That night the storm still raged, and his wound brought a delirium pain which made his fancies even more realistic. Whisky-Jack heard him moaning and talking to strange people.
Next morning a cold sun came up on a still, tired atmosphere. The fierce blizzard had sucked all life out of the air: the Spruces' long arms, worn out with swaying and battling, hung asleep in the dead calm: a whisper might have been heard a mile away.
At the first glint of light Jack spread his wings, and, travelling fast to the home of Black Fox, told of Rod's helpless condition. "Before it was the hunger-death that threatened; now the frost-sleep will come surely, for he cannot walk, only crawl on his hands and knees like a Bear-Cub," said Jay Bird, with a world of pity in his voice.
"Call Mooswa and Carcajou," cried the Red Widow, "The Boy is in their keeping."
When Wolverine had come he said: "There is still a piece of Fat-eating cached, if I can find it under this mountain of white-fur that covers the breast of The Boundaries."
"That is well, good Comrade," declared Black King; "but how shall we get it to the hands of our Man-Cub?"
"Place it in the bowl of my horns," said Mooswa, "and I will lay it at his door."
"Yet the Fat-eating may be on one side of the wooden gate, and The Boy starve on the other," remarked Whisky-Jack, thoughtfully.
"I will knock with my horns, and The Boy will open the gate thinking it is François."
"Even with a full stomach he may perish from the frost-death," continued Jack; "for now he cannot cut wood for his chimney--though the fire still lives, for I saw its blue breath above the roof as I came away."