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.
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.