All night François toiled, never letting the rifle from his grasp. With one hand and his strong moccasined feet he crushed the dry, brittle Red Willows, and threw them on his life-guarding fire. No sleeping; a short-paced beat round and round the safety-light, and almost incessantly on his trembling lips a crude, pleading prayer: "Holy Mudder, dis time sabe François. I give de offerin' plenty--also what de good Pries' say, I hear me."
"HOLY MUDDER, DIS TIME SABE FRANÇOIS."
"Look at his face, Brothers," growled Blue Wolf. "Now thou hast seen the Man-fear. Is it not more terrible than the Death-look in the eyes of Buck? It is not well to kill Man, is it, Comrades?"
"No!" they admitted surlily--for they were hungry.
"Come," said Rof, when the bitter cold dawn hour--colder than any of the others--warned them that the light was on its way, "trot we back on Mooswa's trail, and if the Man continues to his Burrow, then go we our path."
When the light had grown stronger François peered about carefully.
"Blessed Virgin! Mos' Holy ob Mudders! I t'ink me dat prayer you hear; dat wolves is gone soor. To de good Père Lacombe I give me big presen' for de Mission. I keep me dat promise soor," crossing himself fervently, in confirmation.
Blue Wolf was saying to the Pack as he trotted along at their head: "Only for the promise to Mooswa the Hunt-man would have made a good meal for us, Brothers."
"What are promises in the Hunger Year--the Seventh Year of the Wapoos?" cried a gaunt companion, stopping. "Let us go back, and--"