Читать книгу: «Mooswa & Others of the Boundaries», страница 7

THE COMING OF THE TRAIN DOGS

For three days nothing unusual happened. Hunger commenced to nip at every one, for, as we know, it was the Seventh Year of the Rabbit cycle, and they were scarce. All the others envied old Muskwa, slumbering peacefully, nourished by the fat of his Summer's pillage.

The narrow body of Lynx was getting narrower, the gaunt sides of Blue Wolf gaunter. Fisher and Marten were living on Deer Mice, Squirrels, and small game; and the Red Widow's family were depending almost entirely upon Spruce Partridge-the flesh of these birds had become particularly astringent, too. The gray-mottled, pin-tail Grouse had entirely disappeared-better eating they were, the Widow contended; but in the Seventh Year it was not a matter of selection at all, and each Animal was poaching on the other's preserve-all because of the scarcity of Wapoos. But in spite of the general starvation, every one left a small dole of his food for Carcajou, whose paws were too sore to prowl about. He felt the restricted diet more than any of them, being a perfect gourmand, – "Gulo the Glutton," that was his name; and he liked good living.

On the fourth day Whisky-Jack startled his comrades with the announcement that François had acquired a train of four dogs from Nichemous, who was passing down the ice-road of the river with a Free-Trader. Blue Wolf snuffed discontentedly at the news; they were his enemies, and many a scar he carried as souvenir of combats with these domesticated cousins. Family instinct, however, led him to skulk close to François's Shack one evening hoping to see the dogs. He went often after the first visit, though advised by Carcajou that it would end in his getting a destroying blast from the Firestick.

"They haven't got one," Rof assured him. "You destroyed the only Ironstick they had."

"That was an old Trade Musket," retorted Wolverine. "François is too clever to put his good Ironstick out in the wet. You'll find that he has another, if you don't keep away. What's the attraction, anyway?" he asked. "There can't be anything to eat there, with those yelping Huskies about."

It was Whisky-Jack who gave the secret away. "Blue Wolf's in love," he said, solemnly; "three of the Train are of the sister kind, and Rof's got his eye on one. François calls her 'Marsh Maid,' but the Train-leader is a big Huskie Dog, and he'll chew Growler the Wolf into little bits-I sha'n't mind, Rof's too surly for me."

Blue Wolf became a great dandy; brushed his coat-scraped the snow away from a moss patch in the Jack-Pines, and rubbed his shaggy fur till it became quite presentable.

The big fight that Jack anticipated so eagerly materialized, but, contrary to Jay's forecast, Rof trounced the Huskie soundly. After that he came and went pretty much as he desired-growled his admiration of Marsh Maid, and took forcible possession of Huskie's White Fish.

All this nearly brought sorrow to the Red Widow's family, for Stripes, the Kit-Fox, having his curiosity roused by Jack's recital of Blue Wolf's doings, incautiously ventured close to the Shack one day to have a look at the Train. With an angry howl Huskie swooped down upon him, and but for Rod, who, hearing Stripes's plaintive squeal, rushed out and drove the Dog off, he would have been most effectually eaten up. The young Fox fled for his life, and his tale of this adventure filled the Red Widow's heart with gratitude toward The Boy.

Within the Boundaries the food fever was strong on the Animals, and François's baits became an almost irresistible temptation. Trap after Trap Black King and his family robbed, leaving the Meat with the White Powder in, and taking it when it was clear of this, until François was in despair.

"By Goss!" he confided to The Boy, "I t'ink me we goin' keel no fur here. Dat Carcajou he de Debil, but mos' all de odder Animal is Debil too. S'pose I put out de Trap, dey take de bait, cac'e de Trap, and s'pose me dey laugh by deyselves. I see dat Black Fox two, t'ree time, an' I know me his track now; ev'ry day I see dat tracks. But we must catc' him. What fur we keel now? Not enough to pay fer de grub stake."

THE TRAPPING OF BLACK FOX

So far all the plans of the Half-breed for capturing Black Fox had failed; but one day conditions were favourable for his master-stroke-a rare trick known only to himself. He smiled grimly when in the early morning he discovered that the snow bore a tender young crust just sufficient to bear a fair-sized animal. His preparations were elaborate.

"To-day we catc' dat black fell'," he said, gleefully, to Rod. "You wait here till I s'oot Mister Mus'rat firs' for bait, den I s'ow you some treek."

Soon François returned with a freshly killed Muskrat, which he promptly skinned, taking great care not to touch the meat with his hands. Putting the hindquarters in a pouch formed from the blood-stained skin, he next made a long-handled scraper. "Now I fix dis tea-dance where de fox alway go for sit in one place ever' day-I know me dat place," he chuckled as, gathering up the outfit, he started for the Forest.

Arrived there François pulled the snow from under the gentle crust with his scraper for a space of six or eight feet, leaving a miniature cave under the frozen shell. Into this he shoved two strong steel Traps, and using a long stick emptied the Muskrat pouch of its meat just above.

"Now, Mister S'arp-nose," muttered the Breed, "I t'ink me you no smell not'ing but Meat. You don't like smell François, eh? For dat I give me de Mus'rat smell for you' nose."

Backing away from his work the Half-breed carefully smoothed down the snow into his tracks for a long distance, then filling his pipe, lighted it, and trudged back to the Shack to await the success of this ruse. When Black King came up the wind, winding up the meat-scent like a ball of yarn, he struck a new combination. There were no evidences of Man's handicraft; no Trap insight-no baited gun; no Marten stockade; no bent sapling with a hungry noose dangling to it; but there were undoubtedly two nice, juicy, appetizing pieces of meat lying on top of the undisturbed snow-crust.

Black Fox sat down and surveyed the surrounding territory critically; cocked his sharp eyes and sharper nose toward all points of the compass. The Forest was like a graveyard-as silent; no hidden enemy lurked near with ready Firestick-his nose assured him on that point.

Then he walked gingerly in a big circle all about the glamourous centre-piece of sweet-smelling meat, his nose prospecting every inch of the ground. Something had evidently disturbed the snow where François had smoothed it down. Three circles he completed like this; each one smaller and closer to the Bait. Three lengths of himself from the covered-danger he sat down again, and tried to think it out.

"It can't be a Trap," he mused; "nothing has walked where the eating is, that much is certain. François can smooth the white ground-cover down, but can't put a crust on it. Starvation Year! but that Meat smells good-I haven't eaten for two days. I wish it were a Trap-then I should know what I was about. It looks mighty suspicious-must be the White Powder; think I had better leave it alone. If there were only a Trap in sight I would tackle it quick enough; it's easy to spring one of those things and get the Bait."

He trotted away twenty yards, meaning to go home and not risk it. Suddenly he stopped, sat down once more and thought it all over again, his determination weakened by appetite. His lean stomach clamoured for the Meat-it was full of nothing but the great pain of hunger.

"Forest Devils!" muttered the hesitating Fox; "I believe I'm losing my nerve-am afraid because there isn't anything in sight but the Meat. I'd never hear the last of it if Carcajou, or Pisew, or any of them came along, saw my trail, and then, having more pluck than I've got, went and ate that free eating. I wonder what it is? Smells like a cut of Muskrat, or a piece of Caribou; it's not Fish."

He walked back cautiously, irresolutely, and took a look from the opposite side. "I have a notion to try it; I can tell if there's White Medicine about when I get it at the end of my nose," he said, peering all about carefully; there was nobody in sight-nothing! "Women Foxes!" but he was nervous. His big "brush" was simply trembling with the fear of some unknown danger. He laughed hysterically at the idea. It was the unusualness of Meat lying on the snow and no evidence of why it should be there: there was no appearance of a Kill near the spot. How in the world had it come there? There was no track leading up to nor away from it; perhaps Hawk, or Whisky-Jack, or some other bird had dropped it. It was the most wonderful problem he had ever run up against.

But thinking it over brought no solution; also his stomach clamoured louder and louder for the appetizing morsel. Rising up, Black King crept cautiously towards the fascinating object. His foot went through the snow crust. "This wouldn't bear up a Baby Lynx," he thought. "Neither François nor any other Man can have been near that Meat."

He took another step-and another, eyes and nose inspecting every inch of the snow. He could almost reach it; another step, and as his paw sank through the crust it touched something smooth and slippery. There was a clang of iron, and the bone of his left fore-leg was clamped tight in the cruel jaws of a Fox Trap.

Poor old Black King! Despair and pain stretched him, sobbing queer little whimpering cries of anguish in the snow. Only for an instant; then he realized that unless help came from his Comrades his peerless coat would soon be stretched skin-side out on a wedge-shaped board in François's shack. Shrill and plaintive his trembling whistle, "Wh-e-e-he-e-e-, Wh-e-e-he-e-e!" went vibrating through the still Forest in a supplicating call to his companions for succour.

Then an hour of despairing anguish, without one single glint of hope. Every crack of tree-bark, as the frost stretched it, was the snapping of a twig under François's feet; every rustle of bare branches overhead was the shuffling rasp of his snow-shoes on the yielding crust.

Excruciating pains shot up the Fox's leg and suggested grim tortures in store when François had taken him from the Trap-perhaps he would skin him alive; the Indians and Half-breeds were so frightfully cruel to Animals. If only Carcajou, or Whisky-Jack, or dear old Mooswa could hear his whistle-surely they would help him out. Suddenly he heard the rustle of Jack's wings, and turned eagerly. A big, brown, belated leaf fluttered idly from a Cottonwood and fell in the snow. There was no Whisky-Jack in sight-nothing but the helpless, shrivelled leaf scurrying away before the wind.

At intervals he barked a call, then listened. How deadly silent the Forest was; his heart thumping against his ribs sounded like the beat of Partridge's wing-drums at the time of mating.

Strange fancies for an animal flitted through his mind-something like a man's thoughts when he drifts close to death. Why had Wiesahkechack, who was God of Man and Animals, arranged it this way. During all his life Black King had killed only when hunger forced him to it; but here was François, a Man, killing, killing always-killing everything. And for what? Not to eat; for the Breed had flour in plenty, and meat that was already killed. It was not because of hunger; but simply to steal their coats, that he or some other Man or Woman might look fine in fur-clothes stolen from the Boundary Dwellers-at the sacrifice of their lives.

Again Black Fox heard a leaf sawing its whispering way down through the willow wands: he even did not turn his head. But it was wings this time; and a cheery, astonished voice sang out: "Hello, Your Majesty, what are you doing there with your hands in the snow-feeling for a Mole's nest?"

"Praise to Wiesahkechack!" cried the King; "is that you, Jay? I'm trapped at last," he continued, "and you must fly like the wind and get some of our Comrades to help me out."

"There's a poor chance," said the Bird, despondently; "as you know, none of us can spring that big Trap but Muskwa, and we'll never get him out now-he is dead to the world."

"What am I to do?" moaned the King-"we must try something."

"Oh, we shall get you out of here. I'll call Beaver to cut the stake that holds the chain, and you'll just have to carry the Trap home with you. Carcajou might be strong enough to press down the spring, but his hands are so puffed up from the squeeze they got, he can't do a thing with them. Don't fret; I will soon get them all here, and we'll see what can be done."

In a wonderfully short time Jack had summoned Beaver, Mooswa, Blue Wolf, and Lynx. Mooswa's great heart was touched at the sight of their Sovereign's misery. "My services are of little use here," he said. "I will go back on the trail, close to the Shack, and watch for François."

"Sparrow Hawks!" exclaimed Jay; "I quite forgot about that. Our Friend was getting ready to come out on his Marten Road when I left. Somebody will feel the foul breath of his Ironstick if we don't keep a sharp lookout."

"All the better if he brings it," answered Mooswa; "for then he'll follow me, and I'll lead him away so far that you'll have plenty of time to get our King home."

"Noble Comrade!" smirked Lynx; "such self-sacrifice! But don't you know that the Hunter will never give up your trail until you are dead? The snow is deep, the crust won't hold against your beautiful, sharp hoofs, and the Killer will run you down before the Sun sets twice."

"Most considerate Traitor!" snapped Whisky-Jack. "You would rather Black King fell into François's hands-wouldn't you?" For the Jay knew what Pisew had said to Carcajou when the latter was in the Trap.

"All right, Mooswa," growled Rof, admiringly; "you are a noble fellow. Go and lead François away-don't get within burning distance of his Firestick, though; I and my Pack will take care that the Man-enemy doesn't follow your trail after the closing of the light of day."

"I killed a Man once," answered Bull Moose; "but I'll never do it again, nor must you, Comrade. That is a thing to be settled amongst themselves-the Man-kill is not for us."

"I talk not of killing!" snarled Blue Wolf, surlily; "when our cry goes up, François will take the back-trail, and keep it till he is safe within the walls of his own Shack-that's what I mean."

"It is well!" affirmed the King, approvingly; "act thus, Comrades. We are not like Man, who slays for the sake of slaying, and calls it sport."

"Most generous Black King!" exclaimed Pisew, with an evil smirk.

Mooswa and Blue Wolf started off together. Umisk was driving his ivory chisels through the hard, dry Birch-stake that held the Trap. It was a slow job-almost like cutting metal.

Suddenly a thought struck Black Fox. "How am I to get home with this clumsy iron on my leg?" he asked. "Mooswa has gone, and there is no one to carry me."

"I could help you with the Trap," answered Umisk.

"And leave a trail to the house like a Rabbit-run? The Breed would find it, and murder the whole family; I'm not going to risk my Mother's skin in that manner."

"Thoughtful King!" lisped Pisew.

"True, true," confirmed Beaver. "François would surely find the trail. There is no other way, unless-unless-"

"Unless what, faithful Little Friend?"

"Unless you take the way of our People."

"And that way-Friend?"

"Cut off the leg!"

"Horrible!" ejaculated Lynx.

"Horrible for you, Frog-heart," interposed Jack. "The King is different-he's got pluck."

"Your Majesty will never get the Trap off," continued Beaver, "until Muskwa the Strong comes out in the Spring. Even if you did carry it home, your leg would go bad before that time."

Black Fox pondered for a minute, weighing carefully the terrible alternative. On one hand was the risk of leading the Trapper to his carefully concealed home, and months of tortured idleness with the Trap on his leg; on the other the permanent crippling of himself by amputation.

"Can you cut the leg off, wise Umisk?" he asked.

"I did it once for my own Brother, who was caught," Beaver answered, simply.

"Take off mine, then!" commanded the King, decisively; "it is the only way."

"You'll bleed to death," said Lynx, solicitously.

"Oh, that would be lovely!" sneered Jack; "for then we'd all choose Pisew as his successor-'Le Roi est mort, vive le Roi!' Excuse me, Comrades, that's an expression François uses sometimes when he drinks Fire-water; it means, a live Slink is better than a dead Hero."

When Black Fox gave the command to amputate his limb, Beaver ceased cutting the stake, scuttled over to a White Poplar, girdled the tree close to the ground, then, standing on his strong hind-legs, cut the bark again higher up. Next he peeled a strip, brought it over beside the Fox, and chiselled some of the white inner bark, chewing it to a pulp. "Hold this in your mouth, Pisew, and keep it warm," Beaver commanded, passing it to Lynx. "We shall manage to stop the blood, I think."

"You will poison our King," said Jack, "if you put that stuff on the wound after Slink has held it in his mouth."

Beaver paid no attention, but stripped three little threads from the cloth-like tree-lining, and drew the fibre through his teeth to soften it. Then he spoke to the Bird: "Come down here, Jack, and hold these threads-your beak should be as good as a needle at this job. Now for it, Your Majesty!" Umisk continued, and one might have fancied he was a celebrated surgeon rolling up his sleeves before going at a difficult amputation.

"This is horribly bitter stuff," muttered Pisew-"it tastes like the Wolf-willow berry."

"Good for the wound-will dry up the bleeding!" affirmed the little Doctor curtly.

"Is there anything the matter with this Bait, King-any White Death-powder?" he asked. "If not, stick it in your mouth-it will brace you up, and take your mind off the leg."

"There is no White Powder in it-I can guarantee that," snickered Jay. "I flew in the door yesterday when François and The Boy were out, stole the bottle off its roost, and dropped it through their water-hole in the river ice; just to save your life, Pisew, you know-you're such a silly Glutton you would eat anything."

"Jack," said the King, looking up gratefully, "your tongue is the worst part of you-your heart is all right."

"Even his tongue is all right now since he got over the fat Pork," sneered Pisew.

"Bird of Torture!" ejaculated Black King, "but that hurts, Umisk;" for Beaver had girdled the skin of the leg even as he had the bark of the tree.

"Think of the Meat in your mouth, King," advised Umisk. "Hold up this skin with your claw, Jack," he commanded. "There! pull it a little higher. I'll cut the bone here, you see; then we'll cover it with the skin-flap."

"Full-crop! but you have a great head, Umisk," cried Jack, admiringly.

"Wh-e-e! Wh-e-e-e-e!" squealed the Fox, crunching his sharp, white teeth to hold back the cries of pain.

"Quick, Pisew, hand out the Poplar-bread-it's off!" commanded Beaver. "Now, Jack, the thread. Hold one end in your beak, while I wrap it. There-let go! put a hole through the skin here!" Black King's tongue was lolling out with the pain, but with Jack's strong, sharp beak, Beaver's teeth-scalpel and deft fingers, the whole operation was completed in half an hour.

"What's that?" queried Black Fox suddenly, cocking his ears; "I heard the cough of François's Firestick-listen!"

"I heard it too," asserted Jack; "the Breed is after poor old Mooswa. If he kills our Comrade, Blue Wolf and his Pack will make short work of him."

"Now we are ready to take Your Majesty home. I think I've made a fairish job of it," said Umisk, holding up the shortened limb with great professional pride. "Bring the foot, Jack, – it must be buried. Pisew, you can carry the King, now that he is not loaded down with iron. There will be only your big-footed track to see; for I'll circle wide, double a few times, cross Long Lake under the ice, and our enemy will never know where I've gone."

"Leave the foot here," advised Jay; "the Breed will find it, see blood on the snow, discover Pisew's track leading away, and think Lynx has eaten Black Fox out of the Trap; knowing our friend's cannibal instincts, he'll believe this. That will give our Chief a chance to get well; for François, thinking he's dead, will not try again to catch him."

"I don't want my reputation ruined this way," whined Pisew.

"Ruin your reputation!" sneered the Bird. "That is rich! It's like Skunk complaining of a bad odour when you're about."

"You go with Pisew and Black King, Jack," ordered Umisk, who had taken full management of the arrangements; "better be off now before the cold-sting gets into the wound." He helped Black Fox on Lynx's back, and started them off; then struck out in a different direction himself.

The Red Widow's first intimation of this great calamity was Jack's thin voice calling for help to get Black Fox up into the Burrow. How the old lady wept. "First it was little Cross-stripes, my Babe," she moaned, caressing the King with her soft cheek; "now it's you, my beautiful Son. Poor Lad! you'll never be able to run again."

"Oh, yes I shall, Mother," replied Black Fox. "The leg will soon heal up, and I'll manage all right. I'm only too thankful to be out of that horrible Trap."

"Bless Umisk's clever little heart!" cried the Widow in her gratitude, as she stroked the black head with her paw.

"Not forgetting a word for his sharp teeth, eh, good Dame?" remarked Jack.

"I'll get food for the family," added Black King's younger Brother, proudly assuming the responsibility.

The Red Widow thanked Lynx and Whisky-Jack for bringing her wounded son home, and begged Pisew to walk back in his tracks a distance, and use every endeavour to cover up the trail leading to their burrow.