Pisew Steals The Boy’s Food
In the morning, François, taking his loaded snake-whip, hammered the Huskie dogs into a submission sufficient to permit of their being harnessed; put a meagre ration for four days in the carryall, tied on his snow-shoes, and said to Roderick: “I go for pull out now, Boy; I s’pose t’ree day I make me de Lan’ing. I stop dere one day, hit de back-trail den, an’ come de S’ack here wid de grub stake in fo’r more. You got grub lef for dat long, soor. Bes’ not go far from de S’ack; de Blue Wolf he migh’ come roun’ dis side wit’ hes Pack—bes’ stick close de S’ack.”
Then he slipped down the long-terraced river-bank with his train, and started up the avenue of its broad bosom toward The Landing.
With rather a dreary feeling of lonesomeness Rod watched him disappear around the first long, Spruce-covered point, then went back into the Shack and whistled to keep the mercury of his spirits from congealing.
Other eyes had seen François wind around the first turn that shut him out from Rod’s vision: Blue Wolf’s eyes; the little bead eyes of Carcajou; the shifting, treacherous, cat-like orbs of Pisew, the Lynx. Mooswa’s big almond eyes blinked solemnly from a thicket of willow that lined the river bank.
“I wonder if he’ll bring the same Huskies back in his train?” said Blue Wolf, as they returned through the Boundaries together.
“I should think he would,” ventured Mooswa.
“Don’t know about that,” continued Rof, “these Breeds have no affection for their Dogs, nor anything else but their own Man-Cubs. They do like them, I must say. Why, I’ve heard one of them, a big, rough Man he was too, cry every night for Moons because of the death of his Cub. He was as savage as any Wolf, though, for he killed another Man in a fight just at that time, and thought no more of it than I did over killing a Sheep at Lac La Biche. But every night he howled, and moaned, and whimpered for his lost Cub, just as a Mother Wolf might when her young are trapped, or stricken with the breath of the Firestick, or killed in a Pack-riot. Yes, they’re queer, the Men,” he mused in a low growl. “When François goes to The Landing, if one of the other Breeds stumps him for a trade, he’ll swap off the whole Train.”
“I’m sure he’ll stick to Marsh Maid,” declared Pisew; “she’ll be back again all right, Brother Rof.” Blue Wolf looked sheepishly at Mooswa. What a devil this Lynx was to read his thoughts like that.
“I hope nothing will happen François, for the sake of The Boy,” wheezed Mooswa. “These Breed Men also forget everything when the fire-water, that makes them like mad Bulls, is in camp; it is always at The Landing too,” he muttered, despondently. “When I was a Calf at the Fort, I heard the old Factor say—I think I’ve told you about that time—”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Carcajou impatiently, for he was a quick-thinking little Animal, “what did the Factor say about these Breed Men?”
“I’m coming to that,” asserted Mooswa, ponderously. “It was at the time I was a Calf in the Fort Corral, and the Factor, who was my Boy’s father, said that a Breed would sell his Soul for a gallon of this Devil-water that puts madness in their blood.”
“What’s a Soul?” asked Carcajou. “I wonder if I smashed François’s in the Shack.”
“I don’t know,” answered Mooswa; “it’s something Man has, but which we haven’t—it’s the thing that looks out of their eyes and makes us all turn our heads away. Even Rof there, who stands up against Cougar without flinching, drops his head when Man looks at him—is that not so, brave Comrade?”
“It is,” answered Blue Wolf, dragging his tail a little.
“And a Breed will trade this thing for fire-water?” queried Carcajou.
“So the Factor said,” answered the Moose.
“I wouldn’t if I had it,” declared Wolverine—“not even for the Fat-eating, and that is good for one. Was it that which made Wiesahkechack King of Men and Animals, and everything, when he was here—this Soul thing?” he asked pantingly, for the easy stride of his long-legged comrades made his lungs pump fast.
“I suppose so,” replied Mooswa; “but if François gets fire-water at The Landing, I’m afraid it will be ill with The Boy. But, Comrades, you all remember your oath to me and the King, that for the Man-Cub shall be our help, and our care, and not the blood-feud that is against Man, because of his killing.”
“I remember,” cried Blue Wolf.
“And I,” answered Pisew.
“I never forget anything,” declared Carcajou. “When my paws ached because of François, I laid up hate against him; and when Black King’s leg was lost because of this evil Man’s Trap the hate grew stronger; but by the Bars on my Flanks do I bear not hate against The Boy, and bear the promise given to you, Mooswa.”
“I’ll carry you for a short trail, Lieutenant,” said Blue Wolf, stopping beside Wolverine; “the Fat-eating has put new strength in my bones—jump up on my back. Your brains are nimbler than ours, but your short legs can’t get over the deep snow so fast.”
“Been to see him off, eh?” piped Whisky-Jack cheerily, fluttering up. “I heard him tell The Boy they’d go down to Hay River when he comes back from The Landing; but how did you Fellows know he was leaving this morning?”
“Rof got it from his Huskie sweetheart,” said Lynx. “The Dogs were tied up last night, and the carryall outfit was lying ready at the door—that meant hitting the trail early this morning.”
“Has the Man-Cub got Eating enough to last against François’s return, Jack?” asked Bull Moose, solicitously.
“A dozen White Fish, a little flour, and some tea.”
“That will keep the stomach-ache away, if the Breed comes back quickly,” affirmed Mooswa.
Pisew cocked his Hair-plumed ears hungrily at the mention of Fish; and the thief-thought that was always in his heart kept whispering, “Fish! Fish! Fish that is in the Shack—The Boy’s Fish!” The woods were so bare, too. It was the Seventh Year, the Famine Year, and a chance of eating came only at long intervals. Carcajou had robbed the Shack, and it had been accounted clever—all the Flesh Eaters had feasted merrily off the loot. Why should he not also steal the twelve Fish? But he was not like Carcajou, a feast-giver, an Animal to make himself popular by great gifts; if he stole the Fish he would cache them, and the eating would round up his lean stomach.
“Carrier of Messages,” began Mooswa, addressing Whisky-Jack, “thy part of the Oath Promise is watching over The Boy. If aught goes wrong, bring thou the news.”
“Very well, old Sober-sides,” answered Jay, saucily. “I’ll come and sit on your horns that have so many beautiful roosts for me, and whisper each day into your ear, that is big enough to hold my nest, all that happens at the Shack!”
“He’ll keep you busy, Mooswa,” smirked Pisew.
“Mooswa has time to spare for his Friends,” answered Jack, “because he eats an honest dinner. You, Bob-tail, are so busy with your thieving and lying-in-wait for somebody’s children to eat, that you have no time for honest talk.”
“Here’s your path, Carcajou,” cried Blue Wolf, stopping while Wolverine jumped down. “I’m going on to see how Black King is.”
“Last night a strong wind laid many acres of Birch Trees on their backs, two hours’ swift trot from here—I’m going there for my dinner,” declared the Moose; “it will be fine feeding. It is a pity you Chaps aren’t vegetarians; the Blood Fever must be awful—killing, killing, killing,—it’s dreadful!” he wheezed, turning to the left and striding away through the forest.
“I’ll go and see Black King too,” exclaimed Whisky-Jack.
“I’m off to the muskeg to hunt Mice,” announced Pisew; “the Famine Year brings one pretty low.”
“Your Father must have been born in a Famine Year,” suggested Jack, “and you inherited the depravity from him.”
Lynx snarled disagreeably, and as he slunk cat-like through the woods, spat in contemptuous anger. “Jack has gone to the King’s Burrow,” he muttered; “I’ll have a look at The Boy’s Shack. I wonder where he keeps that Fish, and if he leaves the door open at all. Perhaps when he goes down to the river for water—ah, yes, Cubs and Kittens are all careless—even the Man-Cub will not be wise, I think. Now, so soon, the pittance of food I had from that thief, Carcajou, has melted in my stomach, and the walls are collapsing again. I wonder where the hump-backed Lieutenant cached the rest of his stolen Fat-eating.”
Thus treacherously planning, Lynx stealthily circled to the Shack, lay down behind a Cottonwood log fifty feet away, and watched with a ravenous look in his big round eyes. Presently he saw Rod open the door, look across the waste of snow, stretch his arms over his head wearily, turn back into the Shack, reappear with two metal pails in one hand and an axe in the other, and pass from view over the steep river bank.
With a swift, noiseless rush the yellow-gray thief darted into the building. His keen nose pointed out the dried White Fish lying on a box in the corner. Stretching his jaws to their utmost width, he seized four or five and bounded into the thick bush with them. Two hundred paces from the clearing Pisew dropped his booty behind a fallen tree. “I’ll have time for the others,” he snarled, pulling a white covering over the fish with his huge paw.
As he stole back again, a sound of ice-chopping came to his ears. “Plenty of time,” he muttered, and once more his jaws were laden with The Boy’s provision. In his eagerness to take them all, two fish slipped to the floor; Pisew became frightened, and bolted with those he had in his mouth. “I can’t go back any more,” he thought, as he rushed away; “but I’ve done well, I’ve done very well.”
The Boy returned with the water, took his axe and cut some wood. He did not miss the fish. Pisew carried his stolen goods away and cached them.
That night Whisky-Jack, sitting on his perch under the extended end of the roof, heard something that gave him a start. Rod had discovered the loss of his Fish.
“My God! this is serious,” the Bird heard him say. “Two fish and a handful of flour for ten days’ food—perhaps longer. This is terrible. It’s that Devil of the Woods, Carcajou, who has robbed me, I suppose—he stole the bacon before. If I only could get a chance at him with a rifle, I’d settle his thieving life.”
The misery in The Boy’s voice touched Whisky-Jack.
“Pisew has done this evil thing,” he chirped to himself. “If he has, he has broken his oath of the Boy-care.”