The small pinched face looked up at him. "I'm not afraid, but you'll hurt Mooswa; you've shot him now--see the blood. He's been taking care of me."
Donald Bain straightened himself up and looked at his comrade. His companion understood, and nodded encouragingly.
"No, Laddie, I'll give you the word of a Scotchman that we'll not harm him. God's truth! in the old land if one's enemy came hard pressed to the house for shelter it would be a blackguard that would injure him, or give him away. Get in the blankets, now, Laddie, and we'll take care of both you and the Moose."
The presence of friends, and a cup of hot tea which they brewed him, soothed The Boy, and he became quite rational.
"This is the queerest thing I ever saw in my life," said Donald Bain. "I've heard of a hunted fox, close run, taking refuge in a house, but this Moose staggering into the Shack is very extraordinary. Who kept the fire going and fed you, McGregor?" he asked.
"Oh, I prayed every night, and in the day too, and the Angels came and dropped wood down the chimney, and fish, and bacon."
Donald's companion tapped his forehead significantly, and, turning his face away, stalked over to the fire and poked it vigorously.
"Mooswa came every day," added The Boy. "He's the Moose Father used to have at the Fort--I didn't know him at first, and was afraid."
"Oh, ho-o-o!" exclaimed the big man, ending with a distinct whistle. "I remember him. He took to the bush when he was a two-year-old. That accounts for his coming to the Shack--he couldn't quite shake off the civilization he got. Here, Dave," he continued, addressing the other man, "get a pail of water, and give the wounded beast a drink."
"He's killed four of the best hounds ever came to the North-west," Dave remonstrated, looking at Mooswa.