142 THE STORY OF THE TRAPPER 



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 quick rifle, with which white men 

 and a body-guard of guides hunt down a single quarry, 

 he would be safe enough now. But the old musket is 

 slow loading, and speed will serve him better than an 

 other 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 over 

 head. On one side, far away, are the tepee peaks of the 

 lodges; on the other, the solemn, shadowy, snow- 

 wreathed trees, like funeral watchers watchers of 

 how many brave deaths in a desolate, lonely land where 

 no man raises a cross to him who fought well and died 

 without fear ! 



The wolf-pack attacks in two ways. In front, by 

 burying the red-gummed fangs in the victim s throat; 

 in the rear, by snapping at sinews of the runner s legs 

 called hamstringing. Who taught them this devilish 

 ingenuity of attack? The same hard master who teach 

 es the Indian to be as merciless as he is brave hunger ! 



Catching the muzzle of his gun, he beats back the 



