  When he fried the white fat-meat, which
is from the animal that dwells with Man, the
Hog, he poured the juice out on the leaves, and
the cold turned it into food like butter--white
butter.  Such rich living will make my voice
soft.  The Man-cub has a voice like mine--full
of rich, sweet notes.  Did any of you ever hear
a Man or Man-cub sing 'Down upon the Suwanee
River'?  That's what The Boy sang this
morning.  But I don't know that river--it's not
about here; and in my time I have flown far
and wide over more broad streams than I have
toes to my feet."

"Be still, empty-head!" cried the King,
angrily.  "You chatter as though the saving of
our lives were good fun.  Brother Carcajou,
François needs no help.  For five years he has
followed me for my Black Coat--for five
Winters I have eluded his Traps, and his Baits, and
the cough of his Ironstick.  But one never
knows when the evil day is to come.  Last
Winter François trapped on Hay River.  I was
there; as you know, it is a great place for Black
Currants."

"Do you eat the bitter, sour Berries, Your
Majesty?" queried Marten.

"No, Silly; except for the flavour of them that
is in the flesh of Gay Cock, the Pheasant.  But
it is in every child's book of the Fox tribe, that
where Berries are thick, the Birds are many."

"How comes François here to the Pelican this
year, then?" growled Blue Wolf.

"Because of the thing Men call Fate,"
answered Black King, learnedly; "though they do
not understand the shape of it.  We call it the
Whisper of Wiesahkechack.  Wiesahke whispered
to me that because of the fire there were
no Berries at Hay River, that the Birds had all
come to the Pelican; and I have no doubt that
He, who is the King of evil Mischief Makers,
has also talked in thought-words to François, that
here is much fur to be had for the killing."

"I should like to see François," exclaimed
Nekik, the Otter.

"And The Boy!" suggested Mooswa.  "It's
years since I saw a Man-cub."

"W-h-e-u-f-f-!" ejaculated Muskwa.  "I saw
a Man once--Nichemous.  Did I tell you about--"

"Save me from Owls!" interrupted Whisky-Jack;
"that's your stock-story, old Squeaky
Nose.  I've heard it fifty times in the last two
years."

The Bear stood rocking his big body back and
forth while the saucy bird chattered.

"But I should like to see more of Man," he
continued, when Jay had finished.  "Tell me,
Jack, do they always walk on their hind-legs--or
only when they are going to kill or fight--as
I do?  I think we must be cousins," he went on,
meditatively.

"You ought to be ashamed of it, then!"
snapped the Bird.

"They leave a trail just like mine," proceeded
Muskwa, paying no attention to the Jay.  "I
once saw a Man's track on the mud bank of the
river; I could have sworn it was one of my
family had passed--a long foot-print with a heel."

"Perhaps it was your own track--you are so
terribly stupid at times," suggested Jack.

"You might have made that mistake," retorted
Muskwa, "for you can't scent; but when I
investigated with my nose, I knew that it was Man.
There was the same horrible smell that came to
me once as two of these creatures passed down
the river in a canoe, whilst I was eating Berries
by the water's edge.  But you spend most of
your time begging a living from these Men,
Jack--tell me if they generally walk as I do, on all fours?"

"Long ago they did, Muskwa; when their
brains were small, like yours.  Then they
developed, and got more sense, and learned to balance
themselves on their hind-legs."

"What's the use of having four legs and only
using two?" grunted Bear, with a dissatisfied air.

"You'll find out, my Fat Friend, if you come
within range of the Ironstick--what did
Nichemous try to do?  After that you won't ask silly
questions, for François will take your skin, dry
it in the sun, and put your brainless head on a
tree as a Medicine Offering to the Hunt Spirit;
and he'll take your big carcass home, and The
Boy will help him eat it.  Don't bother me
about Man--if you want to know his ways,
come and see for yourself."

"I'd like to, Clerk," answered Bear, humbly.

"They're going to build a house," asserted
Whisky-Jack.

"A lodge!" exclaimed Beaver.  "Oh, I must see that."

"What say you, Black King?" queried Carcajou.
"May we all go to-morrow, and see this
Trapper and The Boy--think you it's safe?"

"Better now than when the Traps are set and
Firestick loaded."

So they arranged amongst themselves to go at
dawn the next day, and watch from the bush
François and Roderick.

Then the meeting broke up.

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE BUILDING OF THE SHACK`:

.. class:: center large

   THE BUILDING OF THE SHACK

.. vspace:: 2

Next morning, just as the gray oncoming
Day was rolling back into the Forest
depths the Night curtain, Muskwa, who was
swinging along leisurely, with a walk like a
Blue-Jacket, towards the Trapper's Camp,
discovered Wapoos sitting in his path.

"A snareless runway to you, Little Brother!
Are you heading for the Shack?"

"Yes," bleated Wapoos; "I'm still weak
from the Seventh Year sickness, and hop badly,
I fear."

"Jump up, Afflicted One, your furry stomach
will feel warm on my back,--Huh! huh! this
beastly fog that comes up from the waters of the
Athabasca to battle with the sunlight gets into
my lungs.  I shall soon have to creep into a
warm nest for my long sleep."

"Hast seen any of our Comrades?" queried
Wapoos, as he lay in the velvet cushion of black
fur that was a good four inches deep on Bear's
back.

"I heard Rof's hoarse bay as he called across
the Pelican to some one.  Here is Nekik's
trail, where his belly has scraped all the mud
spots."

"Aren't we a funny lot?" giggled Wapoos.
"Mooswa's legs are like the posts of Man's
cache--so long; and Otter's are like the knots
on a tree--too short.  See! there goes Black
King and his red-headed Mother."

"That is the queerest outfit in the Boundaries,"
chuckled Muskwa.  "The Widow is red, and
three of the Sons; the Babe, Stripes, is brown,
with a dark cross on his back; while the King is
as black as my Daddy was.  Sweet Honey! but
his coat was beautiful--like the inside of a hole
on a pitch-dark night.  There is a family of
Half-breeds up at The Landing just like the
Widow's lot.  Some are red-haired, some are
brown, and some are black.  I saw them once
Fishing at Duck Lake."

"Did they see you, Muskwa?"

"Am I not here, Little Brother--therefore
their eyes were busy with the Fish.  Wu-u-f-f!
I catch the scent of Man.  Jump down, Wapoos;
push through the Willows and tell me what thou
seest."

Bear sat on his haunches and waited.

"There's a white lodge," reported Rabbit, as
he hopped back, "and inside is a throat-call that
is not of our Comrades."

"That's Man's tepee; most like it was The
Boy's song your big ears heard."

They went forward gingerly, Wapoos acting as
pilot.  In a little open space where Red Stone
Brook emptied into the Athabasca was a small
"A" tent.  The two comrades lay down in the
willows to watch.  Soon they were joined by
Black King; Otter was already there.  Then
came Blue Wolf and Mooswa.  As Carcajou
joined them, Whisky-Jack fluttered into the
centre of the party.

"That's a Tent," he said, with the air of a
courier explaining sights to a party of tourists.
"The Boy is putting on his fur.  Do you hear
his song-cry?"

"He hath a full stomach," growled Rof, "for
his voice is rich in content.  What is the cry,
Bird of Knowledge?"

"It's a song of my Crow Cousins.  I'll
repeat a line for your fur-filled ears:--

   |  "'There were three crows sat on a tree,
   |  And they were black as crows could be;
   |  Said one of them unto his mate,
   |  Let's catch old Carcajou to ate!'"
   |

"All of a kind flock together," retorted
Wolverine; "Birds, and Boys, and Fools!"

Jack chuckled.  To have roused Carcajou's
anger was something to start the day with.

"Plenty of Water to you all, Comrades,"
greeted Beaver pleasantly, patting a smooth seat
for himself with his tail, as he joined the others.

"Where is the Man?" queried Black King.

"Sleeping!" answered Jack.  "He makes a
noise with his nose like fat Muskwa does when
he runs from Grizzly."

"That's a pretty lodge," remarked Beaver,
critically.  "When will they flood it?"

"Stupid! they don't live in water," reproved
Jay.  "If it is wet they make a little hollow
path and run the water off."

"Is that a Dead-fall, Jack?" asked Muskwa,
pointing his gray nozzle at a small square
building that was three logs high.

"It's their Shack; they started it yesterday."

"A poor Lodge!" declared Umisk.  "The
first flood will undermine the corners, and down
it will come.  Have they no trowel-tails to round
it up with good blue-clay?"

"Umisk, you should travel.  Your ideas are
limited.  Have they not built their Shack on
high ground where there will be no flood?"

"But they'll freeze in the Winter," persisted
Beaver.  "The water would keep them warm if
they flooded it."

"They've got a stove," the Courier answered.

"What's a stove?" asked Lynx.

"You'll find out, Mister Cat, when they make
bouillon of your ribs.  It's that iron-thing with
one long ear."

"Is that their breakfast--that pile of wood-meat?"
queried Beaver.

"Yes, meat for the stove," piped Jack.  "Do
you think they have teeth like a wood-axe and
eat bark because you do?"

"They have queer teeth, sure enough,"
retorted Trowel Tail.  "See this tree stump, cut
flat from two sides, all full of notches, as though
a Kit-Beaver who didn't know his business had
nibbled it down.  How in the name of Good
Dams they can fell trees into a stream that way
I can't make out.  This tree fell on land and
they had to carry the logs.  They're silly
creatures and have much to learn."

"There's The Boy!" whispered Jack,
nudging Muskwa in the ribs with his wing.

They all peered eagerly at the door of the
tent, for a white-skinned hand was unlacing it.
Then a fair face, with rosy cheeks, topped by a
mass of yellow hair, was thrust through the
opening, and presently a lad of fourteen stepped out,
stretched his arms upward, and commenced
whistling like a bird.

"That's the Boy-call," said Black King, in a
soft voice.  "Listen, Comrades, so that we may
know it.  François gives voice to the Man-call:
'Hi, yi! hi, yi!  E-e-e-g-o-o-o-!' which means,
in their talk, 'Hear! hear! it is I--I--A
Man!'  That is because they claim to be
Lords of all the Animal Kingdom, even as I am
Ruler in our own Boundaries."

"What a lovely Pup!" cried the Red Widow,
enthusiastically; "he's got yellow hair just like
my Babe--look, Stripes!  Plump Birds! but I
wish I had him in my litter."

"'Pup,' indeed!" exclaimed Whisky-Jack,
indignantly.  "A Man-Boy called 'Pup,' by a
frowsy old Fox Widow."

"Clerk!" interrupted Black King, angrily.

"François!  François!" called The Boy, putting
his face inside the tent; "the sun is up, the
fog is gone, and I'm as hungry as a Wolf."

Rof started.  "Gur-r-r-! how does the Cub
know my stomach is lean because of the Seventh
Year famine?"

A pair of sharp, black eyes gleamed from the
tent flap.  They belonged to the Half-breed
Trapper, François.

"Move back, Brothers, a little into the
Willows," whispered Black King; "he has
Devil-eyes, like Wolverine."

"His Majesty flatters you, Carcajou," sneered
Whisky-Jack.

François came out, took his axe, and made
some shavings from a Jack-pine stick.

"Will they eat that?" asked Beaver.

The Breed stepped over to a Birch tree, peeled
from its side a handful of silver, ribbon-like bark,
and lighted it with a match; it blazed and crackled
like oil-soaked shavings.  Then he shoved it into
the stove, put chips and three sticks of wood in,
shut the door, and thick black smoke curled up
from the stove pipe.  The animals stared with
extraordinary interest.

Whisky-Jack craned his head, and watched
the effect of this magic on his Comrades.

"That's the Devil-thing that destroyed all the
Birds and their Eggs," said the Red Widow.
"It's the Man-fire."

Blue Wolf was trembling.  "E-u-h!  E-u-h!"
he whined; "Man's Fire-medicine.  It grows
like the wind, and destroys like the Rabbit
plague.  Once seven Brothers of mine stalked
a Man and he started this Fire-medicine."

"What happened, Rof?" asked Carcajou.

"The Man escaped."

"And your Seven Brothers?"

"This red-poison ate them as Otter devours a
Fish--bones and all."

"I think the stove is a good thing," decided
Black King.  "The Man-fire is in a Trap."

"Yes, the Fire-trap is a good thing,"
concurred his Mother, "if we wish to save the
Birds."

"And the Rabbits!" added Lynx.

"And the Berries!" grunted Muskwa.

"The purple Moose-weed grows after fire has
eaten the Forest," mused Mooswa; "and if it
glows hot and red on one river bank I swim to
the other."

"It's all right for you, Long-legs, Pudding-nose,
Bob-tail," gibed Whisky-Jack; "but the
Law of the Boundaries is for the good of all, and
this Fire-trap is a fine thing.  I hate to have hot
coals falling on my feathers, when the Forest is
on fire."

The smoke curled lazily riverward, away from
the animals.  Suddenly it veered about and the
pungent perfume of burning Birch-bark came
toward them.

Mooswa straightened his massive head, spread
the nostrils of his great cushion-shaped nose,
cocked his thick ears forward intently, and
discriminated between the different scents that came
floating on the sleepy morning air.

"The fire breath--Wh-e-e!"  It tickled a
cough in his throat.  "The odour of the
Half-breed," ugh! he knew that--it was the
Man-smell.  "But stop!  What?"  A something out
of the long ago crept into his sensitive nostrils
and touched his memory.  Surely once it had
been familiar.

The Boy crossed directly in the wind's path,
and Mooswa got it stronger.  Then he knew.
His big eyes glistened softly, eagerly; it was the
scent of the Lad he had played with in his youth.

"Comrades," he gurgled, for something was in
his throat, "have I not told you of the Boy who
was the Factor's Young?"

"Whenever you got a chance!" snapped Whisky-Jack.

Mooswa sighed wearily.  Jack's frivolity was
tiring to his sedate mind.

"Well, that's my Boy there.  I'd like to
rub my nose against his rose-flowered cheek."

"While François tickled your lean ribs with
the Firestick!" jeered the Bird.

"Bring a pot of water," said François to his
comrade, "while I cut up the fish."

"Great Suckers!" exclaimed Nekik; "Fish! and
a beauty, too.  It's a Tulabie.  I know
them; they're first cousin to White-fish.  These
men have fine taste--a fish diet makes one
clever."

"It does!" declared Mink.

"It's better than roots!" concurred Muskrat.

"Slow Birds! it makes me hungry," sighed
the Red Widow.

"So it does me, Good Dame," piped Whisky-Jack.
"You chaps had better slip away home
now; I'm going to breakfast with the Men.  It
isn't safe to remain, for I can't stop to look after
you."

"Go and clear the plates, Feather-front,"
cried Carcajou, malignantly.

Jack sawed the air energetically with his wings
and lighted on the wire guy with which François
had steadied the stove pipe.

"Shall we move, Comrades?" asked Black King.

"Wait and see how Jack gets on with The
Boy," pleaded Mooswa.

"I could sit here and smell that Fish all day,"
declared Nekik.

"So could I," added Mink.  "It's just
lovely.  I've never tasted Fish dried in the
fire-pot.  Once I stole one from a Trapper which he
had dried in the sun--there was no juice in it."

"Pe-e-p!  Peep!" squeaked Whisky-Jack.
The Boy looked up at him.

"What a frowsy-headed old bird!" he
exclaimed, shying a stick at Jay.

Muskwa dug Mooswa in the ribs with his big
paw.  "We'll see fun yet if we wait," he chuckled
thickly.

"Don't bodder 'bout dat fell'," remonstrated
François; "dat's only Whisky-Jack."

"Only what?" asked the lad.

"What dey call Canadienne Jay--Whisky-Jack."

"Shall I shoot him?"

"No; dat fell' no good, but he's not wort' de
powder an' s'ot."

Jack heard a faint giggle come up from the
gray willows, for Wolverine had his big-clawed
fist half-way down his throat to choke the sound
of laughter.

"Our Clerk's Men Friends are complimentary,"
remarked Black King.

The Boy cut a small piece of fat pork, stuck it
on a sharp stick, and busied himself somewhat at
the stove front; but the watchers could not
quite see what he was doing.

"I think I'll give Jay some breakfast," he
said suddenly; "the bird seems hungry:" and
straightening his back, threw towards him the
lump of pork.

With a pleased chuckle Jack swooped down
and drove his beak into the white mass like a
lance.  Then he went through a rare set of
gymnastic contortions, for the wicked Boy had
heated the pork scalding hot.  Jack clawed at it
with his feet and burnt his toes--his tongue
was blistered.

"What's that noise?" exclaimed Rod, for a
distinct muffled laugh had escaped from the band
of animals.

"It's de float-ice groundin' on de ribber-banks,
I tink me," answered François, cocking
his head sideways to listen.

As the animals slipped away in alarm, Jack
came fluffing after them, and perched himself
indignantly on Mooswa's great antlers.

"O my Giant Brother!" he cried furiously,
"come and kill that debased Man-Cub, I beg you."

The Moose's shaggy sides were heaving with
suppressed laughter.  "What has he done, Sweet
Bird?" he moaned.

"Taken the skin off my toes, and blistered my
tongue with his accursed fat pork."

"Why don't you wear boots as I do, and not
knock around barefooted?  I should be always
jamming my toes if I hadn't these thick boots.
Why, last year when the big fire was on, I went
through miles of burning country, and except a
little hardening up of the soles, there was no
harm done."

"But you don't wear them on your tongue,
do you?" asked the Bird, crossly.

"No, Silent One, I don't--neither do you;
but if you'll just wrap it up for a few days and
give it a rest, I'm sure it will be all right."

"Do," cried Carcajou; "we sha'n't mind.  I
suppose that's what The Boy calls his Tongue
Trap--he knew whom to set it for, too."

"Come and trample him with your sharp hoofs,
dear Mooswa," pleaded Whisky-Jack, the lack
of sympathy and the chaff making him furious.

"Oh, sit still, if you're going to ride on my
horns," exclaimed the Bull.  "You're jigging
about--"

"As though he had corns," interrupted Carcajou.

"It was so nice of you, Whisky-Jack," said
Lynx, in an oily tone, "to take care of us all
while we were there--wasn't it?  Some of us
might have burned our tongues but for you
destroying the hot Bait."

When the animals got back to their meeting-place,
which was known as the Boundary Centre,
they stopped for a time to compare notes.

"Comrades," said Mooswa, "little have I
claimed from you.  I kill not anything; neither
the Fox Cubs, nor the Sons of Umisk, nor the
red-tailed Birds that beat their wings like drums,
nor anything.  But this new law I ask of you
all in the face of the King; for the Boy that was
my Man-brother, the safeguard of the Boundaries."

"You have not had the hot-meat thrust in
your throat, friend of the rascally Cub," objected
Jack, angrily.

"Hush, Chatterer!" growled Bear; "let Mooswa speak."

"The horn-crowned Lord of the Forest gives
expression to a noble sentiment," declared Pisew.
"By all means let the Kit-Man grow free of the
Boundary Fear, until his claws are long and his
bone-cracking teeth are strong."

"He must have a Mother also," said the
Red-Widow softly.  "You have all forsworn malice
to my Babe, Stripes, until he is of full
strength--let the Man-Cub have the same guard."

"What about François?" objected Whisky-Jack.
"By my Stone-crop I'll wager he taught
that Chick the trick of the hot pork."

"For him," continued Mooswa, gravely, "in
defence of our rights and our lives the full law of
the Forest; by night, the lone road and the cry
of Blue Wolf and his Brothers; by day, the
strong clasp of Muskwa; at close quarters, the
stamp of my hoofs; and for his Traps and their
Bait, the cunning of Carcajou and Black King."

"This is fair--it is a good Law," said Black Fox.

"It is!" they all cried in chorus.

"I am satisfied!" added the Moose.

"I think it would be well, Subjects," said Black
King, thoughtfully, "to watch this Man and
Man-Cub until the setting out of the Traps;
after that we can regulate our lives in accordance.
How long will it take them to build their Shack,
Clerk?"

"Four days, François told The Boy last evening,
as he smoked the scent-flower."

"Then on the fourth day, three or four of us
who are quick travellers had better go and watch
the evil ways of this Slayer.  What say you all?"

"Most wise King," exclaimed Pisew, "select
thou the Strong Runners."

"Very well: Mooswa, Muskwa, Rof, and
myself--also Carcajou, for he has great knowledge
of Man the Killer's ways."

"I should like to see the lodge when it is
finished," whined Beaver, "but my short little
fore-legs travel not overfast on land."

"So you shall, Comrade," growled Muskwa;
"You may ride on my back."

"Or on my antlers," suggested Mooswa;
"their bowl will be like a cradle for you."

"That's settled, then," declared Black Fox.
"On the fourth round of the Sun we meet at
François's Shack, in the safety time of the Forest,
dawn hour; either that or dusk hour.  What say
you Brothers--which shall it be?"

"It would suit me better on account of my
work," ventured Umisk, "to go at dusk hour.
I have lost much time lately, and I'm building
new lodges for my three-year-old Sons who are
starting out for themselves this Fall."

"Don't be late, then--I go to bed at dusk,"
lisped Whisky-Jack, mincingly, for his tongue
was wondrous sore.  "I will take note of what
the Men do in the meantime."

"And take care of us, O Wise Bird," sneered Pisew.

"Big-feet!  Spear-ear!  Herring-waist!" fairly
screamed Jay, forgetting the sore tongue in his
rage.  "Before Winter is over, you'll be glad of
Jack's advice, or I don't know François."

"The white of a Partridge egg is good for a
burn," retorted Lynx.  "Find one and cool your
fevered tongue."

"Are not these wranglers just like Men,
Carcajou?" remarked Mooswa.  "If you all spent
more time in lawful hunt for food you would be
fatter.  It will profit me more to browse in the
Forest than listen to your frost-singed wit, so I
leave you, Comrades."

"And I prefer even fat Frogs to hot fat Pork,"
said Pisew, maliciously, slinking like a shadow
into the woods.

"'Fat Frogs,'" sneered Carcajou; "good
enough for that smooth-faced Sneak--I hardly
know what I'm going to have for dinner, though."

"Fat Birds are the thing to tickle my appetite,"
declared Black King.  "It is coming the
time of day for them to shove their heads under
wing, too.  I'm off--remember we meet on the
Fourth day."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE EXPLORATION OF CARCAJOU`:

.. class:: center large

   THE EXPLORATION OF CARCAJOU

.. vspace:: 2

At sunset on the Fourth day Black King and
his party once more crouched in the
willows at Red Stone Brook.  François and his
young friend were just putting some finishing
touches to the Shack roof--placing the last earth
sods on top of the poles, for it was a mud
covering.

"It's nearly finished," whispered Jay.

"Strong Teeth! but that is funny," laughed
Beaver.

"What is funny, Eater of Wood?" queried Jack.

"Why, the Man carries his trowel-tail in his
front paws.  I wish I could do that.  I have to
turn around to look when I'm doing a nice bit
of plastering."

It was the Half-breed's spade that had drawn
forth this remark.

"Yes," declared Whisky-Jack wisely, "one
time the Men were like you--walked on four
legs and used a trowel-tail for their building;
now they stand upright, and have shed the trowel
which they use in their hands."

"Wonderful!" soliloquized Umisk; "still
they can't do as good work.  Fat Poplar! but
it's a poor Lodge.  The only sensible thing
about it is the mud roof."

François struck the clod sharply with his spade,
settling it into place.  "How clumsily the Man
works," cried Beaver; "I'm glad my tail is
where it is.  What's that mud thing sticking up
out of the corner, Jay?  Is it a little lodge for
the Kit-Man?"

"That's a chimney--part of the fire-trap,"
answered Jack.

"I know what that's like," asserted Carcajou.
"I went down one once.  The Trapper locked
his door, thinking to keep me out while he
rounded up his Traps.  It's a splendid trail for
getting in and out of a Shack.  Why, I can carry
a side of bacon up that hole--did it."

"Isn't The Boy lovely?" muttered Mooswa.
"Isn't his call sweet?  What does François
name him, Jack--Man-Cub or Kit-Man?"

Just then the Half-breed sang out: "Rod, I
t'ink me it's grub time--knock off.  De ole
s'ack s'e's finis'."

"Rod?" mused the Moose.  "Yes, that is
what the Factor used to call him.  'Rod!  Rod!'
he would shout, and The Boy would run with his
little fat legs."

Rod and the Half-breed went inside, closed
the door and lighted a candle, for it was growing
dark, put a fire in the stove and cooked their
supper.

The watchers, eager to see everything, edged
cautiously up to the log walls.  Space for a
small window had been left by the builders, but
the sash was not yet in place.

"I should like to see that mud-work the Man
did with his hand-trowel," whispered Umisk.

"Climb on my horns, Little Brother," said
Mooswa, softly, "and I will lift you up."

Beaver slipped around gently on the roof
inspecting François's handicraft, while the others
listened at the window.

"By Goss!  Rod," said the Breed, "I put me
leetle fire in de fire-place for dry dat c'imney,
s'e's sof.  De fros' spoil him when s'e's no dry."

"I believe they have made the chimney too
small," muttered Carcajou.  "I'm going up to
have a look."

"To-mor' we put out dat Traps," remarked the
Half-breed.  "What you t'ink, Boy--I see me
dat Black Fox yesterday."

"The Black Fox!" exclaimed his young
companion, eagerly.  "The beauty you spoke of
as being in this part of the country?"

The King trembled.  Already this terrible
Trapper was on his trail.

"Yes; I know me where he have hes hole.  I
put dat number t'ree Otter Trap close by, cover
him wit' leaves, an' put de fis'-head bait on top.
Den we see.  We keel plenty fur here dis Winter.
Dere's big moose track too--mus' be bull."

Black King scratched Mooswa's fore-leg with
a paw to draw his attention, but the latter had
heard.

"I make some snare to-night, an' put him out
wit' Castoreum.  Dere's plenty Cat here."

Lynx shuddered.

"We must help each other," he whined, in a
frightened voice.

Mooswa felt a little pat on his lofty horn, and
looked up.  "Lift me down, Brother," whispered
Beaver.

"Where's Carcajou?" queried the King.

"Poking around the chimney--he made me nervous.

"Wuf!" sniffed Muskwa, gently.  "Our
Man burns the stink-weed in his mouth--it's
horrible!"  François was smoking.

.. _`"WUF!" SNIFFED MUSKWA, GENTLY. "OUR MAN BURNS THE STINK-WEED IN HIS MOUTH"`:

.. figure:: images/img-094.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "WUF!" SNIFFED MUSKWA, GENTLY. "OUR MAN BURNS THE STINK-WEED IN HIS MOUTH."

   "WUF!" SNIFFED MUSKWA, GENTLY. "OUR MAN BURNS THE STINK-WEED IN HIS MOUTH."

Carcajou was busy examining the mud-and-stick
wall of the chimney, which stuck up three
feet above the roof.  "I'm sure they've made it
too small," he muttered; "I'll never be able to
get down.  That will be too bad.  By my
Cunning! but I'd like to know for sure--I will!"  For
nothing on earth will satisfy a Wolverine's
curiosity but complete investigation.

He gave a spring, grabbed the top of the
chimney with his strong fore-legs, and pulled
himself up.  As he did so the soft mud collapsed
and sank with a tremendous crash through the
hole in the roof, carrying the reckless animal
with it.

"Run for it!" commanded Black King,
sharply; "that mischievous Devil has made a
mess of the business."

"Whif!  Wuf!  Whiff!" grunted Bear, plunging
through the thicket.

Black Fox melted silently into the Forest
darkness as swiftly as a cloud-shadow crosses a
sunlit plain.

Lynx gathered his sinewy legs and fairly
spurned the earth in far-reaching bounds.

Beaver had been sitting curled up in the bowl
of Mooswa's antlers, peeping in the window at
the time of Carcajou's mishap.  His quick brain
took in the situation.  Grasping the two strong
front points, he squeaked, "Fly, Mooswa!"

"Sit tight, Little Brother!" admonished the
Moose, putting his nose straight out and laying
the horn-crown back over his withers, as he
rushed with a peculiar side-wheel action, like a
pacing-horse, from the clearing.

When the crash came François jumped to his
feet in amazement.  Before he could investigate
the mass of mud upheaved, a small dark-brown
body scuttled across the floor, clattered up the
wall, and vanished through the open window.

The Breed jumped for the door, grabbing
a gun as he went.  Throwing it open he rushed
out, but of course there was nothing in sight.
Wolverine was busily engaged in working his
short legs to their full capacity in an earnest
endeavour to place considerable territory between
himself and the treacherous Shack.

François came back grunting his dissatisfaction.

Rod stood in speechless amazement while his
companion examined the pile of soft mud débris
critically by the aid of a candle.

"I t'ought me dat!" he remarked, with satisfied
conviction, straightening his back and setting
the candle down on the rude plank table.  "It's
dat Debil of de Woods, Carcajou.  Wait you,
Mister Wolverine; François s'ow you some treek."

"What was he after?" queried The Boy.

"After for raise Ole Nick," declared the
Half-breed, dejectedly.  "You know what we mus'
do?  We mus' ketc' dat debil firs', or we keel
no fur here.  He steal de bait, an' cac'e de Trap;
s'pose we go out from de S'ack, dat Carcajou
come down de c'imney, tear up de clo'es, spill de
farina--de flour, t'row de pot in de ribber, an'
do ever' fool t'ing what you can t'ink.  Never
mind, I ketc' him, an' I keel him;" and François
fairly danced a Red River jig in his rage.

Whisky-Jack had perched on the end of a
roof-plate log when the trouble materialized, so
he heard this tirade against Wolverine.  The
Bird could hardly go to sleep for chuckling.
What a sweet revenge he would have next day;
how he would revile Wolverine.  Surely the
unfortunate Carcajou had scorched his feet, and
mayhap his back, when he fell in the fire-place.
"I wonder whose toes are sore to-night," the Jay
thought.  "I hope he got a good singeing--meddling
beast!  Nice Lieutenant to upset
everything just when we were having such a
lovely time.  Oh, but I'll rub it into him
to-morrow."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SETTING OUT OF THE TRAPS`:

.. class:: center large

   THE SETTING OUT OF THE TRAPS

.. vspace:: 2

"Royal Son," said the Red Widow next
morning, "what is the Burrow of the
Men-Kind like?"

"Ask Carcajou when he comes, Mother,"
replied Black Fox; and he related the incident
of the night before.

"Art sure, Son, that the Kit-Man's Mother is
not with him?"

"No, Dame, she is not."

"Then he will get into trouble--that is
certain.  I have looked after you all--a big family,
too, nine of you--and know what it means.
Pisew, with his cannibal taste for Fox-cubs--and
mark this, Son, even Carcajou has a weakness
the same way, my Mother taught me to
understand.  And Rof, who seems such a big,
gruff, kind-hearted fellow, would crack one of
your backs with his great jaws quick enough in
the Hunger-year, were no one looking.  Mooswa
is honest, but the others bear him no love,
surely.  And François is to set out the Traps
to-day, and he has discovered our home here in
this cut-bank, you say.  Well, Son, thou art the
King, because of thy Wisdom; but together we
must advise against this Slayer, who has the
cunning of Carcajou and the Man-knowledge of
Wiesahkechack."

"What shall we do, Dame?"

"Now, thy red Brother, Speed, must take the
message to the strong runners of our Comrades,
Mooswa and the others, as has been arranged, to
meet; and when François has passed with the
Traps, go you five after this Man, and gain
knowledge of where they are placed, and do all
things necessary for safety in the Boundaries.
The Watcher over Animals has sent soft snow
last night, the first of this Cold-time, so your
task will be easy.  Just the length of a brisk
run, higher up the Pelican, is a cut-bank with a
hole as good as this.  Before you were born,
with your beautiful silver coat, I lived there.

"Now, François, even as he told the Man-Cub,
will trap here, and who knows but he may
put his Fire-medicine with its poison breath in
the door of our Burrow, and seek to drive us
out to be killed."

"That is true, Most Wise Mother; the sight
of the twisting red-poison is more dreadful than
anything; for it smothers and eats up, and is
swift as the wind, and spreads like the flood in
the river, and fears neither Man nor Beast, and
obeys not even the Spirit God of the Animals
when it is angered."

"Well, Son, while you follow the trail of this
evil Trapper, I, with all your Brothers, will go to
the other Burrow."

"Be sure the Cubs step all in one track,
Mother--your track, so this Breed Man, with
his sharp eyes, shall not suspect."

"Do you hear, Cubs?" asked the Widow.
"Remember what your Brother has said.  Also
each day one of us will make a fresh trail here,
so that the Man may think we still live in
this house."

So while Speed glided swiftly through the
Boundaries uttering his whimper call to Mooswa,
Muskwa, Rof, and Carcajou, François and Rod
shouldered each a bag of Traps and started to
lay out the Marten Road, as was called a big
circle of Traps extending perhaps thirty miles,
for the Winter's hunt.

The Boy was filled with eager, joyous
anticipation.  During his school days in town he
had thought and dreamed of the adventurous
free life of a Fur Trapper in the great Spruce
Forests of the North.  That was chiefly because
it was bred in the bone with him.  He threw
back to the forty years of his father's Factor-life
as truly as an Indian retains the wild instinct of
his forefathers, though he delve for half a
lifetime in the civilization of the White Man.

"Here is de Marten tracks," cried François,
stopping suddenly; and with precise celerity he
built a little converging stockade by placing in
the ground sharp-pointed sticks.  In this he set
a small steel Trap, covered it with leaves, and
beyond placed the head of a fish.

"What's that track?" asked The Boy, as his
companion stopped and looked at the trail of
some big-footed creature.

"Cat," answered François; "dat's Mister
Lynk.  He like for smell some t'ing, so I give
him Castoreum me for rub on hes nose--perhaps
some necktie too."

.. _`"CAT," ANSWERED FRANÇOIS; "DAT'S MISTER LYNK"`:

.. figure:: images/img-102.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "CAT," ANSWERED FRANÇOIS; "DAT'S MISTER LYNK."

   "CAT," ANSWERED FRANÇOIS; "DAT'S MISTER LYNK."

He cut a stick four feet long and four inches
thick, and to the middle of it fastened a running
noose made from cod-line.  Then building a
stockade similar to the last, and placing a
fish-head smeared with Castoreum inside, he bent
down a small Poplar and from it suspended the
noose covering the entrance to the stockade.

"Now, Mister Lynk he go for smell dat,"
explained François.  "He put hes fat head
t'rough dat noose; perhaps he don't get him out
no more.  By Goss! he silly; when dat string
get tight he fight wid de stick, an' jump, and
play de fool.  De stick don't say not'ing, but
jump too, of course, cause it loose, you see.  If
de stick be fas' den de Lynk break de string; but
dis way dey fight, an' by an' by dat Lynk he
dead for soor, I t'ink me."

"He has queer taste," said The Boy, "to
risk his neck for that stuff--it's worse than a
Skunk."

They moved on, and behind, quite out of
sight, but examining each contrivance of the
Trapper, came Black Fox, Muskwa, Blue Wolf,
Mooswa, and Carcajou.  Whisky-Jack was with
them; now flying ahead to discover where the
enemy were, now fluttering back with a dismal
"Pee weep!  Pee weep!" to report and rail at
things generally.

Carcajou at times travelled on three legs.
"Got a thorn in your foot?" queried the Jay?
solicitously.

"Toes are cold," answered Wolverine, shortly.

"He-a-weep!" laughed Whisky-Jack, sneeringly;
"they were hot enough last night, when
you called on François through the chimney.
Whose toes are sore to-day, Mister Carcajou?
And the fur is burnt off your back--excuse me
while I laugh;" and the Bird gave vent to a
harsh, cackling chuckle.

"Hello!" Carcajou exclaimed, suddenly.  "I
smell Castoreum; or is it Sikak the Skunk?"

When they came to the Lynx Snare, almost
immediately, he circled around gingerly in the
snow, examining every bush, and stick, and
semblance of track; then he peered into the little
stockade.  "It's all right!" he declared; "that
François is a double-dealing Breed.  I have
known him set a Snare like this for Pisew, and
a little to one side put a Number Four Steel
Trap, nicely covered up, to catch an unsuspicious,
simple-minded Wolverine."

"Why don't you also say *honest, modest*,
Wolverine?" derided Whisky-Jack.

"But that's a Snare for Pisew, right enough,"
continued Carcajou.

"It is!" added Black Fox.

"Watch me spring it!" commanded Carcajou,
tearing with his strong jaws and stronger feet at
the fastening which held down the bent poplar.
Swish!  And the freed sapling shot into the air,
dangling the cord like a hangman's noose
invitingly before their eyes.  "Now if any one wants
the Fish-head, he may have it," he added.

"Not with Castoreum Sauce," said Black Fox.
Even Blue Wolf turned his nose up at it.

"Well, I'll eat it myself," bravely remarked
Wolverine, "for I'm hungry."

"You always are, 'Gulo the Glutton,' as Men
call you," twittered Jay.

"I don't care for hot pork, though," retorted
the other, making a grimace at the Bird.

"I believe they are heading for your house,
Black Fox," remarked Rof, as they trudged on
again.

"François is setting a Trap in the King's
Palace--in the Court Yard," cried Whisky-Jack,
fluttering back to meet them.  Sure enough, as the
friends crouched in a little coulee they could see
the Half-breed covering up a "No. 3" directly
in front of Fox's hole.  Near the Trap François
deposited two pieces of meat.

"If the Old Lady comes out she'll get her toes
pinched," remarked Carcajou.

Black Fox laughed.  "When François catches
Mother, we all shall be very dead."

When the Trapper had gone, the Comrades
drew close, and gingerly reconnoitred.  "Only
one Trap!" cried Carcajou; "this is too
easy."  Cautiously fishing about in the snow he found a
chain; pulling the Trap out, he gave it a
yank--something touched the centre-plate, and it went off
with a vicious snap that made their hearts jump.

"Is the Bait all right, Whisky-Jack," asked
Black King.  "Was there any talk of White
Powder?"

"There's nothing in it," replied the Bird; "I
saw them cut the Meat."

"Well, Jack and I will eat one piece; there's
a piece for you, Rof.  In this year of scarce food
even the Death Bait is acceptable--though it's
but a tooth-full.  Are you hungry, Muskwa?"

"No; I am sleepy.  I think I'll go to bed
to-morrow for all Winter.  You fellows have
kept me up too late now."

"Give me a paw to break the ice in the stream,
Muskwa--I'm going to cache this Trap," said
Carcajou.

"All right," yawned Bear; "I can hardly keep
my eyes open.  I'm afraid my liver is out of
order."

"Shouldn't eat so much," piped Whisky-Jack.

Muskwa slouched down to the river; Wolverine
grabbed up the Trap in his strong jaws and
followed.  Bruin scraped the snow to one side
deftly, uncovering a patch of the young ice, and
two or three powerful blows from his mighty paw
soon shivered a hole in it.  Carcajou dropped the
Trap through, saying, "It will close over to-night,
and to-morrow perhaps the wind will cover it
with snow."

The King looked on admiringly.

"Bra-vo! br-a-a-vo!" growled Blue Wolf.
"I might have put my foot in that when I came
to visit the Widow."

And so all day the conspirators followed
François and The Boy, undoing their work.

To Muskwa's horror, near the nest he had
prepared for his long Winter's rest they found a
huge Bear Trap.  At sight of its yawning jaws
drops of perspiration dripped from Bruin's tongue.
"Sweet Sleep! what should I do if I were to put
a leg in that awful thing--it would crack the
bone, I believe.  Who in the name of Forest
Fools told François where my house was?"

"Whisky-Jack, likely," snapped Carcajou, malignantly.

"Not I," declared Jay--"I swear it!  I keep
the Law.  What evil I've got to say of any one,
I say to his face; I'm no traitor.  You're a
thief, Carcajou--your ears were cut off for
stealing!  Your head's as smooth as a Bird's egg, and
you're a quarrelsome Blackguard--but did I
ever accuse you of betraying our Comrades?"

"Never mind, Sweet Singer," answered
Wolverine, apologetically, "I didn't mean it.
Nobody told François; it was your own big feet,
Muskwa.  If you weren't half asleep you'd
know that you left a trail like the passing of
Train Dogs."

"How shall we spring the Trap?" asked Bear.

"Don't touch it," commanded Carcajou.  "Just
leave it, and François will spend many days
waiting for your thick fur."

"But if I 'hole-up' here the Man will break
into my house and kill me while I sleep."

"How can he find you?" asked Jack, incredulously.
"It's going to snow again, you'll be all
covered up deep and he'll never know where
you are."

"Won't he, Little Brother?  Man is not
so stupid.  How do you suppose I breathe?
There'll be a little hole right up through the
snow, all yellow about the edges, and François
will find that; also, if there's frost in the air, see
my breath.  No; I've got to make another nest
now.  I should have turned in before the snow
fell, then I'd have been all right."

"We'll help you fix a new house," said Black
King; "but you had better wait--perhaps this
snow will go away; then there will be no tracks
to lead Trappers to your nest.  It is really too
bad to keep you up when you are so sleepy, but
it's the only way."

"And to think how I worked over it,"
lamented Muskwa.  "For a week I carried sticks
until my arms ached; and scraped up leaves, and
spruce boughs, and soft moss, until my hands
were sore.  It would have been the finest
'hole-up' of any Bear within the Boundaries.  Umisk
boasts about his old Mud Lodge, with the lower
floor all flooded with water--it's enough to give
one rheumatism.  New Ant Hills!  I shouldn't
like to live in a cold, cheerless place like that.  If
I had just pulled all that nice warm covering
over me before the snow fell, I should have been
as comfortable as little Gopher in his hole.  It's
too bad!"

"I'll tell you what we will do, Muskwa," said
Black King; "we'll ask the Old Lady about
this thing.  You wouldn't mind a nice dry hole
in a cut-bank somewhere, would you--if the
snow lasts and you can't make another nest?  She
knows all the empty houses from Athabasca to
Peel River.  I am in the same fix myself, for the
family are moving to-day--though we have lived
in our present quarters for a matter of four years."

"That's a King for you!" cried Whisky-Jack.
"He's like a Father to us," concurred Blue Wolf.

"Now we'll go back," ordered Black Fox;
"the Man has set all his Traps.  See! here's
the mark of an empty bag on the snow.  If you
discover anything new, come to the big dead
Cottonwood--the one that was struck by
storm-fire--at Two Rapids, and give the Boundary
Call.  I don't want you making a trail up to our
new house for François to follow."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE OTTER SLIDE`:

.. class:: center large

   THE OTTER SLIDE

.. vspace:: 2

For the next few days François was busy
completing his Marten Road, quite
unconscious of the undoing that followed him.
Fifteen miles out he constructed a small
rest-house that would do for a night's camping; thus
he could go the round of his Traps nicely in two
days.  The People of the Boundaries watched
him, and where they found a Trap, sprang it and
stole the Bait.  He fixed up the chimney that
had suffered from Carcajou's diabolical curiosity.
Winter had properly set in; streams were frozen
up, the ground covered with snow, and the days
were of scarce more length than a long drawn out
forenoon.  Affairs were in this state when one
morning the Red Widow heard Beaver's plaintive
whistle from the Cottonwood.

"Son," she cried to Black Fox, "Umisk calls;
something has gone wrong in the Forest."  The
King turned over, stretched his sinewy legs, and
yawned; the sharp-pointed, blood-red tongue
curled against the roof of his mouth, and the
strong teeth gleamed white against the background
of his lacquer coat.  It was a full-drawn, lazy
protest against being roused from slumber, for a
brace of Pin-tail Grouse lying in the corner of his
cave gave evidence of much energy during the
previous night.

"Bother this being King!" he yapped crabbedly.
"To take care of one's own relatives is
trouble enough.  By the Howl of a Hungry
Wolf!  I saved Stripes from a Trap yesterday--just
in the nick of time to keep him from grabbing
the Bait.  Now Trowel Tail is after me.
This place was bad enough when there were only
Animals here--I mean Animals of our own knowing,
Mother; now that this other kind of Animal,
Man, has come, it's simply awful.  They must
be a bad lot, these Men.  We fear Wolf when
he is hungry, and Muskwa when there are no
Berries, but Man is always crying, 'E-go,
Kil-l--Kil-l!'"

Again Umisk's shrill little treble cut the keen
frosty air.  "Hurry, Lad!" cried the Widow;
"likely his family is in trouble."

Black Fox stuck his head cautiously from
the entrance to their Burrow, and peered through
the massive drapery of Birch-tree roots which
completely veiled that part of the cut-bank.
"Mother," he said, "make the Boys use the
log-path when they're coming home, or François
will hole us up one of these fine days."

"I have told them, Son; your two Brothers
were cross-hatching the trail all yesterday
afternoon.  There are three blind holes within five
miles up the stream, and to each one they have
made a nice little false trail to amuse this Stealer
of Skins."

"That's all right, Mother; we can't be too
careful."

He stretched each hind-leg far out, throwing
his head high to loosen the neck-muscles and
expand his chest, shook the folds of his heavy,
black cloak and yawned again.  Then stooping
low in the cave-mouth, with a powerful spring
he alighted upon a log which crossed from one
cut-bank to another of the stream.  Umisk was
whistling a quarter of a mile away down the left
bank, but Black Fox started off up the right.
As he trotted along he sang:--

   |  "The trail that leads from nowhere to nowhere,
   |  Is the track of the King of the Tribe of Beware."
   |

Suddenly he stopped, crept under a big log,
and then emerged, tail first, backing up
cautiously and putting his feet down carefully in
the tracks he had made.  "They'll find me
asleep in there," he chuckled; and hummed,
softly:--

   |  "Under the log the King is asleep;
   |  Creep gently, Brother, creep;
   |  Under the log is the old Fox nest;
   |  Creep, Brother--mind his rest."
   |

Suddenly jumping sideways over a great Spruce
lying prone on the ground, he started off again,
singing merrily:--

   |  "The track that breaks
   |  Is a new track made;
   |  For eyes are sharp
   |  Where the nose is dead."
   |

Down the stream, below where Umisk was
waiting, Black King crossed, saying to himself:
"Now, François, when I go home the trail will
be complete, with no little break at my front
door--dear François, sweet François."

With Umisk was Carcajou waiting for the King.

"What's up?" asked Black Fox.

"The Man has found us out," squeaked
Umisk, despairingly.

"Too bad, too bad!" cried the King, with
deep sympathy in his voice.  "Anything
happened--any one caught?"

"Nothing serious at present.  One of the
Babes lost a toe--mighty close shave."

"How did the Breed work it?  The old game
of breaking in your house--the Burglar?"

"No; that's too stupid for François.
Muskegs! but he is clever.  The thing must have
been done last night.  He cut a hole in the ice
of my pond near the dam, then shoved a nice,
beautiful piece of Poplar, with a steel Trap
attached, down into the water--one end in the
mud, you know, and the other up in the ice.
Of course it froze solid there.  First-Kit, that's
my eldest Son, saw it in the morning, and,
thinking one of our bread-sticks had got away, went
down to bring it back.  Mind you, I didn't
know anything about this; he is an ambitious
little Chap and wanted to do it all himself.  Of
course the Poplar was fast--he couldn't budge
it; so climbed up to cut it off at the ice, with the
result that he sprang the Trap and incidentally
lost a toe."

"It's great schooling for the Children, though,
isn't it?" remarked Black King, trying to put a
good face on affairs.

"It's mighty hard on their toes," whined
Beaver.  "Hope it wasn't his nippers--forgot
to look into that."

"Nothing like bringing them up to take care
of themselves," declared Carcajou.  "All the
same, my Wood-chopper Friend, you just cut
off that stick and float it, with the Trap, to one
of your air-holes; I'll cache it for François."

"I was thinking of keeping it," added Umisk,
"to teach the Youngsters what a Trap is like."

"Well, just as you wish; only I'll go and
make a little trail from the spot off into the
woods, so our busy Friend will think I've taken
it.  Hello, Nekik!" he continued, as Otter
came sliding through the snow on his belly;
"has François been visiting you too?"

"I don't know; there is something the matter
with my Slide.  It isn't as I left it yesterday."

"Birds of a Feather!  Birds of a Feather!"
screamed Whisky-Jack, fluttering to a limb over
their heads.  "What's the caucus about this
morning--discussing chances of a breakfast this
year of starvation and scarcity of Wapoos?  Mild
Winter! but I had a big feed.  The Boy no
more knows the value of food than he knows
the depravity of Carcajou's mind."

"Great hand for throwing away hot pork,
isn't he, Jack?" asked Wolverine, innocently.

The Jay blinked his round bead-eyes, snapped
his beak, and retorted: "They put in their
evenings laughing over the roasting you got when
you dropped into the fire."

"Where's François, Babbler?" asked the King.

"Gone out to bring in Deer Meat."

"Did he make a Kill?"

"U-h-huh! my crop is full."

"You horrid Beast!" cried Carcajou,
disgustedly.  "Where is it cached?"

"Not Mooswa?" broke in Black King, with
a frightened voice.

"No--Caribou.  Such a big shovel to his
horn too--must have been of the Knowledge
Age.  Ugh! should have known better than to
let a Man get near him.  Of course François
stuck the head on a tree to make peace with
Manitou, and I'm fixed for a month."

"Cannibal!" again exclaimed Carcajou.
"Where did you say your friend, Murderer,
had cached the quarters?"

"'Cannibal,' eh?  Go and find out, Glutton.
Be careful, though--I saw some one handling
the White Medicine last night."

"The White Medicine!" ejaculated Black
Fox, turning with dismay to the speaker.

"Uh, huh! but I never steal the Bait, like
Carcajou, so I don't care.  I eat what the Men eat."

"What they leave, you mean, Scavenger--what
they throw to the Dogs!" retorted the
Lieutenant.

"You'll get enough of Dogs,
First-Cousin-to-Ground Hog--François says he is going to
have a train of them.  They will squeeze your
fat back if you come prowling about the Shack
to steal food."

"Dogs," growled Blue Wolf, coming into the
circle,--"who's got Dogs?"

"You'll have them--on your back, presently,"
snapped the Jay.  "Saw you sniffing
around there last night.  If your jaws were as
long as your scent you would have had that leg
off the roof, eh, Rof?  Burnt Feathers! but I
smell something," he continued; "has any one
found a Castoreum Bait, and got it in his
pocket?  I don't mean you, Beaver, you don't
smell very bad.  Oh! here you are, Sikak; it's
you--I might have known what sweet Forest
Flower had cut loose from its stalk.  Have you
been rolling in the dead Rose leaves this
morning, my lover of Perfume?"

The white-striped Skunk pattered with quick,
mincing little steps into the group, his back
humped up and his terrible tail carried high,
ready to resent any insult.

"Smothered anybody this morning, Sikak?"
asked the Bird.

A laugh went round the circle at this sally of
Jack's; for Skunk's method of fighting did not
meet with universal approval.  Blue Wolf thought
Sikak was a good piece of meat clean thrown away.
When hungry he could manage Badger, or even
Porcupine; but Skunk!  "Ur-r-r, agh!" it
turned his stomach to think of the dose he had
received once when he tried it.

"Good-morning, Your Majesty!" said Lynx,
as he arrived shortly after Skunk.

"How is everybody up your way?" queried
Jack.  "How are all the young Wapooses?"

Lynx grinned deprecatingly.

"Pisew is not likely to forget the Law of the
Seventh Year," remarked Carcajou, with a sinister
expression, "so he is not so deeply interested in
young Wapoos as he used to be."

"What is the meeting for?" asked Lynx.

"François has been visiting the pond of our
little Comrade, Umisk," replied Black King.

"And has been at my Slide, too," declared Otter.

"Well, Comrades, we had better go with
Nekik and examine into this thing," commanded
the King.

"Oh, of course!" cried Jack; "every community
must have Fishery Laws, and have its
Fisheries protected."

The Otter slide was exactly like a boy's coasting
chute on a hill.  A smooth, iced trough ran
down the snow-covered bank, a matter of fifteen
feet, to the stream's edge, ending in an ice hole
that Otter managed to keep open all Winter.
Generally speaking, it was Nekik's entrance to
his river-home, and in the event of danger
demanding a quick disappearance, he could shoot
down it into the water like a bullet.  It was also
a play-ground for Otter's family; their favourite
pastime being to glide helter-skelter down the
chute and splash into the stream.

"What's wrong with it?" asked Black Fox.
"There's a nasty odour of Man about, I
admit, but your Slide seems all clear and smooth."

"Something's been changed.  I had a little drop
put in the centre for the Youngsters, and they
liked it--thought it was like falling off a bank,
you know; now that part is filled up nearly level,
you see.  I don't know what is in it--was afraid
to look; but expect François has set a Trap there."

"I'll find out," said Carcajou.  "These Traps
all work from the top--I've discovered that
much.  If you keep walking about, you're pretty
sure to get into one of them; but if you sit down
and think, and scrape sideways a bit, you'll get
hold of something that won't go off."  Talking
thus, he dug with his strong claws at the edge of
the Slide.  "I thought so!" he exclaimed
suddenly.  "Here's a ring around a stake--I know
what that means!"

Feeling cautiously for the chain, he presently
pulled out a No. 3 steel Trap.  With notched
jaws wide open, and tip-plate holding its flat
surface up inviting the loosening pressure, it was a
vicious-looking affair.

"Let me spring it," said Wolf; "I'm used to
them."  Grabbing the chain end in his teeth, he
threw the Trap over his head as a dog does a bone
in play, and when it came down the sides clanged
together with hurried fondness.

"Hurrah! hurrah!" whistled Otter.  "Something
told me not to go down that Slide.  I felt
it in my bones."

"You'd have felt it on your bones," piped Jay,
ironically, "if you had slid your fat belly over
that Trap."

"Oh, I'm just dying for a slide and a bath,"
continued Nekik--"here goes!"

"Wait a bit!" commanded Carcajou, grabbing
him by the shoulder, "don't be too eager.  That
isn't François's Lucky Trap.  If he has discovered
your front stream, you can just depend upon
it his Lucky Trap is laid away somewhere for
you--it's got two red bands painted on the springs."

As these words of wisdom fell from Carcajou's
lips his Comrades gathered their feet more
closely under them, and searched the surrounding
territory apprehensively with their eyes.

"Where will it be?" cried Nekik, distressedly.

"In the water!" answered Carcajou, with brief
decision.

"Dreadful!" whimpered Otter.

"François is a heartless wretch!" declared
Beaver.  "He tried to play that trick on me
once."

"Where was that, Paddle-tail?" queried Jack,
who was always eager for a bit of gossip.

"It was when I lived up on Pembina River.
You know the way with us Beavers--we always
take a month or two of holiday every Summer,
and visit our Friends.  It was in June--I
remember; I opened the Lodge to let it air, and
started down stream with my whole family.  Of
course we passed many Beaver-roads running to
the river, and when we thought they belonged to
friends we'd pull out and go up on the bank.
Carcajou, you know the little round bowl of
mud we Beaver leave on our river-roads for
visitors' cards?"

"Yes," replied Wolverine; "they're a rather
good idea.  You always know just who has
passed, don't you?"

"Yes, we can tell, generally.  Well, as I was
saying, we went up the bank in one of these Roads,
and by the odour of the little clay mound I knew
that Red Jowl, a cousin of mine, was just inside
the Wood--or had been.  So the family went
among the Poplars to have a bite of bread; and
just as we were felling a tree whom should I
see but François drifting down the river in his
canoe; we kept pretty close, you had better
believe."

"Didn't call out to him, Umisk, eh?" asked
Jay--"didn't clap each other on the back with
your tails and say, 'Here comes a Chum.'"

Umisk proceeded, paying no attention to the
flippant Bird.  "When the Breed came opposite
our Road he stopped his canoe, let it drift gently
up to the bank, pulled out a Trap and set it
in muddy water just at the foot of the path.
He was clever enough not to touch the land
even with his paddle, so there was no
scent--nothing to warn a poor Beaver of the danger.
Then he floated on down.  If I had not seen
the whole thing this depraved taker of our lives
would have caught me sure; for you know how
we go into the water, Nekik, just as you
do--head and hands first."

"That's an old trick of François's," exclaimed
Carcajou; "and you'll find that is just what he
has done here.  If Mister Nekik will feel
cautiously at the foot of his Slide he will find
something hard and smooth, not at all like a stick or
a stone."

"Fat Fish! but I'm afraid of my fingers,"
whistled Otter.

"Sure, if you work from the top," retorted
Carcajou.  "Sideways is the game with the Trap
always--or upward."

"You forgot that, Mister Carcajou, when you
tackled the Chimney," twittered Jay.

"I didn't burn my tongue, anyway."

"Is Nekik afraid to safeguard his own Slide,"
sneered Whisky-Jack.

"Shut up, Quarrel Maker!" interposed the
King, "you know Otter is one of the pluckiest
fighters inside the Boundaries.  It's only
brainless Animals who tackle things they know
nothing about."

"Dive their beaks into hot Pork, your Most
Wise Majesty," echoed Lynx, with a fawning smile.

"Here's Sakwasew, he'll find the Trap, he's
a water dweller," exclaimed Carcajou, as Mink,
attracted by their chatter, came wandering down
the stream.  "Here, little Black-tail," he
continued, "just dip down the hole there and look
for evidence of François's deviltry."

"It's against the Law of the Boundaries,"
pleaded Mink, "for me to use Otter's ice hole.
By the Kink in my Tail, I'm not like some of
my Comrades, always breaking the laws."

"Aren't you, Mink?  Who cut the throats
of Gray Hen, the Grouse's, Children, last July,
when they were still in their pin-feathers?  But
I suppose that isn't breaking the Law of the
Boundaries," cried Lynx, taking Mink's
observation to himself.

"Oh, no," chipped in Whisky-Jack; "certain
of you Animals think keeping the Law is not
getting caught.  My own opinion is, you're as bad
as Men.  When François puts out the White
Death-powder, he thinks he is keeping Man's
law if the Red Coats do not catch him; and
Sakwasew cuts the throat of Chick-Grouse, and you,
Pisew, eat Kit Beaver, and it's all within the Law
if there be no witnesses.  I don't know what we
are coming to."

"Stop wrangling, you Subjects!" commanded
Black King; and the silvered fur on his back
stood straight up in anger.  "I'll order Rof to
thrash you soundly, if you don't stop this."

Pisew slunk tremblingly behind a tree, and
Carcajou, humping his back, exclaimed: "Brother
Nekik, I'll fish out that Trap for you; I'm sure
it's there--my good nose lines the track of a
Man straight to the hole."  In less than two
minutes he triumphantly swung a steel-jawed
thing up on the bank.  "There, what did I tell
you!" he boasted proudly.  "But the ring is on
a stout root or stick--cut it off, Umisk, with
your strong chisel-teeth, and Fisher will carry it
up that big hollow Poplar and cache it in a hole."

"I will, if you spring the jaws first," agreed
Fisher.

Otter was overjoyed.  "This is fine!" he
cried; "I'll be back in a minute!" and he darted
down the Slide as an Indian throws the
snake-stick over the snow.

"What fine sport!" remarked Carcajou, when
Nekik came up again, shaking the water from his
strong, bristled mustache.

"Shall we have some games?" suggested the
King.  "I'll give a fat Pheasant to the one who
slides down Nekik's chute best--that is, of
course, barring Nekik himself."

"But the water, Your Majesty!" interposed Pisew.

"I don't want to wet my feet," pleaded
Wapistan, the Marten; "if you'll make the race up
a tree I will willingly join."

"So will I!" concurred Fisher.

"Or three miles straight over the hill,"
suggested Blue Wolf.

"Make it a wrestling match!" said Carcajou.

"No, no," declared Black King.  "No one
need go in the hole, of course.  When you come
to the bottom, spring over to the ice--that
will be part of the game."

After much wrangling and discussion they
all agreed to try it.  Mink went first, being
more familiar with slides, for he had a little
one of his own.  He did it rather nicely, but
forgetting to jump at the bottom, dove into
the water.

"That rules you out!" decided the King.
"You left the course, you see.  Go on, Rof!"

Blue Wolf fixed himself gingerly at the upper
end of the Slide, and, at the last minute, decided
to take it sitting, riding down on his great
haunches.  This worked first-rate, until the ice
was reached.  Rof was going with so much speed
by this time, that he couldn't gather for a spring;
his hind quarters slipped through the hole, which,
being just about his size, caused him to wedge
tight.  He gave a roar of surprise that made
the woods ring, for the stream was icy cold.
"Keep your nose above water or you'll drown,
old Bow-wow," piped Jay.

.. _`ROF WAS GOING WITH SO MUCH SPEED, ... THAT HE COULDN'T GATHER FOR A SPRING`:

.. figure:: images/img-126.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: ROF WAS GOING WITH SO MUCH SPEED, ... THAT HE COULDN'T GATHER FOR A SPRING.

   ROF WAS GOING WITH SO MUCH SPEED, ... THAT HE COULDN'T GATHER FOR A SPRING.

It took the combined strength of Beaver and
Carcajou to pull the grumbling animal out.  "By
the White Spot on my Tail," laughed Black
King, "but I thought for a time you were going
to win.  Your turn, Pisew."  Lynx made a
grimace of dislike, for his cat nature revolted at
the thought of water, but he crept on to the slide
with nervous steps.

"You won't get in the hole," jeered Jack;
"your feet are too big."

Pisew tried it standing up, with arched back,
just for all the world like a cat on a garden fence.
As he neared the bottom at lightning speed,
confusion seized him; he tried to spring, but
only succeeded in throwing a half somersault,
and plunged head first into the water.  The Jay
fairly screamed with delight, and hopped about
on his perch overhead in a perfect ecstasy of
fiendish enjoyment.  "Didn't scorch his tongue
a bit!" he cried.  "Give him the tail feathers of
the Pheasant to dry his face with, oh, Your
Majesty!  Ha, ha, ha!  Pe-he-e-e!"  Pisew
scrambled out filled with morose anger.

"That's another failure," adjudged the King.
"Who is next?"

"Carcajou's turn!" instigated Whisky-Jack.
"He knows all about sliding up and down
chimneys--he'll win, sure!"

"I will try it," grunted the fat, little Chap;
"but if you make fun of me, Jack, I'll wring
your neck first chance I get."

Wolverine shuffled clumsily to the starting
post, studied the Slide critically for a minute
with his little snake-like eyes, then deliberately
turned over on his back, and prepared for the
descent.

"Tuck in your ears!" shouted Whisky Jack.
Now this was an insult.  Carcajou's ears were so
very short that they were generally supposed to
have been cut off for stealing.  However,
Wolverine started, tail first, holding his head up
between his fore-paws to judge distances.  When
he struck the bottom, his powerful hind-feet
jammed into the snow, and the speed of his going
threw him safely over on the ice, landing him
right side up on all-fours.

"Capital!  Capital!" yapped Black King,
patting his furred hands together in approval.
"That will be pretty hard to beat.  Skunk,
you're a clever little Fellow, see if you can make
a tie of it with Carcajou."  Sikak moved up to
the Slide with a peculiar rocking-horse-like gallop.
Taking his cue from Carcajou he decided to go
down the same way.  Now, in the excitement of
the thing the animals had gathered close to the
Slide, lining it on both sides.

"Cranky little White-streak!" exclaimed
Whisky-Jack; "why don't you make a speech
before you start."

Skunk had never travelled in this shape
before, and was nervous.  During his delay over
getting a straight start, Carcajou and Mink,
half-way down, got into an altercation about a good
seat that each claimed.

"Keep it, then, Glutton!" whined Sakwasew,
starting across the chute.  As he did so, Skunk
got away rather prematurely, coming down with
the speed of a snow-slide off a roof.  He struck
Mink full amidship, and thinking it was a diabolical
trick on the part of the others, developed an
angry odour that would have put a Lyddite shell
to shame.

A wild scramble took place.

"Fat Hens!" shrieked Black King, as he fled
through the Forest, his long brush trailing in the
snow.

"I'm choking!" screamed Carcajou.  "By
the power of all Forest Smells, was there ever
such a disgraceful Chap on the face of the Earth;"
and he scurried away with his short legs, just for
all the world like a Bear Cub.

Fisher climbed a tree in hot haste, as did
Marten.  Mink dove in the Otter's hole and
disappeared; but with him he carried the evil
thing, for he was full of the blue halo that
vibrated from his skunk-smirched coat.  "I shall
never be able to go home any more," he moaned;
"my relatives will kill me."

Even Jay clasped one claw over his nose and
flew wildly through the forest, almost knocking
out his brains against branches.  In ten seconds
there was nobody left on the ground but Otter
and poor little white-striped Skunk.  The collision
had sent him rolling over and over down to the
ice bottom of the stream.  He got up, shook
himself, used some very bad animal language,
and slunk away to his family, to tell them of the
trick Carcajou and Mink had played him.

"That Glutton was afraid I'd win the Pheasant,"
he confided to Mrs. Sikak; "but I broke
up the party, anyway."

Otter was wandering about disconsolately
through the woods, declaiming to the trees that
his Slide was ruined for all time to come, and
he really wished the Trap had ended his days.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE TRAPPING OF WOLVERINE`:

.. class:: center large

   THE TRAPPING OF WOLVERINE

.. vspace:: 2

When François missed the Beaver trap
that had been placed in the dam, and
that Umisk had taken for his sons to study,
also the two set on Otter's slide, it made him
furious.  He knew Wolverine must have cached
them.  Once before he had been forced to give
up a good Marten Road because of the relentless
ingenuity of this almost human-brained animal;
but it would be different this time, the
Half-breed declared--he would make a fight of it.

"I keel me dat Carcajou!" he exclaimed
emphatically over and over again to The Boy.
"Dat Debil ob de Wood he eat my bait, an'
cac'e de Trap, an' come an' sit dere by de door
an' listen what we talk.  I see de track dis
mornin'."

The very night François made this boast,
Wolverine came and entirely appropriated the
remaining hind-quarter of his Caribou from the
roof.  When the Half-breed discovered this fresh
mark of his enemy's energetic attention he
became inarticulate with ire.

"Why don't you try the strychnine on him?"
asked Roderick.

"Dat no use," declared the enraged Trapper;
"when I put poison in de bait, Carcajou come,
smell him, den he do some dirty trick on it for
make me swear.  But I catc' him soor--I put
de gun wid pull-string."

He spent the greater part of the next day
arranging a muzzle-loading shot gun, with a trade
ball in it, for the destruction of the animal who
had stolen his venison.  François had seen
Wolverine's own private little path for coming up the
bank of the Pelican, and on this he staked down
the gun and put some pine logs on either side, so
that Carcajou must take the bait from in front.
The gun was left cocked, with a string attached
to the trigger; on the string, just at the muzzle,
was tied a piece of Caribou meat.

Wolverine chuckled when he saw the arrangement.
"Poor old François!" he muttered
ironically: "this is really too bad; it's actual
robbery to take that Bait--it's so easy."

Now this little wood-dweller had a most decided
streak of vanity in his make-up.  Like many really
smart men, he liked to show off his cunning--that
was his weakness.  "This is a good chance
to give some of the others an object lesson," he
said to himself, sitting down to wait for an
audience.  Presently Blue Wolf and Lynx came
in sight, jogging along together.  "Eur-r-r-r!"
said Wolf, hoarsely; "had any Eating this day, Gulo?"

"No appetite," declared Carcajou, getting up
so the half-starved Lynx might see his
well-rounded stomach.

"Most wise Lieutenant," smirked Pisew,
"what wisdom hast thou originated this day?"

"That's a queer thing, isn't it?" remarked
Carcajou, nodding his broad forehead towards
the baited gun.

Blue Wolf looked, took a wide detour, and
approached it from the side.  The others followed
in his footsteps.

"Years have given you sagacity, Mister Rof,"
commended Wolverine.  "From the side always,
eh?  Danger sits on top, and Death waits in front."

"My nose finds a Bait!" answered Wolf.

"It's Meat!" added Pisew, working his
mustached upper lip like a cat.

"I smell powder!" declared Carcajou, quietly.

"The evil breath of the Ironstick?" queried
Blue Wolf.  "Perhaps the White Death-powder
makes that peculiar odour," he hazarded.

"No," asserted Carcajou; "François knows
better than that: to smell that Bait costs nothing;
to bite it makes a heavier price than either of
us cares to pay.  François knows that we smell
first, and bite last; and if our noses detected
aught amiss would we pull the string with our teeth?"

"Wise Lieutenant!" murmured Lynx.

"Cunning old Thief!" mused Wolf to himself.

"Do either of you food-hunters want it?"
asked Carcajou.

"I'm not very hungry this morning," answered
Blue Wolf.

"I discovered seven Deer Mice under a log
not two hours ago," lied Pisew; "sweet,
long-eared little Chaps they were, and quite fat from
eating the seeds of the yellow-lipped Sunflower--most
delicious flavour it gives to their flesh.
My stomach is at peace for the first time in many
days."

"Keep your eye open for the Breed-Man,
then," commanded Wolverine; "I think I'd
relish that Caribou steak--your Deer-Mice
have given me an appetite."  He tore the pine
logs away from one side of the gun, examined
the string critically, cut it with his sharp teeth
just behind the bait, and devoured the fresh meat
with great gusto, smacking his lips with a
tantalizing suggestiveness of good fare.

"In case of accidents I think I'd better break
up this Ironstick," he said.  Seizing the hammer
in his strong jaws, and placing his paws on the
barrel and stock, he tore it off and completely
demolished the old muzzle-loader.

"Well," yawned Wolf, stretching himself,
"you're a match for the Man, I believe.  I'm
off, for I've got a long run ahead of me--the
Pack gathers to-night at Deep Creek."

"What's the run--Stag?" asked Pisew,
insinuatingly.

"Whatever it may be it will be all eaten,"
answered Rof; "so you needn't trail.  Good-bye,
Lieutenant," he barked, loping with powerful
strides through the woods out of sight.

"I'll go with you, most wise Lieutenant,"
declared Pisew.

"Well, trot along in front," grunted Carcajou;
"I want to fix the trail a bit."  After they had
walked for half an hour Wolverine stopped, and,
cocking his eye up a slim pole which seemed to
grow from the centre of a high Spruce stump,
exclaimed, "Great-Eating! what in the name of
Wiesahkechack is that?"

"Meat!" answered Pisew, looking at
something which dangled from the top of the pole.

"It's François again," said Carcajou, sniffing
at the stump.

"What a splendid cache," cried Lynx, admiringly;
"nobody but Squirrel could climb that pole."

"But they might knock it down," declared
Carcajou.  "I have a notion to try."

"Better leave it alone," advised Pisew.  "If
it's François, there's something wrong."

"Carcajou doesn't take advice from a cotton-headed
Cat," sneered the other.  "Easy Killing! but
I'm going up to see what it's like.  I know
that stump--it's hollow; there is no chance for
a Trap there."  It was about three feet high.
Wolverine made a running jump, grabbing the
top edge to pull himself up; as he did so
something snapped.  A howl of enraged surprise came
from the little animal as he dangled with hind
toes just touching the ground, and his fore-paws
in a steel Trap which he had pulled over the side.
The cunning Breed had blocked up his Trap on
the inside of the hollow shell, where it was
invisible from the ground.

"For the Sake of Security! don't make such
a noise," pleaded Pisew.

"Fool-talker!" retorted Carcajou; "come and
help me out of this fix."

"I can't open the Trap," objected Lynx;
"why, it would take the strength of Muskwa to
flatten its springs."

"Run to the King and ask for help, as is the
law of the Boundaries," ordered Wolverine.

"Gently, Mister Lieutenant, gently; don't get
so excited--keep cool."

"Wait till I get out of this," screamed Carcajou;
"I'll warm your jacket."

"There, there," returned Lynx, "don't threaten
me--don't abuse me, and I'll help you--"

"That's a good Pisew--hurry, please--François
may come--"

"On one condition," added Lynx, sitting down
on his haunches with deliberate self-possession.

"Hang the conditions!" blustered Carcajou--"talk
of conditions with a Fellow's fingers in a
steel Trap!"

"All the same, I'll only do it on one condition--when
they talked the other day of making
me King--"

"'*They* talked,'" interrupted Carcajou; "nobody
talked of making you King."

"*You* didn't, I know, Lieutenant; but that's
just what I want you to promise now, before I
help you."

"I'll see you Snared first!" grunted Wolverine,
snapping at the Trap chain which was fastened
to the pole, until he screamed with pain.

"All right--I'm off!  François will soon find
you," declared Pisew.

"Come back!" cried the entrapped Animal.
"What do you wish?"

"Well, if anything happens Black King, we'll
need another ruler--anyway, next year there'll
be an election, and I want you to stick up for me
as you did for Black Fox.  You're so wise and
eloquent, dear Carcajou, that the others will do
just as you advise.  I could make it worth while,
too, if there were any charges against you;
suppose some one accused you unjustly of having
eaten a Cub or a Kit under the Killing Age, why,
I could see that nothing happened, you know."

"Sneak!  Thief!  Murderer!" ejaculated Carcajou
disdainfully.  "If I could but get out of
this fix, I'd eat you."

"What's the row, you Fellows?" piped a
bird-voice, as Whisky-Jack swooped down to a small
Poplar, and craned his neck in amazement at
the sight he beheld.  "By my Lonely Life!" he
chuckled, "if here isn't the King of all Knaves
sitting with his hands in the stocks.  Great
Rations! but you're a wise one; whose toes
hurt now, Mister Mocker?  Why doesn't that
cat-faced Lynx help you out?"

"I offered to," declared Pisew, "but his
temper is so vile I dare not touch him.  He
threatened to kill me--I'm afraid to go near him."

"Why don't you run to Black King for help,
you stupid--you can't open that Trap."

"Wise Bird," almost sobbed Carcajou, in his
gratitude, "this scheming rascal took advantage
of my misfortune, and tried to make me promise
to do something for him, or he would let
François catch me."

"Pisew is not to be trusted--he is too much
like a Man," asserted Jack.  Turning to the
Lynx, he exclaimed, angrily: "You go on the
back-trail there, and if François comes, lead him
off slowly; just keep in his sight--he'll follow
you.  I will get the Lieutenant out of this.  Mind,
if you play any tricks, or break the Oath of the
Boundaries, the King will command Blue Wolf
to break your back--he'll do it too.  I'm off
for help," he said to the prisoner; "just keep
your courage up, old Carey;" and working his
fan-like wings with exceeding diligence, he dove
through the woods at a great rate toward the
King's Burrow.

"I was only joking, dear friend Carcajou,"
said Lynx, fawningly, for he dreaded the anger of
the other animals.  "Don't say a word about
it to the King; he might think I was in earnest."

"Traitor!" snarled Wolverine; "go back and
watch for François."

"Don't say any more about it," pleaded Pisew,
"and I'll watch, oh, so carefully, most loyal,
true Lieutenant."

Whisky-Jack's shrill call from a tree startled
the family of the Red Widow.

"Quick, Royal Son," she cried, "there's a
danger signal.  Listen: 'Hee-e-e-p, hee-e-ep,
he-e-e-ep!'  That means some one caught.
Where are my Sons?  All here but Stripes,
Goodness!"  She wrung her paws miserably, and
in her eagerness rushed to the door.  "What is
it, Bringer of Evil News?  Who's caught--not
my Baby Cub?" she asked of Whisky-Jack.

"No, Good Dame.  Would you believe it,
the cleverest one in all the Boundaries, excepting
your Son, is now keeping the jaws of a Trap
apart with his own soft paws--it's Carcajou."

"What's to do?" cried Black Fox, joining
his Mother.

"Carcajou is caught!" she answered, heaving
a sigh of relief that it wasn't Cross-stripes.

Jay Bird explained the situation.

"Nobody but Muskwa can spring a Number
Four Trap," asserted the King; "and he is
holed up these two days--isn't he, Mother?"

"Yes," she assented.  "And asleep by now.
You will find him at the big Burrow that is in
the fourth cut-bank from here up stream."

"The old Chap must get up, then," cried
Black Fox, with emphasis, "for he is not in the
deep frost-sleep yet.  Here, Jack, run and bring
Beaver to cut off the pole Carcajou's Trap is
ringed to, and I'll go for Muskwa; if you see
Rof, tell him to meet me at Bear's Burrow."

The King had a tremendous time with Muskwa.
Bruin was sleepy and cranky.  "Quick! wake
up, Brother!" Black Fox shouted in his
ear.  The Bear never moved--simply snored.

The energetic visitor turned tail on, and
proceeded to rake Bruin's ribs with his strong hind
feet as a dog makes the gravel fly.  Muskwa
grunted and simply flicked his short, woolly ears.
The King jumped on him, set up the long howl
of the Kill in his very face, put his sharp teeth
through one of the nerveless ears, and generally
held a small riot over the sleeper.  He never
would have managed to wake Bear had not Blue
Wolf arrived to help him.

Muskwa was for all the world like a maudlin,
drunken old sailor.  "All right, you Fellows,"
he said groggily, his eyes still closed, "I don't
want any more Berries--eat 'em yourself."

"Not Berries!" howled Wolf; "Carcajou is
in a Trap."

"Go 'way--don't believe it.  Carcajou's an
old Sweep!"

Blue Wolf's powerful voice rang the Chase
Note in Muskwa's ear.  It woke the big fellow
sufficiently to enable him to take a side-hook
sweep at the offender with his disengaged paw.
The blow was a sleepy one, else it had cracked
his tormentor's skull.

"He's coming all right," remarked the King,
critically.

"By the Flavour of Meat, he is!" ejaculated Rof.

In the end they got Muskwa on his feet, with
a little understanding in his stupor-clogged brain,
and half-pushing, half-leading, conducted him to
where Carcajou was sitting in the stocks.  In his
flight Whisky-Jack had met Mooswa, and he
was there also.  Beaver was chiselling away at
the pole; for once loosened, even if they could
not spring the Trap sufficiently to get Carcajou's
paws out, between them they might manage to
get him away and cached somewhere; anything
was better than letting him fall into the Trapper's
hands.

"Of all the wood I ever cut this is the worst,"
panted Umisk, resting for a minute.  "It cramps
my neck cutting down so close sideways.  It is
dry Tamarack, the slivers are all sticking in my
tongue."

As Black Fox and Rof withdrew their paws
from under Muskwa's arms, he keeled over lazily
and went sound asleep in two seconds.  "Give
him a good lift with your hind-foot, Mooswa,"
commanded the King, sharply.  "Of all the
heavy-brained Animals I ever saw!"

"If we but had some of Man's fire," opined
Jack, "we could wake him up quick enough by
singeing a couple of my feathers under his nose."

Mooswa planted both hind-feet, bang! in Bear's
ribs; Rof gave a deep bay in his face; Black
King once more put his saw-like teeth through
an ear; and by these gentle, persuasive methods
Muskwa was wakened sufficiently to get on his
feet.  He swayed drunkenly.  "Stop fighting,
Cubs!" he growled, under the impression that
he was being bothered by some of his own children.

"Get up and squeeze the springs of the
Trap--Carcajou is caught!  Here they are--put a
paw on each--there! squeeze!" yelled Black Fox.

Just then Beaver finished cutting the pole, and
it fell with a crash--the noise helped waken
Muskwa.

"Slip the ring off the stub, Umisk, that's a
good Chap," cried Wolverine.  This done, he
and the Trap clattered to the ground.

"Come on!" screamed Black Fox to
Muskwa, as he and Rof shouldered him to
the Trap.  "Squeeze now!" the Fox shouted
again, placing Bear's powerful paws on the
springs.

"I'll squeeze," answered Bruin, petulantly;
"but why don't you speak louder--say what
you mean.  You Fellows have all got colds--I
can't hear you."

"Dead Eagles! but François will," remarked Jay.

"There, now, a little harder--use your
strength, Muskwa!"

The Bear pressed his great weight on the
springs; they slipped down, and the jaws slowly
opened like the sides of a travelling-bag.  With
a cry of delight Carcajou pulled his bruised
fingers out, and in gratitude rubbed his short little
Coon-like head against Bruin's great cheek.
"Good old Muskwa!" he cried joyfully; "I'll
never forget this."

"Your fingers will be a long time sore, then,"
sneered Jay.

"Never--mind--little friend.  It's all right;
let me go--to sleep now, don't--don't bother;"
and he flopped over like a bag of potatoes, sighed
wearily once or twice, and started off with a
monotonous, bubbling snore.  "He's hopeless,"
moaned the King.  "We'll never get him home."

"I saw François just like that once," chirped
Whisky-Jack; "he had some medicine in a
bottle, and the more of it he took the sleepier
he got."

"How in the name of Many Birds shall we
ever get him back to his hole?" asked Black
Fox, perplexedly.

"I'll carry him," declared the Moose.
"Here, you Fellows, roll him up on my
horns;" and dropping to his knees Mooswa
put the great, chair-like spread of his antlers
down to the snow.

"Come, Pisew, give us a hand," commanded
the King.  Beaver, and Lynx, and Rof, and
Black Fox shouldered and pushed at the huge
black ball, and Mooswa kept edging his horn-cradle
in under the mass, until finally Muskwa
lay snugly in the hollow.

"Now all give a mighty push, and help me
up!" snuffed the Moose.  "All right," he
added, staggering to his feet, and pointing his
nose skyward, allowing the burdened antlers to
lie along his withers.

"Ride with Muskwa, Jack," commanded the
King, "and show Mooswa the old Sleeper's house.
Branch out, the rest of you, and make the
Many-trail; for many trails make few catches."  Carcajou
was sitting on his haunches, licking his
aching paws.  "How are you going to get
home, Little Comrade?" he asked.

"I'll give him a lift," interposed Blue Wolf.
"Clamber up, old Curiosity."  They were a
funny-looking party--quite like an ambulance
train; Muskwa asleep on Mooswa's horns, and
Carcajou astraddle of Wolf's strong back.

.. _`THEY WERE A FUNNY-LOOKING PARTY`:

.. figure:: images/img-144.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: THEY WERE A FUNNY-LOOKING PARTY.

   THEY WERE A FUNNY-LOOKING PARTY.

"Walk in Rof's tracks, Pisew, till you strike
a muskeg," ordered the King; "François won't
fancy the fun of following a traveller like you
through a big swamp."

"I should like to hide that Trap," lamented
Carcajou.

"Oh, never mind," interrupted Black Fox.
"Get away home, everybody."

"I'll hear some choice French to-night,"
declared Jack.  "When François discovers that
somebody has robbed his Trap, he'll jabber
himself asleep."

All the way to his home Carcajou swore
vengeance on the Man who had made his paws
so sore.  "You'll do it, Brother," said Rof,
"and I don't blame you.  Of course we must
remember our oath about The Boy."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE COMING OF THE TRAIN DOGS`:

.. class:: center large

   THE COMING OF THE TRAIN DOGS

.. vspace:: 2

For three days nothing unusual happened.
Hunger commenced to nip at every one,
for, as we know, it was the Seventh Year of the
Rabbit cycle, and they were scarce.  All the
others envied old Muskwa, slumbering peacefully,
nourished by the fat of his Summer's pillage.

The narrow body of Lynx was getting
narrower, the gaunt sides of Blue Wolf gaunter.
Fisher and Marten were living on Deer Mice,
Squirrels, and small game; and the Red
Widow's family were depending almost entirely upon
Spruce Partridge--the flesh of these birds had
become particularly astringent, too.  The gray-mottled,
pin-tail Grouse had entirely disappeared--better
eating they were, the Widow contended;
but in the Seventh Year it was not a matter of
selection at all, and each Animal was poaching on
the other's preserve--all because of the scarcity
of Wapoos.  But in spite of the general starvation,
every one left a small dole of his food for
Carcajou, whose paws were too sore to prowl
about.  He felt the restricted diet more than
any of them, being a perfect gourmand,--"Gulo
the Glutton," that was his name; and he liked
good living.

On the fourth day Whisky-Jack startled his
comrades with the announcement that François
had acquired a train of four dogs from
Nichemous, who was passing down the ice-road of the
river with a Free-Trader.  Blue Wolf snuffed
discontentedly at the news; they were his
enemies, and many a scar he carried as souvenir
of combats with these domesticated cousins.
Family instinct, however, led him to skulk
close to François's Shack one evening hoping to
see the dogs.  He went often after the first
visit, though advised by Carcajou that it would
end in his getting a destroying blast from the
Firestick.

"They haven't got one," Rof assured him.
"You destroyed the only Ironstick they had."

"That was an old Trade Musket," retorted
Wolverine.  "François is too clever to put his
good Ironstick out in the wet.  You'll find that
he has another, if you don't keep away.  What's
the attraction, anyway?" he asked.  "There
can't be anything to eat there, with those yelping
Huskies about."

It was Whisky-Jack who gave the secret
away.  "Blue Wolf's in love," he said, solemnly;
"three of the Train are of the sister kind, and
Rof's got his eye on one.  François calls her
'Marsh Maid,' but the Train-leader is a big
Huskie Dog, and he'll chew Growler the Wolf
into little bits--I sha'n't mind, Rof's too surly
for me."

Blue Wolf became a great dandy; brushed his
coat--scraped the snow away from a moss patch
in the Jack-Pines, and rubbed his shaggy fur till
it became quite presentable.

The big fight that Jack anticipated so eagerly
materialized, but, contrary to Jay's forecast, Rof
trounced the Huskie soundly.  After that he
came and went pretty much as he desired--growled
his admiration of Marsh Maid, and
took forcible possession of Huskie's White Fish.

All this nearly brought sorrow to the Red
Widow's family, for Stripes, the Kit-Fox, having
his curiosity roused by Jack's recital of Blue
Wolf's doings, incautiously ventured close to
the Shack one day to have a look at the Train.
With an angry howl Huskie swooped down
upon him, and but for Rod, who, hearing
Stripes's plaintive squeal, rushed out and drove
the Dog off, he would have been most effectually
eaten up.  The young Fox fled for his life, and
his tale of this adventure filled the Red Widow's
heart with gratitude toward The Boy.

Within the Boundaries the food fever was
strong on the Animals, and François's baits
became an almost irresistible temptation.  Trap
after Trap Black King and his family robbed,
leaving the Meat with the White Powder in, and
taking it when it was clear of this, until François
was in despair.

"By Goss!" he confided to The Boy, "I
t'ink me we goin' keel no fur here.  Dat
Carcajou he de Debil, but mos' all de odder Animal
is Debil too.  S'pose I put out de Trap, dey take
de bait, cac'e de Trap, and s'pose me dey laugh
by deyselves.  I see dat Black Fox two, t'ree
time, an' I know me his track now; ev'ry day I
see dat tracks.  But we must catc' him.  What
fur we keel now?  Not enough to pay fer de
grub stake."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE TRAPPING OF BLACK FOX`:

.. class:: center large

   THE TRAPPING OF BLACK FOX

.. vspace:: 2

So far all the plans of the Half-breed for
capturing Black Fox had failed; but one
day conditions were favourable for his
master-stroke--a rare trick known only to himself.
He smiled grimly when in the early morning he
discovered that the snow bore a tender young
crust just sufficient to bear a fair-sized animal.
His preparations were elaborate.

"To-day we catc' dat black fell'," he said,
gleefully, to Rod.  "You wait here till I s'oot
Mister Mus'rat firs' for bait, den I s'ow you
some treek."

Soon François returned with a freshly killed
Muskrat, which he promptly skinned, taking
great care not to touch the meat with his hands.
Putting the hindquarters in a pouch formed from
the blood-stained skin, he next made a
long-handled scraper.  "Now I fix dis tea-dance
where de fox alway go for sit in one place ever'
day--I know me dat place," he chuckled
as, gathering up the outfit, he started for the Forest.

Arrived there François pulled the snow from
under the gentle crust with his scraper for a space
of six or eight feet, leaving a miniature cave
under the frozen shell.  Into this he shoved
two strong steel Traps, and using a long stick
emptied the Muskrat pouch of its meat just above.

"Now, Mister S'arp-nose," muttered the
Breed, "I t'ink me you no smell not'ing but
Meat.  You don't like smell François, eh?  For
dat I give me de Mus'rat smell for you' nose."

Backing away from his work the Half-breed
carefully smoothed down the snow into his tracks
for a long distance, then filling his pipe, lighted
it, and trudged back to the Shack to await the
success of this ruse.  When Black King came up
the wind, winding up the meat-scent like a ball
of yarn, he struck a new combination.  There
were no evidences of Man's handicraft; no Trap
insight--no baited gun; no Marten stockade;
no bent sapling with a hungry noose dangling to
it; but there were undoubtedly two nice, juicy,
appetizing pieces of meat lying on top of the
undisturbed snow-crust.

Black Fox sat down and surveyed the surrounding
territory critically; cocked his sharp eyes and
sharper nose toward all points of the compass.
The Forest was like a graveyard--as silent; no
hidden enemy lurked near with ready Firestick--his
nose assured him on that point.

Then he walked gingerly in a big circle all
about the glamourous centre-piece of sweet-smelling
meat, his nose prospecting every inch of the
ground.  Something had evidently disturbed the
snow where François had smoothed it down.
Three circles he completed like this; each one
smaller and closer to the Bait.  Three lengths
of himself from the covered-danger he sat down
again, and tried to think it out.

"It can't be a Trap," he mused; "nothing
has walked where the eating is, that much is
certain.  François can smooth the white
ground-cover down, but can't put a crust on it.
Starvation Year! but that Meat smells good--I
haven't eaten for two days.  I wish it were a
Trap--then I should know what I was about.
It looks mighty suspicious--must be the White
Powder; think I had better leave it alone.  If
there were only a Trap in sight I would tackle it
quick enough; it's easy to spring one of those
things and get the Bait."

He trotted away twenty yards, meaning to go
home and not risk it.  Suddenly he stopped,
sat down once more and thought it all over
again, his determination weakened by appetite.
His lean stomach clamoured for the Meat--it
was full of nothing but the great pain of hunger.

"Forest Devils!" muttered the hesitating Fox;
"I believe I'm losing my nerve--am afraid
because there isn't anything in sight but the Meat.
I'd never hear the last of it if Carcajou, or Pisew,
or any of them came along, saw my trail, and then,
having more pluck than I've got, went and ate
that free eating.  I wonder what it is?  Smells
like a cut of Muskrat, or a piece of Caribou; it's
not Fish."

He walked back cautiously, irresolutely, and
took a look from the opposite side.  "I have a
notion to try it; I can tell if there's White
Medicine about when I get it at the end of
my nose," he said, peering all about carefully;
there was nobody in sight--nothing!  "Women
Foxes!" but he was nervous.  His big "brush"
was simply trembling with the fear of some
unknown danger.  He laughed hysterically at the
idea.  It was the unusualness of Meat lying
on the snow and no evidence of why it should
be there: there was no appearance of a Kill
near the spot.  How in the world had it come
there?  There was no track leading up to nor
away from it; perhaps Hawk, or Whisky-Jack,
or some other bird had dropped it.  It was
the most wonderful problem he had ever run
up against.

But thinking it over brought no solution;
also his stomach clamoured louder and louder for
the appetizing morsel.  Rising up, Black King
crept cautiously towards the fascinating object.
His foot went through the snow crust.  "This
wouldn't bear up a Baby Lynx," he thought.
"Neither François nor any other Man can have
been near that Meat."

He took another step--and another, eyes
and nose inspecting every inch of the snow.
He could almost reach it; another step, and as
his paw sank through the crust it touched
something smooth and slippery.  There was a clang
of iron, and the bone of his left fore-leg was
clamped tight in the cruel jaws of a Fox Trap.

Poor old Black King!  Despair and pain
stretched him, sobbing queer little whimpering
cries of anguish in the snow.  Only for an
instant; then he realized that unless help came
from his Comrades his peerless coat would soon
be stretched skin-side out on a wedge-shaped
board in François's shack.  Shrill and plaintive
his trembling whistle, "Wh-e-e-he-e-e-, Wh-e-e-he-e-e!"
went vibrating through the still Forest in
a supplicating call to his companions for succour.

Then an hour of despairing anguish, without
one single glint of hope.  Every crack of
tree-bark, as the frost stretched it, was the snapping
of a twig under François's feet; every rustle of
bare branches overhead was the shuffling rasp of
his snow-shoes on the yielding crust.

Excruciating pains shot up the Fox's leg and
suggested grim tortures in store when François
had taken him from the Trap--perhaps he
would skin him alive; the Indians and
Half-breeds were so frightfully cruel to Animals.  If
only Carcajou, or Whisky-Jack, or dear old
Mooswa could hear his whistle--surely they
would help him out.  Suddenly he heard the
rustle of Jack's wings, and turned eagerly.  A
big, brown, belated leaf fluttered idly from a
Cottonwood and fell in the snow.  There was no
Whisky-Jack in sight--nothing but the helpless,
shrivelled leaf scurrying away before the wind.

At intervals he barked a call, then listened.
How deadly silent the Forest was; his heart
thumping against his ribs sounded like the beat
of Partridge's wing-drums at the time of mating.

Strange fancies for an animal flitted through
his mind--something like a man's thoughts when
he drifts close to death.  Why had Wiesahkechack,
who was God of Man and Animals, arranged
it this way.  During all his life Black
King had killed only when hunger forced him
to it; but here was François, a Man, killing,
killing always---killing everything.  And for
what?  Not to eat; for the Breed had flour
in plenty, and meat that was already killed.  It
was not because of hunger; but simply to steal
their coats, that he or some other Man or
Woman might look fine in fur-clothes stolen
from the Boundary Dwellers--at the sacrifice
of their lives.

Again Black Fox heard a leaf sawing its
whispering way down through the willow wands: he
even did not turn his head.  But it was wings
this time; and a cheery, astonished voice sang
out: "Hello, Your Majesty, what are you doing
there with your hands in the snow--feeling for
a Mole's nest?"

"Praise to Wiesahkechack!" cried the King;
"is that you, Jay?  I'm trapped at last," he
continued, "and you must fly like the wind and get
some of our Comrades to help me out."

"There's a poor chance," said the Bird,
despondently; "as you know, none of us can spring
that big Trap but Muskwa, and we'll never get
him out now--he is dead to the world."

"What am I to do?" moaned the King--"we
must try something."

"Oh, we shall get you out of here.  I'll call
Beaver to cut the stake that holds the chain, and
you'll just have to carry the Trap home with
you.  Carcajou might be strong enough to press
down the spring, but his hands are so puffed up
from the squeeze they got, he can't do a thing
with them.  Don't fret; I will soon get them all
here, and we'll see what can be done."

In a wonderfully short time Jack had
summoned Beaver, Mooswa, Blue Wolf, and Lynx.
Mooswa's great heart was touched at the sight
of their Sovereign's misery.  "My services are
of little use here," he said.  "I will go back on
the trail, close to the Shack, and watch for
François."

"Sparrow Hawks!" exclaimed Jay; "I quite
forgot about that.  Our Friend was getting ready
to come out on his Marten Road when I left.
Somebody will feel the foul breath of his
Ironstick if we don't keep a sharp lookout."

"All the better if he brings it," answered
Mooswa; "for then he'll follow me, and I'll
lead him away so far that you'll have plenty of
time to get our King home."

"Noble Comrade!" smirked Lynx; "such
self-sacrifice!  But don't you know that the
Hunter will never give up your trail until you
are dead?  The snow is deep, the crust won't
hold against your beautiful, sharp hoofs, and the
Killer will run you down before the Sun sets twice."

"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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE RUN OF THE WOLVES`:

.. class:: center large

   THE RUN OF THE WOLVES

.. vspace:: 2

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"`:

.. figure:: images/img-174.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "HOLY MUDDER, DIS TIME SABE FRANÇOIS."

   "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."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CARCAJOU'S REVENGE`:

.. class:: center large

   CARCAJOU'S REVENGE

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`PISEW STEALS THE BOY'S FOOD`:

.. class:: center large

   PISEW STEALS THE BOY'S FOOD

.. vspace:: 2

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"`:

.. figure:: images/img-194.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "I GO FOR PULL OUT NOW, BOY."

   "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."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE PUNISHING OF PISEW`:

.. class:: center large

   THE PUNISHING OF PISEW

.. vspace:: 2

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."

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1

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`:

.. figure:: images/img-216.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "IT'S TERRIBLE!" MOOSWA BLURTED OUT.

   "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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CARING FOR THE BOY`:

.. class:: center large

   THE CARING FOR THE BOY

.. vspace:: 2

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!"`:

.. figure:: images/img-224.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "POOR OLD CHAP!"

   "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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`FRANÇOIS AT THE LANDING`:

.. class:: center large

   FRANÇOIS AT THE LANDING

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MOOSWA BRINGS HELP TO THE BOY`:

.. class:: center large

   MOOSWA BRINGS HELP TO THE BOY

.. vspace:: 2

Mile after mile Mooswa cut from the
head-trail with his easy-swinging rack, the
strong crust of frozen snow giving his great
limbs free play.

The open bed of the river held just such a run
as he liked: no tree branches to catch his huge
horns, no fallen tree giving cover to a stalking
Panther or strange Wolf Pack; and, as if to
make his trip perfect, he was running up a North
Wind.  He was like a telegraph operator sitting
at his clicking instrument with the wires telling
him everything.

"A brother Moose crossed here, just a hundred
yards ahead," the Wind whispered one time.
"Wh-f-f-f-! it was a Bull, too," the scent-wind
told his delicate nostrils.  "Ugh-wh-e-e-e-f-f-!
Sikak has crossed the trail here, and killed the
strongest scent left by any other--disgusting
little brute!"  This message Mooswa took from
the wind, and repeated to himself.  For a mile
his nostrils were simply stricken dumb by the
foul odour; his nose told him nothing of other
affairs.

Then for a matter of ten miles there was
but the sweet breath of Spruce as the wind
filtered through a long point covered with it.
"Line clear," the frosty air signalled, as Mooswa,
taking a straight course for the merging of dark
green and river-white, raced eagerly.

At the "Second Rapid," where the float-ice had
grounded on rock-boulders in the Autumn
closing-time, the river bosom humped like a corduroy
road.  "I must remember this spot on my coming
back," Mooswa muttered, as he picked his way
more slowly over the troubled ice-road.  "Here
I can make a big run if enemies are close," he
added as a stretch of many miles reached away,
level as a mill pond.

"Wolves! the Gray Hunters! the Murder
Brothers who go in packs!" he said, as his
quick-feeling nose picked their presence from the North
Wind.  "Not Rof's Pack," he continued, sampling
the scent a little finer--"Strangers!" and
he watched warily, cocking his ears forward for
a warning whimper.

"Huh! they're busy!" for as he flashed over
their cross-trail there arose the fainter odour of
Caribou.  "Safe journey, cousin," he muttered,
"and confusion to the Throat-cutters.  It's the
Meat-eating, the Blood-drinking," he philosophized,
"that breeds all the enmity in the
Boundaries.  There are Grasses, and Leaves, and
Flowers enough for all, and no encroachment, if
we'd only stick to it; but eating one's Comrades
is what makes the trouble."

Just before daylight Mooswa stopped, climbed
up a sloping bank warily, and ate a light
breakfast; then slipped back to the river-bed,
huddled up in the lee of a clay-cut, and after resting
for two hours pushed on again.  Another ten
miles and he stopped like a flash, holding his
head straight up wind, the coarse, strong-growing
hairs over his withers vibrating with intensity.
"Sniff! sniff!  Dogs!  Man!  Rof said
nothing of Dogs.  This makes it more
complicated.  It is the scent of White Men, and
the Dog-smell is not that of Huskies.  These
Whites sometimes bring the long-legged
creatures that follow us like Wolves."

He worked cautiously down the river till his
eyes caught sight of a blue smoke-feather
floating lazily upward.

Five or six short steps at a time, three or four
yards he moved,--then stopped and watched
with eyes, ears, nose, and all his full sensibility.
He knew the Man-trick of a flank movement--he
must get them out on the river behind him;
besides, there was now the stronger, more certain
odour of Dogs.

He was perhaps a matter of half a mile from
the little Shack above which twisted the spiral
curl of smoke, when a fierce, strong-throated
"Yap! yap!  Whe-e-e, yap!" cut the frosty air.

"I thought so," Mooswa muttered.  "I know
that breed--the fierce-fanged ones the Scotch
Factor had at Fort Resolution--from his own
Boundaries across the sea they came.  They are
like the Men themselves--on, on, rush and hold.
Deep-chested, small-gutted as Caribou; with
long legs that carry them over the snow like
those of my own family; gray-haired and
strong-jawed, like Blue Wolf: but weak in the
feet--small-footed, with hair between their toes which
balls up in the snow and makes them go lame."  Then
Mooswa considered the task he had undertaken.

"If the Man slips the Dogs, and the snow
keeps hard and dry, there will be more fighting
than running," he said to himself, "for these
brutes will come faster than I care to go.  But
there is a strong crust, strong enough to bear
me, and if the sun warms the snow so that it will
ball in the haired toes, then I'll have a chance in
the run.  The Man moves," he continued,
whiffing at the air.  "Two of them!" he muttered,
as their forms outlined against the morning sky;
"Rof brought tidings of but one.  Now for it!
I'm coming, Boy!"

He turned and walked slowly back on his
track, breaking into a shuffling trot farther on.

In a few minutes the two men, snow-shoe clad,
rifle in hand, and cartridge-belted, reappeared
circling through the woods on the bank.  With
one of them were four Scotch Stag-hounds in
leash.  Mooswa's eyes took in the situation as
he trotted, carrying his head a little to one side.
"The flank movement," he muttered, "and a
stolen shot at the next bend--they'll not slip
the Dogs while they have hope of a shot."

When the first river-bank point hid him from
their sight he raced.  "They're running now,"
he thought, for he was down wind from them,
and the telegraph was working.

When the two hunters reached the belly of
the next bend they saw a big Bull Moose quietly
browsing at the point beyond.  He was walking slowly,
snipping at the tree branches as he
moved.

"Keep the dogs back," one hunter said; "we
are sure to get a quiet shot at him, for he's on
the feed."

Point after point, bend succeeding bend,
Mooswa played this game; mile after mile they
toiled, the tantalizing expectation of a stolen shot
leading them an amazing distance on the Moose
trail.

"It's the Stag-hounds that keep him moving,"
remarked the man who had spoken before; "he's
down wind, and gets them in his big, fat nose--if
I could rustle a shot into his carcass, I'd slip
them quick enough; but if we let them go
now it will be a play of twenty or thirty miles
before we get another sight of him.  I'm not
struck on following a Bull Moose under full trot
with a pack of dogs behind him."

"We'll get a shot on the quiet soon,"
remarked his comrade.  "He is a bit on edge just
now, but will settle down after he has seen us a
few times."  They had given up travelling in the
bush, and were following straight on the
hoof-marks in the river-bed.

"Hello!" sang out one, pointing to a depression
in the snow, "he's been lying down resting
here--he's getting fagged.  Somebody else must
have been running him before we struck his
trail--he's nearly beat."

As they crossed the Wolf trail Mooswa had
found on his way down, the Trapper in the lead
said, significantly, "It's the Gray Hunters have
done the Bull up; they've been after him, and
he's dead beat."

The big Stag-hounds sniffed the Wolf trail,
dropped their long, bony tails in sullen fear,
raised their heads, and bayed a howling note
of defiance.

"Shut up, Bruce!" exclaimed one of the men,
pulling at the raw-hide leash, "you'll be better
up against a Moose than tackling that gang."

Now the mark in the snow had been made by
Mooswa just to draw the hunters on; he wasn't
tired, for the hard crust held him up, and he
could have kept that gait for two days.

They had travelled probably thirty miles when
the leader said, "Better slip the dogs, Mac, this
Moose is putting up a game on us; he's as
cunning as an old fox, and we'll lose him
to-night, I'm afraid."

When the straps were unbuckled the Scotch
hounds broke into a chorus of delight: "Yi, yi,
yi, yi! yap! yap! yi, yi!  Bah-h-h!  Bah-h-h!"
stretched their long limbs and raced on the Bull
Moose's trail.  That showed a strain of Collie
blood in their veins, for if they had been pure
bred they would have run silent, and by sight only.

"Pleasant greeting that," muttered Mooswa,
as his flanks lengthened out in a terrific pacing gait.

"We're coming--we're coming! yi, yi!"
sang the Stag-hounds, their heads low to the
snow; their lean flanks stretching out until they
seemed like something shot from a catapult.
But swift as they were, Mooswa was swifter.
They were running at high pressure, straining
every nerve, using every ounce of speed that was
in their wire-haired bodies; the Bull was running
with a little in hand--something in reserve.
"They will upset everything," he thought.
"Those blood thirsters will chase me on past
the Shack, and the Men may never see it."

At the Second Rapid, with its tortuous
ice-humps, the Bull lost a little ground--he had to
go slower.  The dogs, quicker of foot, and able
to turn sharper, gained on him.  Each time they
caught sight of their prey they gave a savage
yelp of eager exultation, and ran with heads
high--ran by the eye.

"Sing, gaunt Brothers!" said Mooswa; "on
the level you'll have to run with your bellies
closer to the trail to keep your advantage."

Well clear of the Rapid ice, the Bull again
swung his awkward-looking body forward with
increased pace.  Suddenly a hoof crashed through
the crust almost bringing him on his nose;
before he had gone a hundred yards this happened
again.  Fringed by giant Spruce, tall banks on
either side had stood as barrier between the fierce
biting frost-wind and snow crust; also the day's
hot sun was beginning to rot its brittle shell.
Oftener and oftener it broke under the racing
Moose; the lighter dogs ran freely over its
treacherous surface.  The Bull looked over his
shoulder at his pursuers; they were gaining--he
could see that.  "Six points more to the Shack,"
he muttered, as he rounded a low-reaching headland
that turned the river wide in its snake-like
course.  Animals count river distances as do the
Indians, so many land points from one place to
another; Mooswa's six points were a good ten miles.

Each time he floundered in the deep Snow his
swift-running enemies gained at least a dozen yards.

"I wish Blue Wolf were here," thought
Mooswa; "I'll never make the Shack.  I'll try
a Boundary Call."  He stretched his throat, and
called, "Wha-a-a--i-i-n-g," which is not unlike
the cry of a Rook.  The hounds answered with
an ironical yell; but another sound struck the
runner's ear, very faint, and very far ahead; it
was the Help-call of The Boundaries--Blue
Wolf's voice.

"Good old Rof!" cried the Moose, as he shot
forward with revived strength.

The hounds were now running by sight, head
up all the time.  Every few minutes Mooswa
repeated his signal--each time it was answered
ahead, stronger and closer; and behind him the
eager yap! of the pursuers was drawing nearer.
"There'll be more fighting than running
presently," he thought; "it's just as well--if Rof
has the Pack, it won't take long to settle these
hungry Hunters."

Rounding the next bend a clear stretch of two
miles lay straight away, and at the farther end of
it his trained eye discovered three moving specks.
Behind him, not thirty yards back, raced the dogs.

"It will be a battle," he muttered; "four
against four--four of the Boundaries in the
Starvation Year, against four Fish-fed Dwellers
in Man's camp."

Another mile and the foremost dog was snapping
at the Bull's hocks, just falling short each
jump; but Blue Wolf and his comrades were
only a stone's-throw off.

As Mooswa and his pursuers neared the great,
gaunt, blue-coated Wolf, the latter crouched--chest,
and neck, and jaw flat on the snow; behind,
well spread in rigid leverage, were the strong,
gnarled legs.  A length off two younger wolves
waited ready for battle, flat-lying as their leader.
Mooswa understood.  As he slashed by Blue
Wolf, almost touching him, the close-following
Stag-hound sprang for his quarters, all but
dragging him to earth; but the fangs failed to
hold, tearing a gash down Moose's thigh, and as
the Dog fell sideways a pair of jaws, strong as a
bear-trap, closed on his lean throat.

"Hold fast, Brother!" wheezed Mooswa,
swinging around in his own length, and making a
vicious sword-cut at the hound's back with his
iron hoof.  A second dog sprang at the Bull's
throat, only to strike the big antlers quickly
lowered to guard it.

Rof's two sons had closed with the other
hounds, and a battle to the death raged.  There
was not much noise, only a snarling sucking from
where Blue Wolf's fangs were fastened in the
throat of the hound he had pinned down.

Once Mooswa got a clean slash at his fighting
dog with a fore-foot that laid the brute's shoulder
open; once the dog fastened in Mooswa's throat
as the treacherous crust gave way and threw him
off his guard.  It seemed anybody's battle.  Blue
Wolf knew better than to let go the first hold he
had taken.  It was said in the Boundaries that
long ago, two or three generations back, a
Bull-dog had mated with one of his ancestors, and the
strong strain had more than held its own--the
way of the Bull-dog, which is to catch and hold,
against the way of the Wolf, which is to cut and
jump, cut and jump.  Certain it is that Rof fought
as no other Wolf ever did--except his two Sons,
holding and sucking, and working his jaws
saw-like, as an Otter-hound does, more and more into
the grip.  But the Stag-hound had a well-fed
strength which stood him in good stead.  Over
and over the two rolled; the hound's jaws
fastened on one of Blue Wolf's fore-legs, close to the
paw.  The bone had been broken long ago--chewed
into splinters, and the pain was terrific;
but if Blue Wolf had the tenacity of the
Bull-dog strain, he also had the wild wisdom of the
Wolf brain, and he knew that to let go meant
death.

Once something swept the hound sideways
with terrific force from over the top of Rof,
almost breaking the dog's back; that was a little
side help from the shovel-horns of Bull Moose.
Up to that time it had been all hoarse growls
from the strong-fighting animals, for the
advantage had lain not much on either side.  Suddenly
a "Wh-u-f-f! ki-yi-yi-yi--wh-e-e-e, yi-i-i," dying
into a piercing treble, went up.  Mooswa was
grinding his dog into the snow-crust with his
hundred-pound antlers.  A lucky pass with a
fore-foot had brought the hound down, and before
he could recover, Mooswa had thrown the weight
of his fighting charge upon him, and was cutting
his steel-gray body into fragments.

There was still hot work to be done, for one of
the young Wolves had been overcome, stretched
out with a broken neck, and the released dog
was helping his comrade pull down the other.
They were both at him when Mooswa charged.
Once, twice, three times, as a trip-hammer hits
hot iron, the heart-shaped hoofs, knife-like on
the edges, smote the dogs, for they were taken
unawares; then, as before, his horns made the
work complete.

As Mooswa straightened himself a little staggeringly,
for his throat was badly torn, there were
only two left fighting; all the rest were
dead--the two sons of Blue Wolf, and the three
Stag-hounds.

"Thanks, Brother," said Blue Wolf, rising
on weak legs, as a deft, dragging blow from
Moose's right arm laid open the hound's stomach,
and finished the work Rof's fast-tiring strength
was hardly equal to.  "Very neatly done--I
could almost fancy it was a rip from Muskwa's
paw.  My two Lads are done for," he whined
piteously, looking at the gaunt, gray bodies
stretched out on the white snow, all splashed
crimson with red wine from their veins.  "Wolf-blood
and Dog-blood--it scents much alike,"
he said, turning his head away, as he sat on his
haunches holding up a broken leg.  Drip, drip-drip,
drip, little red drops ate their hot way into
the snow from Bull-Moose's neck.

"That is a nasty slash, Mooswa," sympathized
Blue Wolf, looking at his companion's wound.

"We twig-feeders have strong gullets,"
answered the Bull, "else it had been worse.
There's nothing torn, for I still breathe through
my nose; but for many a day you'll hunt on
three legs because of me, Comrade."

"I suppose so," moaned Blue Wolf, regretfully,
licking nervously at his crushed paw.  "I'll
mate well with Black King.  But it is all in the
life of the Pack, and not your fault; no one
takes blame to himself who calls when his life is
at bay.  Where go you, Brother--how far back
are the Hunters?"

Mooswa straightened his head sharp into the
wind--it still held steady from the North.
"Their scent comes from the second point, and
we must trail again; the Firestick is not like a
Dog--it bites beyond reach.  Get in my horns,
Rof, and I'll carry you."

"No," said Blue Wolf, decidedly; "each takes
his own hurt to his Burrow--that is the way of
the Pack; each to himself in the fight--one
down is all on top.  Besides, Comrade, your long
legs are knocking together in weariness; the
snow drinks much of your red blood."

"Come," called Mooswa, "the Man-scent
turns the first point."

Blue Wolf, whining piteously, was rubbing his
red-stained jowl up the neck of one of his dead
Sons.  He turned, balanced himself unsteadily,
and tried to kick snow over their dead bodies.
Bull-Moose, seeing this, lowered his head, gave
three or four mighty scrapes with his wide horns,
and piled great white mounds over Blue Wolf's
dead children.

"Come away now," he commanded again;
"the Hunt-men sight us--they are racing."

"They'll have a fair trail to follow for a
little," answered Wolf; "then it will be dark,
and we'll lose them.  I go to the Pack for
safety; had I known of the Dogs and this other
Man I should have brought more than two Cub-wolves."

"I go to the Shack," said Mooswa, shortening
his steps to keep pace with Wolf.

"To be killed by the Hunt-men?"

"I don't know; I go to The Boy."

As they climbed the bank, "Bang! pin-g-g-g!"
sang a leaden messenger, fairly whistling through
the crotches of Mooswa's horns.

"The Firestick!" he grunted; "sight of his
dead Train-dogs has angered the Hunt-man.
Slip off to your Pack now," he continued, as they
trailed through the little clearing surrounding the
Shack.  "Get Umisk to fix up your foot as he
did Black King's."

"And you?" queried Blue Wolf.

"I stop here!" the other answered, swaying as
he stood in his tracks for a second.

"Come with me," pleaded Rof; "my Pack
shall turn back the Hunters."

"Here they come--off to the Woods!"
Mooswa answered, going himself to the Shack
door and rattling his horns against the boards.
The noise wakened Whisky-Jack, who had curled
up for his night's sleep under the eave.

"Thieves!--Hello, Mooswa!" he piped,
craning his neck around the corner, and seeing
the big horned head.

Inside a faint querulous voice asked impatiently,
"Is that you, François, or is it the
angels with wood?  If it is, throw it down the
chimney, please--I'm too sick to get up."

Mooswa "whuffed," blowing the wind through
his blood-coated nostrils with a sound The Boy
knew, and scraped his horn up and down the
door again.  There was a muffled, slipping noise
of some one crawling to the door.  The bar
dropped, Mooswa pushed it gently open,
staggered in, and plumped down exhausted on the
floor.

Carcajou had heaped the fire-place well with
wood for the night--dry Tamarack to make it
blaze, and green Poplar to make it last; the
bright light shone on Mooswa's blood-matted
body and revealed to Roderick his terrible
condition.

"Mooswa, Mooswa!" he cried, dragging
himself close and putting his arm around the big
nose, "who has done this?  You are wounded."  Just
then two men, with the blood-thirst of the
chase hot in their hearts, glided to the door on
snow-shoes.  One had thrust forward a rifle, but
his companion knocked it up with his arm.
"What would you shoot?" he asked.

"I don't know," answered the other, his
Winchester almost falling from shaking fingers,
as he caught sight of a small boy-figure huddled
against the animal's head.  "Is it a banshee,
Donald?" he continued, in a frightened, husky
whisper.

"Is that you, François?" cried Rod, sitting up
in his eagerness, as the voices came to him from
the outer dusk.

"Great Powers!" exclaimed the man Donald,
stepping through the door, "that's Factor
McGregor's kid, Rod.  I heard he was down
here somewhere trapping with that Breed, François.
What's the matter, Laddie?" the thick
Scotch voice burred.

"Well, I'm hanged if I ever outspanned
anything like this," said the other man; "it's like
that thing we used to read, 'Babes in the Woods.'"

"Where's your mate--François?" asked
Donald again.  "And what's the matter with
you--scurvy?"

"François," answered the Boy hesitatingly, for
days of wound-fever had clouded his young
brain,--"François? oh, yes, I remember--he went to
The Landing long ago."

"And left a kid like that here alone!" cried
Donald's companion.

"What's the matter with your leg--scurvy?"
asked the leader again.

"My leg? yes, it's sore--awfully sore.
Sometimes I dream that it's another person,
and I talk to it."

"What's the matter with it?" the man reiterated
huskily, pulling the roll of a fur cap down
over his eyes to hide something, for the little,
pale, pinched face, backed by a mass of yellow
knotted hair, made him feel queer.

"My leg? oh, yes--yes, there was so much
snow, and I slipped, and the axe cut it."

"Better get in the blankets, Laddie;" and
standing his rifle against the wall Donald reached
down with his strong arms to lift up Roderick.

The little fellow shrank away, and clasped the
Moose's head closer.  Mooswa's big ears were
flipping back and forth nervously; he knew that
something was being settled, and lay still, waiting.

"Come, Laddie," said the big man again, coaxingly,
"don't be afraid; don't you remember me?--I
worked for your daddy, old Factor McGregor,
at Fort Resolution--Donald Bain is
my name."

The small pinched face looked up at him.
"I'm not afraid, but you'll hurt Mooswa;
you've shot him now--see the blood.  He's
been taking care of me."

Donald Bain straightened himself up and
looked at his comrade.  His companion
understood, and nodded encouragingly.

"No, Laddie, I'll give you the word of a
Scotchman that we'll not harm him.  God's
truth! in the old land if one's enemy came hard
pressed to the house for shelter it would be a
blackguard that would injure him, or give him
away.  Get in the blankets, now, Laddie, and
we'll take care of both you and the Moose."

The presence of friends, and a cup of hot tea
which they brewed him, soothed The Boy, and he
became quite rational.

"This is the queerest thing I ever saw in
my life," said Donald Bain.  "I've heard of a
hunted fox, close run, taking refuge in a house,
but this Moose staggering into the Shack is very
extraordinary.  Who kept the fire going and fed
you, McGregor?" he asked.

"Oh, I prayed every night, and in the day too,
and the Angels came and dropped wood down
the chimney, and fish, and bacon."

Donald's companion tapped his forehead significantly,
and, turning his face away, stalked over
to the fire and poked it vigorously.

"Mooswa came every day," added The Boy.
"He's the Moose Father used to have at the
Fort--I didn't know him at first, and was
afraid."

"Oh, ho-o-o!" exclaimed the big man,
ending with a distinct whistle.  "I remember him.
He took to the bush when he was a two-year-old.
That accounts for his coming to the Shack--he
couldn't quite shake off the civilization he got.
Here, Dave," he continued, addressing the
other man, "get a pail of water, and give the
wounded beast a drink."

"He's killed four of the best hounds ever
came to the North-west," Dave remonstrated,
looking at Mooswa.

"So would you, man, if you could, when they
tried to pull you down.  It was a fair fight, and
not of his seeking either."

The Boy also pleaded for Mooswa.

"Now, we've got to get young McGregor to
The Landing just as quick as we can," declared
Donald Bain, as he examined The Boy's limb.
"Look at the size of it--it'll be a case of
blood-poisoning, I'm afeerd."

"How will you manage it?" queried Dave,
sullenly.  "This brute has killed our dogs--will
you carry him on your shoulders?"

"That's so," mused Donald, taking off his
cap, and scratching the thick grizzled hair; "I
suppose we'll have to rig up a carryall, and pull
him ourselves."

"You want to go to The Landing?" asked Roderick.

"We don't want to--" commenced Donald,
but checked himself, and added, "yes, me and
Dave must go up for more dogs, and some
baccy," fabricating with chivalrous ingenuity, to
reassure the sick boy.  "We was thinking you'd
better go along too; there's no dog-train, but me
and Dave could track you up on a small jumper--does
there happen to be one about?"

"I think Mooswa would drag the sleigh--he
used to at the Fort," suggested Rod.

"By the Great Wallace!" exclaimed Bain,
slapping his thigh, "that he will--if he's not
grown too wild.  Hitched to a sled, he could
run clean away from a dog-train, in the old days."

"He's been harnessed right enough, some time
or another," declared Dave.  "Here are two
white-haired spots on his back--that means
saddle-galls.  Gracious! he's as quiet as an old
horse."

They put in a busy evening, the two men,
bathing The Boy's leg, and with a sailor's needle
they found in his outfit sealing up the torn
wounds in Mooswa's neck.  He never moved,
just looked on stolidly.  He knew they meant
him no harm.  Any animal can tell from the
touch of a man's finger, or the look in his eye,
whether it's war or kindness.

Whisky-Jack had been intensely interested in
all this--the clatter and noise kept even his
bird eyes open.  "Wonderful doings!" he
exclaimed; "the Boundaries are being turned into a
regular Sun-dance--but I'm glad I saw it all.
The Boy will be all right now--*Good old
Mooswa!*"  He flopped about drunkenly outside,
for his eyes were not quite like Owl's, and
the different lights bothered him.

Then he fired a word of encouragement at
Mooswa.  "Stick to The Boy, old Dainty-head-gear;
you're Big Buck of the Boundaries--I'll
tell Black King and all the fellows
so.  Stupid light this--fancy they'll get on
without me now," and scrambling up to the
eave he stuck his head under wing and went
fast asleep.

In the morning a carryall was made, a rude
harness constructed from shaganappi, Trap-chains,
and straps, and before noon they were on their
way to The Landing; Mooswa submitting to be
hitched up with patient gentleness.

Whisky-Jack grinned when he saw the Moose
decked out in these trappings.  "Now you're
a dandy, my fine fellow," he said, patronizingly.
"We'll never see you again.  Remember me to
François when you see him, and tell him not to
hurry back--Good-bye, good old Mooswa."

"I guess our Shack and things will be all right
till we get back," said Donald.  "At any rate,
Factor McGregor's kid has first call, I reckon.
I'd like to put a bullet through that Breed,
though."

"What if the Moose bolts?" asked Dave.
"Here's a tracking-line they used on their
canoe,--suppose we take a hitch on his horns
or his nose with it; we could stop him if he tried
to get away."

"Yes," answered Donald, "and if we can't, if
the worst comes to the worst, we can drop him
with a bullet before any harm's done."

But they need not have bothered their heads
about the line, for Mooswa knew just what was
being done; he was taking his Boy to the land
of good care.  Like an old cart-horse, he plodded
along.  The snow was frost-hardened again, and
the going was good.

In three days they arrived at The Landing.
François was just ready to start with a new
outfit the Factor had given him debt for.  Then for
days he had to hide from Donald Bain, for there
was sheer murder in the big Scotchman's heart.

.. _`IN THREE DAYS THEY ARRIVED AT THE LANDING`:

.. figure:: images/img-260.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: IN THREE DAYS THEY ARRIVED AT THE LANDING

   IN THREE DAYS THEY ARRIVED AT THE LANDING

The day after their arrival Mooswa disappeared.
When he got back to his comrades he found
that Whisky-Jack had told them everything,
and next to Black King he was the greatest
hero in the Boundaries.

The Factor sent Roderick in to Edmonton
with his own team, and nursing soon put him right.

When he told about the angels feeding him,
and keeping his fire going, the people listened a
little awe-stricken, for they saw that he believed
it firmly.  Also the two Hunters asserted that the
fire was burning brightly when they came.
Perhaps after all it was the angels.

.. vspace:: 4

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center medium

   By John B. Grant

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large white-space-pre-line

   OUR COMMON BIRDS
   AND HOW TO KNOW THEM

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent

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

.. vspace:: 1

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

.. vspace:: 1

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

.. vspace:: 1

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

.. vspace:: 1

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

.. vspace:: 1

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

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium

   By Ernest Seton-Thompson

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center large

   WILD ANIMALS I HAVE KNOWN

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent

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

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium

   CRITICAL NOTICES

.. vspace:: 1

"It should be put with Kipling and Hans Christian Andersen
as a classic."--*The Athenaeum*.

.. vspace:: 1

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

.. vspace:: 1

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

.. vspace:: 1

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

.. vspace:: 1

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

.. vspace:: 1

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

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   By Ernest Seton-Thompson

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   THE TRAIL OF THE
   SANDHILL STAG

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

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   CRITICAL NOTICES

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

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

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

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"Nothing more beautiful in a dainty way
has been brought out in Canada."--*Toronto World*.

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

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

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"Is a truly poetic bit of impressionistic
prose."--*Chicago Tribune*.

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   By Frances Theodora Parsons (Mrs. Dana)

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   HOW TO KNOW THE FERNS

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

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

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

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

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

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   ACCORDING TO SEASON

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

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

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   A SELECTION OF FIFTY PLATES

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

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   Books for Lovers of Nature

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   On Flowers, Animals and Birds

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   CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, Publishers

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   HOW TO KNOW THE WILD FLOWERS

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   By MRS. WILLIAM STARR DANA

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

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


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

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

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

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   By H. E. Parkhurst

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   HOW TO NAME THE BIRDS

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   Illustrated.  16mo, leather, $1.00 net.

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

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

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"The advantage of H. E. Parkhurst's
'How to Name the Birds' is not
merely in its concise and careful descriptive matter,
but in its form.  It is the
only book of the sort that one can put into
the pocket of an ordinary coat and
carry into the woods and fields when he is away
on his country rambles."--*Brooklyn Eagle*.

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   SONG BIRDS AND WATER FOWL

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   Illustrated.  12mo, $1.50 net.

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"This most entertainingly as well as carefully
written volume has for one
of its best values the attention it gives
to that most untrampled, and yet
peculiarly alluring domain of bird lore--the
stream and the lake, the sea-beach
and the wave.  With this book Mr. Parkhurst
must receive full confirmation
as one of the most companionable and beguiling
writers on birds."--*G. W. Cable*.

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"It will be welcome to the many friends
his former book made.  The
illustrations are the finest that have
ever been printed in this country in black
and white, with exception of another series
by the same artist."--*The Nation*.

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   THE BIRDS' CALENDAR

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   Illustrated.  12mo, $1.50 net.

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"A charming book.  It contains a year's
individual experience of study
and observation, the birds for each month
being enumerated and described,
with comments on their characteristics and habits,
and with very useful and
beautifully printed illustrations."--*The Outlook*.

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   CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, Publishers
   153-157 Fifth Avenue, New York

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   By Harriet L. Keeler

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   OUR NATIVE TREES

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   AND HOW TO IDENTIFY THEM

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With 178 full-page plates from photographs, and 162
text-drawings.  Crown 8vo, $2.00 net.

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CONTENTS: GENERA AND SPECIES; ILLUSTRATIONS; GUIDE TO THE
TREES; DESCRIPTIONS OF THE TREES; FORM AND STRUCTURE OF ROOTS,
STEMS, LEAVES, FLOWERS AND FRUITS; THE TREE-STEM OR TRUNK; SPECIES
AND GENUS; GLOSSARY OF BOTANICAL TERMS; INDEX OF LATIN NAMES;
INDEX OF COMMON NAMES.

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   CRITICAL OPINIONS

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C. S. SARGENT, *Professor of Arboriculture in Harvard University*:
"Of such popular books the latest
and by far the most interesting is by
Miss Harriet L. Keeler....  Miss Keeler's descriptions are clear,
compact, and well arranged,
and the technical matter is supplemented by much
interesting and reliable information
concerning the economical uses, the
history and the origin of the trees which she describes.
Outline drawings of
the flowers and of the fruits of many of the species,
and beautifully reproduced full-page photographic plates
of the leaves or of branches of the principal
trees, facilitate their determination."

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"The value of a book of this character is not only enhanced by its
numerous illustrations,
but positively dependent upon them; those in the
present volume being of unusual interest;
and the book ... is one
which should add new interest to the
coming Summer for many to whom
nature is practically a sealed book,
as well as heighten the pleasure of others
to whom she has long been dear."--*N. Y. Times Saturday Review*.

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"The plan of the book must be heartily commended.
No admirer of trees
should be without it, and if you go away
into the country for even a short
stay, and care to know--as you should
care--anything about our native trees
you will find this volume an invaluable guide.
One could bring home from a
walk a collection of leaves and then,
with the aid of the illustrations in this
book, identify them all.
Then you will know those trees the next time you
encounter them, and they will take
on a new interest and meaning to your
eyes."--*Brooklyn Eagle*.

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"The book is altogether an admirable
specimen of book-making, alike to
eye and touch.  The illustrations,
over 300 in number, include almost every
tree mentioned, and are rarely beautiful.
Especially satisfactory are the
plates of the varying foliage and
cones of the conifers."--*N. Y. Commercial Advertiser*.

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