"Oh, never mind," interrupted Black Fox. "Get away home, everybody."

"I'll hear some choice French to-night," declared Jack. "When Francois 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."

THE COMING OF THE TRAIN DOGS

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 Francois had acquired a train of four dogs from Nichemous, who was pa.s.sing 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 Francois'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 a.s.sured him. "You destroyed the only Ironstick they had."

"That was an old Trade Musket," retorted Wolverine. "Francois 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. Francois 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--sc.r.a.ped the snow away from a moss patch in the Jack-Pines, and rubbed his s.h.a.ggy fur till it became quite presentable.

The big fight that Jack antic.i.p.ated 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 grat.i.tude toward The Boy.

Within the Boundaries the food fever was strong on the Animals, and Francois'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 Francois 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."

THE TRAPPING OF BLACK FOX

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 Francois 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 sc.r.a.per. "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 Francois pulled the snow from under the gentle crust with his sc.r.a.per for a s.p.a.ce of six or eight feet, leaving a miniature cave under the frozen sh.e.l.l. 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 Francois, 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; c.o.c.ked his sharp eyes and sharper nose toward all points of the compa.s.s.

The Forest was like a graveyard--as silent; no hidden enemy lurked near with ready Firestick--his nose a.s.sured 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 Francois 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. Francois 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 appet.i.te. 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 n.o.body 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 Francois 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 Francois'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 Francois'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 Francois 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 G.o.d 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 Francois, 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: "h.e.l.lo, 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 Francois."

"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."