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

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

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

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

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

As if in answer to his m.u.f.fled 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."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "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 carca.s.s?" 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 pa.s.s 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 Francois, 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. "Francois 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," a.s.serted 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 Francois, 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," a.s.sented Blue Wolf. "All this trouble because of that carrion!" and he threw snow over the dead body of Lynx disdainfully with his powerful hind-feet.

THE CARING FOR THE BOY

Whatever Rod's intentions might have been about following on after Francois, 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-c.h.i.n.ked, 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 Francois 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 G.o.d!" 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 Francois, 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 Francois."

"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 Francois 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, Francois?" 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."