THE INDIAN TRAPPER 221 



hard, inexorable Mosaic law, that has no new dispensation in the 

 Northern wilderness, and demands that a beast's life shall not 

 sacrifice a man's. 



One blow of his gun and the dog is dead. 



The far, faint howl has deepened to a loud, exultant bay. The 

 wolf-pack are in full cry. The man has rounded the open alley 

 between the trees and is speeding down the hillside winged with 

 fear. He hears the pack pause where the dog fell. That gives 

 him respite. The moon is behind, and the man-shadow flits before 

 on the snow like an enemy heading him back. The deep bay comes 

 again, hard, metallic, resonant, nearer ! He feels the snow-shoe 

 slipping, but dare not pause. A great drift thrusts across his way 

 and the shadow in front runs slower. They are gaining on him. He 

 hardly knows whether the crunch of snow and pantings for breath 

 are his own or his pursuers'. At the crest of the drift he braces 

 himself and goes to the bottom with the swiftness of a sled on a 

 slide. 



The slant moonlight throws another shadow on the snow at 

 his heels. 



It is the leader of the pack. The man turns, and tosses up his 

 arms — an Indian trick to stop pursuit. Then he fires. The 

 ravening hunter of man that has been ambushing him half the day 

 rolls over with a piercing howl. 



The man is off and away. 



If he only had the repeater, with which white men and a body- 

 guard of guides hunt down a single quarry, he would be safe enough 

 now. But the old rifle is slow loading, and speed will serve him 

 better than another shot. 



Then the snow-shoe noose slips completely over his instep to 

 his ankle, throwing the racquet on edge and clogging him back. 

 Before he can right it they are upon him. There is nothing for 

 it now but to face and fight to the last breath. His hood falls 

 back, and he wheels with the moonlight full in his eyes and the 

 Northern Lights waving their mystic flames high overhead. On 



