"So would you, man, if you could, when they tried to pull you down. It was a fair fight, and not of his seeking either."
The Boy also pleaded for Mooswa.
"Now, we've got to get young McGregor to The Landing just as quick as we can," declared Donald Bain, as he examined The Boy's limb. "Look at the size of it--it'll be a case of blood-poisoning, I'm afeerd."
"How will you manage it?" queried Dave, sullenly. "This brute has killed our dogs--will you carry him on your shoulders?"
"That's so," mused Donald, taking off his cap, and scratching the thick grizzled hair; "I suppose we'll have to rig up a carryall, and pull him ourselves."
"You want to go to The Landing?" asked Roderick.
"We don't want to--" commenced Donald, but checked himself, and added, "yes, me and Dave must go up for more dogs, and some baccy," fabricating with chivalrous ingenuity, to reassure the sick boy. "We was thinking you'd better go along too; there's no dog-train, but me and Dave could track you up on a small jumper--does there happen to be one about?"
"I think Mooswa would drag the sleigh--he used to at the Fort," suggested Rod.
"By the Great Wallace!" exclaimed Bain, slapping his thigh, "that he will--if he's not grown too wild. Hitched to a sled, he could run clean away from a dog-train, in the old days."
"He's been harnessed right enough, some time or another," declared Dave. "Here are two white-haired spots on his back--that means saddle-galls. Gracious! he's as quiet as an old horse."