220 MOOSWA 



howl of train-dogs ; but there was nothing ; 

 only the blinding, driving, frozen hail fine and 

 sharp-cutting as the grit of a sandstone. Once 

 he thought the call of a rifle struck on his ear 

 it was the crash of an uprooted tree, almost dead 

 ened by the torturing wind-noises. 



The cold crept into his marrow. All night he 

 kept the fire going, and by dawn his supply of 

 wood had dwindled to nothing; he must have 

 more, or perish. Just outside in the yard Fran- 

 9ois had left a pile of dry Poplar. Almost choked 

 by the snow-powdered air, Rod laboured with his 

 axe to cut enough for the day. At intervals he 

 worked, from time to time thawing out his 

 numbed muscles by the fire-place. &quot; One trip 

 more,&quot; he muttered, throwing down an armful in 

 the Shack, &quot; and I 11 have enough to last until 

 to-morrow by that time the storm will have 

 ceased, I hope.&quot; 



But on that last short journey a terrible thing 

 happened. Blinded by the white-veil of blizzard 

 Rod swayed as he brought the axe down, and 

 the sharp steel buried in his moccasined foot. 

 &quot; O God ! &quot; The Boy cried, in despairing agony. 

 He hobbled into the Shack, threw the wooden 

 bar into place, tore up a cotton shirt, and from 

 the crude medicine knowledge he had acquired 

 from Fran9ois, soaked a plug of tobacco, sepa- 



