"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.
THE RUN OF THE WOLVES
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.