THE TRAPPING OF BLACK FOX 155 



one single glint of hope. Every crack of tree- 

 bark, as the frost stretched it, was the snapping 

 of a twig under Francis 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 Fra^ois 

 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 Cot- 

 tonwood and fell in the snow. There was no 

 Whisky-Jack in sight nothing but the help 

 less, 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 Wiesahke- 

 chack, who was God of Man and Animals, ar 

 ranged it this way. During all his life Black 



