The Promise Part 15

Right and left he struck in a reckless fume of ferocity, which spoke of unreasoning fights in worlds of savage firstlings. And under the smashing blows of the axe wolves went down--skulls split, spines crushed, ribs caved in--a side at a stroke, and shoulders were cloven clean and deep to pink sponge lungs.

As if realizing that her hurt was mortal, the great she-wolf abandoned her attack on the knife-haft and, summoning her strength for a supreme effort, sprang straight into the midst of the red shambles.

The man, caught unawares, went down under the impact of her body. For one fleeting second he stared upward into blazing eyes. From between wide-sprung rows of flashing fangs the blood-dripping tongue seemed to writhe from the cavernous throat, and the foul breath blew hot against his face. Instantly his strong fingers buried themselves in the s.h.a.ggy fur close under the hinge of the jaw, while his other hand closed about the dented bra.s.s of the protruding knife-hilt.

With the whole strength of his arm he held the savage jaws from his face as he wrenched and twisted at the firmly embedded knife. Finally it loosened, and as the thick-backed blade was withdrawn from the wound it was followed by spurt after spurt of blood--bright, frothy blood, straight from the lungs, which gushed hot and wet over him.

Blindly he struck; stabbing, thrusting, slashing at the great form which was pressing him deeper and deeper into the snow. Again and again the knife was turned against rib and shoulder-blade, inflicting only shallow surface wounds.

At length a heavy, straight upthrust encountered no obstacle of bone, and the blade bit deep and deeper into living flesh.

As with a final effort the knife was driven home, a convulsive shiver racked the body of the great white wolf, and with a low, gurgling moan of agony her jaws set rigid, her muscles stiffened, and she toppled sidewise into the snow, where she lay twitching spasmodically with glazing eyes.

Bill staggered weakly to his feet.

The uninjured wolves had vanished, leaving their dead upon the snow, while the wounded left flat, red trails as they sought to drag their broken bodies to the cover of the forest.

Irish Fallon rounded a turn of the tote-road. He brought up sharply and stared open-mouthed at the man who, sheath-knife in hand, stood looking down at an indistinct object which lay upon the blood-trampled snow.

Carmody turned and shouted a greeting, but without a word the Irishman advanced to his side until he, too, stood looking down at the thing in the snow. Suddenly Bill's hand was seized in a mighty grip.

"Man! 'Tis _her_, an' no mistake! She's done for at lasht--an' blade to fang, in open foight ye've knoifed her! Sure, 'tis a gr-rand toime ye've had altogether," he said, glancing at the carca.s.ses, "wid six dead besides her an' three more as good as."

Bill laughed: "This wolf--the big white one--seems to enjoy a reputation, then?"

"R-r-reputation! R-r-reputation, is ut? Good Lord, man! Don't ye know her? 'Tis th' werwolf! D'ablish, th' _loup-garou_, the Frinchies call her; an' the white divil, the Injuns--an' good rayson, f'r to me own knowledge she's kilt foive folks, big an' shmall, an' some Injuns besides. They claim she's a divil, an' phwin she howls, 'tis because some sowl has missed th' happy huntin' grounds in th' dyin', an' she's laughin'."

"I don't know that I blame them," said Bill. "She favored me with a vocal selection. And, believe me, she was no mocking-bird."

"Well, she looks dead, now," grinned Fallon; "but we'd besht make sure.

Owld man Frontenelle kilt her wunst. Seven year back, ut was over on Monish.

"He shot her clean t'rough th' neck an' dhrug her to his cabin be th'

tail. He was for skinnin' her flat f'r th' robe she'd make. He had her stretched out phwin wid a flash an' a growl, she was at um, an' wid wan clap av th' jaws she ripped away face an' half th' scalp.

"They found um wanderin' blind on th' lake ice an' carried um to Skelly's phwere he died in tin days' toime av hydrophoby, shnarlin' an'

bitin' at folks till they had to chain um in th' shtoreroom."

As he spoke, Fallon picked up the axe, and with several well-directed blows shattered the skull of the werwolf against any possibility of a repet.i.tion of the Frontenelle incident.

"But come, man, get yer rackets an' we'll be hittin' the thrail f'r camp. Sure, Frinchy'll be scairt shtiff av we lave um longer."

"Rackets?" asked Bill, with a look of perplexity.

"Yer shnow shoes, av coorse."

"Haven't got any. And I don't suppose I could use them if I had." The other stared at him incredulously.

"Not got any! Thin how'd ye git here?"

"Walked--or rather, stumbled along."

"Phwere from?"

"It started to snow as I left the old shack--the last one this way, I don't know how far back. It was there I traded my boots to an Indian for these." He extended a moccasined foot.

"'Tis a good job ye traded. But even at that--thirty-foive moile t'rough th' snow widout webs!" The Irishman looked at him in open admiration. "An' on top av that, killin' th' werwolf wid a knoife, an'

choppin' her pack loike so much kindlin's! Green, ye may be--an'

ignorant. But, frind, ye've done a man's job this day, an' Oi'm pr-roud to know yez."

Again he extended his hand and Bill seized it in a strong grip.

Somehow, he did not resent being called green, and ignorant--he was learning the North.

"Fallon's me name," the other continued, "an' be an accident av birth, Oi'm called Oirish, f'r short."

"Mine is Bill, which is shorter," replied Carmody, smiling.

For just a second Irish hesitated as if expecting further enlightenment, but, receiving none, reached down and grasped the tail of the white wolf.

"'Tis a foine robe she'll make, Bill, an' in th' North, among white min an' Injuns, 'twill give ye place an' shtandin'--but not wid Moncrossen," he added with a frown.

"Come on along. Foller yez in behint, f'r th' thrail'll be fair br-roke. Phwat wid two thrips wid th' rackets an' th' dhrag av th'

wolf, 'twill not be bad. 'Tis only a mather av twinty minutes to phwere Frinchy'll bether be waitin' wid th' ha.r.s.es."

CHAPTER XVI

MONCROSSEN

They found LaFranz waiting in fear and trembling. The heavy snow-plow was left in readiness for the morrow's trail-breaking, and the horses. .h.i.tched to a rough sled and headed for camp.

"An' ye say Misther Appleton sint ye up to wor-rk in Moncrossen's camp?" The two were seated on the log bunk at the back of the sled while the Frenchman drove, keeping a fearful eye on the white wolf. For old man Frontenelle had been his uncle.

"Yes, he told me to report here."

"D'ye know Moncrossen?"

"No."

"Well, ye will, ag'in' shpring," Irish replied dryly.

"What do you mean?" asked Bill.

Irish shrugged. "Oi mane this," he answered. "Moncrossen is a har-rd man altogether. He hates a greener. He thinks no wan but an owld hand has any business in th' woods, an' 'tis his boast that in wan season he'll make a lumberjack or a corpse out av any greener.