Wily as the Breed was, sometimes a twig would crack, sometimes the snow-crust crunch as he stepped over the white mound of a buried log. He had never seen a Moose act as this one did. Usually they raced at full speed for miles at first, tiring themselves out in the deep snow; while behind, never halting, never hesitating, followed the grim Hunter, skimming easily over the surface with his light-travelling snow-shoes--and the certainty that in the end he would overtake his victim. But this chase was on altogether new lines; something the Half-breed had never experienced. Mooswa kept just beyond range of his gun. A dozen times inside of the first hour François caught sight of the magnificent antlers. Once, exasperated by the tantalizing view of the giant Bull, he took a long-range chance-shot. That was the report Black King had heard.
When François came to the spot in which Mooswa had been standing, he examined the snow--there was no blood. "By Goss!" he muttered, "I t'ink some one put bad Medicine on me. P'raps dat Moose, he Debil Moose."
Hour after hour the hunter followed the Bull's trail; hour after hour Mooswa trotted, and walked, and rested, and doubled, and circled, just as it suited the game he was playing. François, like all Indians or Breeds, had no love for a long shot--ammunition was too precious to be wasted. He could wear the Moose down in two days, surely; then at twenty or thirty yards his gun would do the rest.
In the afternoon he tightened the loin-belt one hole--his stomach was getting empty; but that did not matter--he could travel better. If the fast lasted for three days it was of no moment; for when the Moose was slain and brought to the Shack by dog-train, the pot would boil night and day, and he would feast as long as he had fasted. The thought of the fat, butter-like nose of this misshapen Animal brought moisture to the parched lips of the long-striding Half-breed--that delicacy would soon be his. He travelled faster at the thought of it; also he must push his quarry to tire him, so the Moose would lie down and rest all night.
The dusk was beginning to settle down as Mooswa struck straight for Pelican Portage, though it was only four o'clock in the afternoon. Would Blue Wolf be there to turn back the pursuer? If by any chance his comrade missed, what a weary struggle he would have next day with the blood-thirsty Breed ever on his trail. As Mooswa neared the Portage, a low, whimpering note caught his ear. Then another answered close by; and another, and another joined in, until the woods rang with a fierce chorus--it was the Wolf-pack's Call of the Killing:--
"Wh-i-m-m-p! Wh-i-i-m-m-p! buh-h! bu-h-h! buh-h-h! O-o-o-o-h-h! O-o-o-o-h-h! Bl-o-o-d! Bl-o-o-d!! Bl-o-o-o-o-d!!!" That was the Wolf-cry, sounding like silvery music in the ears of the tired Moose.
"Hungry, every one of them!" he muttered. "If François stumbles, or sleeps, or forgets the Man-look for a minute, Rof's Pack will slay him." Then he coughed asthmatically, and Blue Wolf bounded into the open, shaking his shaggy coat.
"Safe passage, Brothers, for Mooswa," he growled, with authority; "also no killing for the Hunt-man, for the hunt is of our doing."
François heard the Wolf-call too, and a chill struck his heart. Night was coming on, he was alone in the woods, and in front of him a Pack of hungry Wolves. Turning, he glided swiftly over the back-trail.
"The Kill-Call, Brothers," cried Rof, his sharp eyes seeing this movement of the fleeing Breed. Once again the death-bells of the forest, the Blood Song of Blue Wolf, rang out: "W-a-h-h-h! W-a-h-h-h! Gur-h-h-h! Yap! yap!! yap!!!" which is the snarl-fastening of teeth in flesh, the gurring choke of blood in the throat, and the satisfied note of victory.