THE INDIAN TRAPPER 141 



first breath of peril, uttering a smothered &quot;wool 

 woo!&quot; The trapper tries to persuade himself the 

 alarm was only the far scream of a wolf -hunted lynx; 

 but it comes again, deep and faint, like an echo in a 

 dome. One glance over his shoulder shows him black 

 forms on the snow-crest against the sky. 



He has been tricked again, and knows how the fox 

 feels before the dogs in full cry. 



The trapper is no longer a man. He is a hunted 

 thing with terror crazing his blood and the sleuth- 

 hounds of the wilds on his trail. Something goes 

 wrong with his snow-shoe. Stooping to right the slip- 

 strings, he sees that the dog s feet have been cut by 

 the snow crust and are bleeding. It is life for life now ; 

 the old, 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, exult 

 ant bay. The wolf -pack are in full cry. The man has 

 rounded the open alley between the trees and is speed 

 ing 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. 



