170 MOOSWA 



&quot; Safe passage. Brothers, for Mooswa,&quot; he 

 growled, with authority ; &quot; also no killing for the 

 Hunt-man, for the hunt is of our doing.&quot; 



Francois heard the Wolf-call too, and a chill 

 struck his heart. Night was coming on, he was 

 alone in the woods, and in front of him a Pack 

 of hungry Wolves. Turning, he glided swiftly 

 over the back-trail. 



&quot;The Kill-Call, Brothers,&quot; cried Rof, his 

 sharp eyes seeing this movement of the fleeing 

 Breed. Once again the death-bells of the for 

 est, the Blood Song of Blue Wolf, rang out : 

 &quot;W-a-h-h-h! W-a-h-h-h! Gur-h-h-h ! Yap! 

 yap ! ! yap ! ! ! &quot; which is the snarl-fastening of 

 teeth in flesh, the gurring choke of blood in the 

 throat, and the satisfied note of victory. 



The Hunter became the hunted, and into his 

 throat crept the wild, unreasoning terror that 

 Mooswa and every other living animal had known 

 because of his desire for their lives. What would 

 avail a rifle in the night against Blue WolPs 

 hungry Brethren ? True, he could climb a tree 

 but only to freeze ; the starlit sky would send 

 down a steel-pointed frost that would soon bring 

 on a death-sleep, and tumble him to the yellow 

 fangs of the gray watchers. 



Mile on mile the Half-breed fled, nursing his 

 strength with a woodman s instinct. How use- 



