They put in a busy evening, the two men, bathing The Boy's leg, and with a sailor's needle they found in his outfit sealing up the torn wounds in Mooswa's neck. He never moved, just looked on stolidly. He knew they meant him no harm. Any animal can tell from the touch of a man's finger, or the look in his eye, whether it's war or kindness.
Whisky-Jack had been intensely interested in all this--the clatter and noise kept even his bird eyes open. "Wonderful doings!" he exclaimed; "the Boundaries are being turned into a regular Sun-dance--but I'm glad I saw it all. The Boy will be all right now--Good old Mooswa!" He flopped about drunkenly outside, for his eyes were not quite like Owl's, and the different lights bothered him.
Then he fired a word of encouragement at Mooswa. "Stick to The Boy, old Dainty-head-gear; you're Big Buck of the Boundaries--I'll tell Black King and all the fellows so. Stupid light this--fancy they'll get on without me now," and scrambling up to the eave he stuck his head under wing and went fast asleep.
In the morning a carryall was made, a rude harness constructed from shaganappi, Trap-chains, and straps, and before noon they were on their way to The Landing; Mooswa submitting to be hitched up with patient gentleness.
Whisky-Jack grinned when he saw the Moose decked out in these trappings. "Now you're a dandy, my fine fellow," he said, patronizingly. "We'll never see you again. Remember me to François when you see him, and tell him not to hurry back--Good-bye, good old Mooswa."
"I guess our Shack and things will be all right till we get back," said Donald. "At any rate, Factor McGregor's kid has first call, I reckon. I'd like to put a bullet through that Breed, though."
"What if the Moose bolts?" asked Dave. "Here's a tracking-line they used on their canoe,--suppose we take a hitch on his horns or his nose with it; we could stop him if he tried to get away."
"Yes," answered Donald, "and if we can't, if the worst comes to the worst, we can drop him with a bullet before any harm's done."
But they need not have bothered their heads about the line, for Mooswa knew just what was being done; he was taking his Boy to the land of good care. Like an old cart-horse, he plodded along. The snow was frost-hardened again, and the going was good.
In three days they arrived at The Landing. François was just ready to start with a new outfit the Factor had given him debt for. Then for days he had to hide from Donald Bain, for there was sheer murder in the big Scotchman's heart.