Now the mark in the snow had been made by Mooswa just to draw the hunters on; he wasn't tired, for the hard crust held him up, and he could have kept that gait for two days.
They had travelled probably thirty miles when the leader said, "Better slip the dogs, Mac, this Moose is putting up a game on us; he's as cunning as an old fox, and we'll lose him to-night, I'm afraid."
When the straps were unbuckled the Scotch hounds broke into a chorus of delight: "Yi, yi, yi, yi! yap! yap! yi, yi! Bah-h-h! Bah-h-h!" stretched their long limbs and raced on the Bull Moose's trail. That showed a strain of Collie blood in their veins, for if they had been pure bred they would have run silent, and by sight only.
"Pleasant greeting that," muttered Mooswa, as his flanks lengthened out in a terrific pacing gait.
"We're coming--we're coming! yi, yi!" sang the Stag-hounds, their heads low to the snow; their lean flanks stretching out until they seemed like something shot from a catapult. But swift as they were, Mooswa was swifter. They were running at high pressure, straining every nerve, using every ounce of speed that was in their wire-haired bodies; the Bull was running with a little in hand--something in reserve. "They will upset everything," he thought. "Those blood thirsters will chase me on past the Shack, and the Men may never see it."
At the Second Rapid, with its tortuous ice-humps, the Bull lost a little ground--he had to go slower. The dogs, quicker of foot, and able to turn sharper, gained on him. Each time they caught sight of their prey they gave a savage yelp of eager exultation, and ran with heads high--ran by the eye.
"Sing, gaunt Brothers!" said Mooswa; "on the level you'll have to run with your bellies closer to the trail to keep your advantage."
Well clear of the Rapid ice, the Bull again swung his awkward-looking body forward with increased pace. Suddenly a hoof crashed through the crust almost bringing him on his nose; before he had gone a hundred yards this happened again. Fringed by giant Spruce, tall banks on either side had stood as barrier between the fierce biting frost-wind and snow crust; also the day's hot sun was beginning to rot its brittle shell. Oftener and oftener it broke under the racing Moose; the lighter dogs ran freely over its treacherous surface. The Bull looked over his shoulder at his pursuers; they were gaining--he could see that. "Six points more to the Shack," he muttered, as he rounded a low-reaching headland that turned the river wide in its snake-like course. Animals count river distances as do the Indians, so many land points from one place to another; Mooswa's six points were a good ten miles.
Each time he floundered in the deep Snow his swift-running enemies gained at least a dozen yards.
"I wish Blue Wolf were here," thought Mooswa; "I'll never make the Shack. I'll try a Boundary Call." He stretched his throat, and called, "Wha-a-a--i-i-n-g," which is not unlike the cry of a Rook. The hounds answered with an ironical yell; but another sound struck the runner's ear, very faint, and very far ahead; it was the Help-call of The Boundaries--Blue Wolf's voice.