"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, Francois?" 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, Francois. 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--Francois?" asked Donald again. "And what's the matter with you--scurvy?"

"Francois," answered the Boy hesitatingly, for days of wound-fever had clouded his young brain,--"Francois? 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 ma.s.s 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. G.o.d'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 rea.s.sure 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 s.h.a.ganappi, 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 Francois 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. Francois 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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.