"IT'S TERRIBLE!" MOOSWA BLURTED OUT.
"Yes, he's dead," declared Carcajou, putting his short-eared head down to Pisew's side, for well he knew the old Forest trick of shamming death to escape its reality.
"What of the carcass?" asked Mooswa; "shall I carry it far in the bowl of my horns? One of our Comrades, though he die the just death as declared by Law should not fall into the hands of the Hunt-men."
"Leave him," muttered Blue Wolf; "the Pack pass this trail to-night."
"How fares The Boy, Swift-flyer?" Mooswa asked of the Jay.
"Badly, great Bull, badly. One time he takes the two Fish this dead thief left,--unwillingly enough no doubt,--in his hand, and looks at them pitiably; takes the white Dry-eating--Flour, Men call it,--and decides of its weight: then with the little stick which makes a black mark he lines cross-trails on a board, and mutters about so many pounds of Eating for so many days, and always ends by saying: 'It can't be done--I shall starve.' Then he comes to the door and looks over the river trail which way went François, as though he too would pull out for The Landing."
"That he must not attempt," cried Mooswa, decidedly. "Turn your noses, Brothers, to the wind which comes from the big West-hills--moisten them first, so!" and a bluish-gray tongue damped the cushion bulk of his nostrils. All the Council pointed their heads up wind, and it smote raw in their questioning faces.
"Gh-u-r-r!" growled Blue Wolf, "I know; when comes this wind-wrath of the Mountains, Mooswa?"
"To-night, or to-morrow," answered the Bull.