Also, they will tell you of Gaspard Petrie, a great hulking bully of a man, who called himself "The Grizzly of the Athabasca," whose delight it was to pick fights and to beat his opponents into unconsciousness with his fists. And of how the mighty Petrie whose ill fame had spread the length of the three rivers, joined the brigade once at Fort McMurry and of how the boisterous Rene became the bright and shining mark of his attentions, and of the fight that sent Rene to the brush before he was "licked," after which Rene stood the taunts and insults of "The Grizzly of the Athabasca" for many days like the craven he was, before the eyes of all men, until one day Petrie used words that brought insult upon the mother of Rene—who was also the mother of Victor. Rene paid them no heed but Victor rose from his place beside the fire and slowly removed his mackinaw and his torn felt hat and, walking over to Petrie, demanded that he retract the words. "The Grizzly of the Athabasca" eyed him in astonishment, for Victor had been a figure in the brigade so insignificant as to have entirely escaped his attention. The ramping one threw out his huge chest and roared with laughter. "See!" he taunted, "the weasel defies the bear!" And with that he reached out and with his thumb and forefinger grasped Victor by the nose and jerked him roughly toward him.

The next instant the air rushed from his throat in a grunt of agonized surprise for the violent jerk on his nose seemed to release steel springs in Victor's body and before Petrie could release his grip both of Victor's fists and the heel of one shoe had been driven with all the force of mighty muscles directly into the bully's stomach. The unexpected onslaught staggered the huge bully, and then began the fight that ridded the rivers of Gaspard Petrie. In and out flashed the lighter man, landing a blow here and a kick there—round and round, and in and out. "The Grizzly of the Athabasca" roared with rage, and struck mighty blows that, had they landed, would have annihilated his opponent on the spot but they did not land. Victor seemed tireless and his blows rained faster and faster as his opponent's defence became slower and slower. At last, from sheer exhaustion, the heavy arms could no longer guard the writhing face and instantly Victor began to rain blow after blow upon eyes and nose and mouth until a few minutes later "The Grizzly of the Athabasca" collapsed entirely, and whimpering and puling, he retracted his words, and then amid the frenzied jeers of the rivermen, he made up his pack and slunk away into the bush—and the fame of Victor Bossuet travelled the length of the three rivers. Thus it was that Victor became known as the better man of the two. But it was in the winning of Helene Lacompte that he gained his final triumph. Rene had boasted upon the rivers that he would marry her,—boastings that reached the ears of the girl in her father's little cabin on Salt River and caused her to smile. But as she smiled her thoughts were not of Rene and his gaudy clothing, his famous blue capote, his crimson scarf, and his long tasselled cap of white wool—but of Victor—who spoke seldom, but saved his money each year and refrained from joining in the roistering drinking bouts of the rivermen.

Then one day at Fort Norman in the hearing of all the rivermen Rene boldly told her that he was coming to take her when the scows returned, and she laughingly replied that when she changed her name from Lacompte, she would take the name of Bossuet. Whereat Rene drank deeper, bragged the more boisterously, and to the envy of all men flaunted his good fortune before the eyes of the North. But Victor said nothing. He quit the brigade upon a pretext and when the scows returned Helene bore the name of Bossuet. For she and Victor had been married by the priest at the little mission and had gone to build their cabin upon a little unnamed river well back from the Mackenzie. For during the long winter months Victor worked hard at his trap lines, while Rene drank and gambled and squandered his summer wages among the towns of the provinces.

When Rene heard of the marriage he swore vengeance, for this thing had been a sore blow to his pride. All along the three rivers men talked of it, nor did they hesitate to taunt and make sport of Rene to his face. He sought to make up in swashbuckling and boasting what he lacked in courage. So men came to hate him and it became harder and harder for him to obtain work. At last, in great anger, he quit the brigade altogether and for two summers he had been seen upon the rivers in a York boat of his own. The first winter after he left the brigade he spent money in the towns as usual, so the following summer the source of his income became a matter of interest to the Mounted Police. Certain of their findings made it inadvisable for Rene to appear again in the towns, and that autumn he spent in the outlands, avoiding the posts, stopping a day here—a week there, in the cabins of obscure trappers and camping the nights between, for he dared not show his face at any post. Then it was he bethought himself of his brother's cabin as a refuge and, for the time being laying aside thoughts of vengeance, he journeyed there.

He was welcomed by Victor and Helene and by the very small Victor who was now nearly a year old. Victor and Helene had heard of the threats of vengeance, but knowing Rene, they had smiled. Was not Rene a great boaster? And the very young Victor, who knew nothing of the threats, thought his big uncle a very brave figure in his blue capote, his red muffler, and his white stocking cap of wool.

Rene worked willingly enough side by side with Victor upon the trap line, and with the passing of the days the envy of his brother's lot grew, and in his heart smouldered a sullen rage. Here was Victor, a man at whom nobody would look twice in passing, happy and contented with his little family, untroubled by any haunting fear of the hand of the law, enjoying the respect of all men, and a veritable hero the length of the three rivers. And beside him, of his own flesh and blood, was himself, a bold figure of a man, a roisterer and a poser, who had sought to gain the admiration and respect of the men of the rivers without earning it, and who had failed—and failed most miserably. The sullen rage grew in his heart, and he plotted vengeance by the hour—but his hand was stayed by fear—fear of Victor and fear of the law.

And so a month passed, and one day as the two brothers finished their lunch and lighted their pipes upon a log beside a tiny fire, Victor spoke that which for several days had been passing in his mind: "It has been good to have you with us, my brother," he began, being a man of indirect speech.

"The joy has been all mine, I assure you," replied Rene, wondering what would come next.

"But three people eat more than two, and I laid in supplies for two to last until the holiday trading."

"I have no money, but I will leave the pay for my keep at Fort Norman next summer."

A swift flush of anger reddened the cheek of Victor. "Pay! Who talks of pay? Think you I would accept pay from my own brother?"

"What then?"

"Only this, you must make the trip to Fort Norman for food. I will give you a note to McTavish, and the stuff will be charged to me. It is three days travelling light, and four on the return. You can take my dogs. They know the trail."

There was a long pause before the younger man spoke. "I cannot go to Fort Norman. I cannot be seen on the river."

Victor glanced up in surprise. "Why?"

Rene shifted uneasily. "The police," he answered. "They think I have broken their law."

"Have you?" The older man's eyes were upon him, and Rene groped in his mind for words. "What if I have?" he blurted. "What was I to do? I cannot work with the brigade. They will not have me. Because I am a better man than the rest of them, they are jealous and refuse to work beside me." Rene rose from the log and began to strut up and down in the snow, swinging his arms wide and pausing before his brother to tap himself upon the chest, thrown out so the blue capote swelled like the breast of a pouter pigeon. "Behold before you one whose excellence in all things has wrought his ruin. Julius Caesar was such a man, and the great Napoleon, and I, Rene Bossuet, am the third. All men fear me, and because of my great skill and prodigious strength, all men hate me. They refuse to work beside me lest their puny efforts will appear as the work of children. I am the undisputed king of the rivers. Beside me none——"

Victor interrupted with a wave of his hand. "Beside you none will work because of your bragging!" he exclaimed, impatiently. "You are a good enough riverman when you mind your business, but there are plenty as good—and some better. What law have you broken?"

"I have traded hooch upon the rivers."

"And when you found that the men of the Mounted were upon your trail you came here," continued the older man. "You thought you would be safe here because the police, knowing of your loud-bawled threats against me, would think we were mortal enemies."

"You knew of that—of my threats?" gasped Rene in surprise, "and you allowed me to stay!"

Victor laughed shortly. "Of course I knew. But what are threats between brothers? I knew they were but the idle boastings of a braggart. You would not dare harm me, or mine. You are a great coward, Rene, and it is to laugh and not to fear. You strut about like a cock partridge in the springtime, you clothe yourself with the feathers of the bluejay, and speak with the tongue of the great grey wolf but your heart is the heart of the rabbit. But talk gets us nowhere. We will go to the cabin, now. In the morning I will start for Fort Norman, and you will remain to look after Helene and the little Victor." The older man rose and faced his brother. "And if harm comes to either of them while I am gone may the wolves gnaw your bones upon the crust of the snow. That little cabin holds all that I love in the world. I never boast, and I never threaten—nor do I ever repent the work of my hands." He paused and looked squarely into his brother's eyes, and when he spoke again the words fell slowly from his lips—one by one, with a tiny silence between—"You have heard it, maybe—scarcely disturbing the silence of the night—that sound of the crunching of bones on the snow." A hand of ice seemed to reach beneath Rene's blue capote and fasten upon his heart, there came a strange prickling at the roots of his hair, and little chills shot along his spine. Somewhere back in the forest a tree exploded with the frost, and Rene jumped, nervously. Then, side by side, the brothers made their way to the cabin in silence.



CHAPTER VI

AT THE END OF RENE'S TRAIL

The ridge up which Connie Morgan laboured at the head of his dogs was a sparsely timbered slope which terminated in a rounded crest a mile away. To the boy that smoothly rolling sky line looked ten miles ahead of him. No breath of wind stirred the stinging dead air. His snowshoes became great weights upon his feet which sought to drag him down, down into immeasurable depths of soft warm snow. The slope which in reality was a very easy grade assumed the steepness of a mountain side. He wanted above all things to sleep. He glanced backward. 'Merican Joe's team had stopped, and the Indian was fumbling listlessly with his pack. Halting his own dogs, the boy hastened back. The effort taxed his strength to the limit. His heavy whiplash swished through the air, and 'Merican Joe straightened up with a howl of pain.

"Come on!" cried Connie, as he prepared to strike again. "That cabin's only just over the ridge, and if you stop here you'll freeze!"

"No use," mumbled the Indian. "De red death—de white death. We goin' die annyhow. Me—I'm lak I'm sleep."

"You mush!" ordered the boy. "Get up there and take my dogs and I'll take yours. No more laying down on the job or I'll lay on this whip in earnest. If we mush we'll be there in an hour—Skookum Injun! Where's your nerve?"

'Merican Joe smiled. "Skookum tillicum," he muttered gravely, pointing his mittened hand toward the boy. "Me I'm go 'long wit' you till I die. We mak' her, now. We speet on de kultus tamahnawus in hees face!"

"You bet we will!" cried the boy. "Get up there now, and keep those dogs moving. I'll follow along with yours."

A half hour later the two stood side by side upon the crest of the ridge and looked down into the valley. Both were breathing heavily. Each had fallen time out of number, but each time had scrambled to his feet and urged on his dogs. As they stood now with the false suns dancing above them, the cold seemed to press upon them like a thing of weight. Connie glanced at his thermometer. It had dropped forty degrees! Across a half mile of snow they could see the little cabin in the edge of the timber. Only, now the smoke did not rise from the chimney but poured from its mouth and fell heavily to the roof where it rolled slowly to the ground. Motioning with his arm, 'Merican Joe led off down the slope and Connie followed, holding weakly to the tail rope of his toboggan. The going was easier than the ascent had been, but the "strong cold" seemed to strike to the very bone. After what seemed hours, the boy found himself before the door of the cabin. Beside him 'Merican Joe was bending over unharnessing the dogs. Connie stooped to look at the thermometer. "Seventy-two below!" he muttered, "and she only goes to seventy-six!"

Frantically the boy worked helping 'Merican Joe to unharness the dogs and when the last one was freed he opened the door and, closely followed by the Indian, stumbled into the cabin.

The next thing Connie knew he was lying on a bunk and a woman was seated beside him holding a spoon to his lips while she supported his head on her arm. The boy swallowed and a spoonful of hot liquid trickled down his throat. He felt warm, and comfortable, and drowsy—so drowsy that it was with an effort that he managed to swallow other spoonfuls of the hot liquid. Slowly he opened his eyes and then struggled to a sitting posture. 'Merican Joe sat upon the floor with his back against the log wall. He became conscious of a stinging sensation in his face and he prodded his cheek with an inquisitive finger.

The woman noticed the action. "It is not bad," she explained. "Your nose and your cheeks they were frozen but I thawed them out with the snow." Suddenly her expression changed and a look of fear haunted her eyes. She pointed toward the door. "But—what is it—out there? The sky is all wrong. There are no clouds, yet it is not blue, and there are many suns that move and jump about. It is a time of great evil. Did you not see the plague flag? And my man is away. Maybe it is the end of all things. I am afraid. Why are there many suns?"

"It is the white death," answered the boy. "You needn't fear. Only stay in the house and don't breathe the outside air. I have seen it once before. Tonight will come the northern lights and they will hiss and pop and snap. And they will be so bright it will look like the whole world is on fire. Then the wind will come, and tomorrow it will be gone, and everything will be the same as before."

"I have heard of the white death," said the woman. "My father and some of the old men have seen it—beyond Bear Lake. My father and some of the others crawled under their blankets and lay for more than a day but some of the old men died."

The thin wail of an infant sounded from a pole crib at the other end of the room, and the woman rose quickly and crossed to its side. Connie saw her stoop over the crib and mutter soft, crooning words, as she patted the tiny bed clothing with her hand. The wailing ceased, and the woman tiptoed back to his side. "It is the little Victor," she explained, and Connie noticed that her eyes were wet with tears. Suddenly she broke down and covered her face with her hands while her body swayed to and fro. "Oh, my little man! My little soft baby! He must die—or be terribly scarred by the hand of the red death! So beautiful—so little, and so good, and so beautiful! And I have nothing to feed him, for Rene has taken the milk. Rene is a devil! I would have killed him but he took the gun." The woman stopped speaking, and the silence of the little cabin was punctuated by the sound of her muffled sobs.

Connie felt a strange lump rising in his throat. He swallowed and attempted to speak, but the result was a funny noise way back in his throat. He swallowed several times and when he finally spoke his voice sounded hard and gruff. "Quit crying, mam, and help me get this straight. I don't believe your little kid's got the smallpox." He paused and glanced about the room. "This ain't the kind of a place he'd get it—it's too clean. Who told you it was the red death?"

"Oh, no one told me! Who is there to tell? Rene is a liar, and my man has gone to Fort Norman. But," she leaped to her feet and regarded Connie with a tense, eager look, "can it be that you are a doctor?" The next instant she turned away. "No—you are but a boy!"

"No," repeated Connie, "I am not a doctor. But I used to be in the Mounted and I learned all there was in the manual about smallpox and I've seen a good deal of it. What makes you think it's smallpox?"

"I have seen, on his little chest—the red blotches. What else could it be?"

"How long has he been sick?"

"Since day before yesterday."

"Did he have any fits? Did he vomit? Did he run up a high fever?"

"No—none of these things. But he has not wanted much to eat—and on his chest are the blotches."

"Let's look at 'em."

The woman led the way to the crib and lifting the baby from it, bared his chest. Connie examined the red marks minutely. He felt of them with his fingers, and carefully examined the forehead along the roots of the hair. Then he turned to the woman with a smile. "Put him back," he said quietly. "He's a buster of a kid, all right—and he ain't got smallpox. He'll be well as ever in three or four days. He's got chicken pox—"

The woman clutched at his arm and her breath came fast. "Are you sure?" she cried, a great hope dawning in her eyes. "How can you tell?"

"It's all in the manual. Smallpox pimples feel hard, like shot, and they come first on the face and forehead, and there is always high fever and vomiting, and the pimples are always round. This is chicken pox, and it ain't dangerous, and I told you I used to be with the Mounted, and the Mounted is always sure. Now, what about this Rainy person that stole the little kid's milk?" But the woman was paying no attention. She was pacing up and down the floor with the baby hugged to her breast—laughing, crying, talking to the little one all in the same breath, holding him out at arm's length and then cuddling him close and smothering him with kisses. Then, suddenly, she laid the baby in his crib and turned to Connie who, in view of what he had seen, backed away in alarm until he stood against the door.

"Ah, you are the grand boy!" the woman exclaimed. "You have saved the life of my little Victor! You are my friend. In four days comes my man—the little one's papa, and he will tell you better than I of our thanks. He is your friend for life. He is Victor Bossuet, and on the rivers is none like him. I will tell him all—how the little one is dying with the red death, and you come out of the strong cold with the frost in the nose and the cheeks, and you look on the little Victor who is dying, and say 'non,' and pouf! the red death is gone, and the little baby has got only what you call chickiepok! See! Even now he is laughing!"

"He's all right," smiled Connie. "But you're way off about my curing him. He'd have been well as ever in a few days anyhow and you'd have had your scare for nothing."

The woman's voluble protest was interrupted by a wail from the infant, and again her mood changed and she began to pace the floor wringing her hands. "See, now he is hungry and there is nothing to feed him! Rene is a devil! He has taken the milk."

"Hold on!" interrupted Connie. "Was it canned milk? 'Cause if it was you don't need to worry. I've got about a dozen cans out there on the toboggan. Wait and I'll get it." He turned to the Indian who had been a silent onlooker. "Come on, Joe, crawl into your outfit. While I get the grub and blankets off the toboggans, you rustle the wood and water—and go kind of heavy on the wood, 'cause, believe me, there ain't any thermometer going to tell us how cold it will get tonight."

A quarter of an hour later Connie dragged in a heavy canvas sack and two rolls of blankets just as 'Merican Joe stacked his last armful of wood high against the wall. "I fed the dogs," said the boy as he rummaged in the bag and handed the cans of milk one by one to the woman, "and I could tell your husband is an old-timer by the looks of his dog shelter—warm and comfortable, and plenty of room for two teams. I can find out all I want to know about a man by the way he uses his dogs."

"He is the best man on the rivers," repeated the woman, her eyes shining, as she opened a can of milk, carefully measured an amount, added water, and stirred it as it heated on the stove. Connie watched with interest as she fed it to the baby from a spoon. "Again you have saved his life," she said, as the last spoonful disappeared between the little lips.

"Aw, forget that!" exclaimed the boy, fidgeting uncomfortably. "What I want is the dope on this Rainy—how did he come to swipe the kid's milk? And where is he heading for? I'm in something of a hurry to get to Fort Norman, but I've got a hunch I'm due for a little side trip. He ain't going to be far ahead of me tomorrow. If he holes up today and tonight I'll catch up with him along about noon—and if he don't hole up—the white death will save me quite a bit of trouble."

"Ah, that Rene!" exclaimed the woman, her face darkling with passion, "he is Victor's brother, and he is no good. He drinks and gambles and makes the big noise with his mouth. Bou, wou, wou! I am the big man! I can do this! I can do that! I am the best man in the world! Always he has lived in the towns in the winter and spent his money but this winter he came and lived with us because his money was gone. That is all right he is the brother of my husband. He is welcome. But one does not have to like him. But when my husband tells him to go to Fort Norman for food because we did not know there would be three, he made excuse, and my husband went and Rene stayed. Then the next day the little Victor was sick, and I saw the hand of the red death upon him and I told Rene that he should run fast after Victor and tell him. But he would not! He swore and cursed at his own ill luck and he ran from the house into the woods. I made the plague flag and hung it out so that no traveller should come in and be in danger of the red death.

"By and by Rene came in from the woods in a terrible rage. He began to pack his outfit for the trail and I stayed close by the side of my little one for fear Rene would do him harm in his anger. At last he was ready and I was glad to see him go. I looked then and saw that he had taken all the food! Even the baby's milk he had taken! I rushed upon him then, but I am a woman and no match for a big man like Rene, and he laughed and pushed me away. I begged him to leave me some food, and he laughed the more—and on my knees I implored him to leave the baby's milk. But he would not. He said he had sworn vengeance upon Victor, and now he would take vengeance. He said, 'The brat will not need the milk for he will die anyway, and you will die, and Victor will follow me, and I will lead him to a place I know, and then he will die also.' It was then I rushed for the gun, but Rene had placed it in his pack. And I told him he must not go from a plague house, for he would spread the terrible red death in all the North. But he laughed and said he would show the North that he, Rene Bossuet, was a god who could spread death along the rivers. He would cause it to sweep like a flame among the rivermen who hated him, and among the men of the Mounted."

The woman paused and Connie saw that a look of wonderful contentment had come into her eyes.

"The good God did not listen to the curses of Rene," she said, simply, "for as I lay on the floor I prayed to Him and He sent you to me, straight out of the frozen places where in the winter no men are. Tell me, did not the good God tell you to come to me—to save the little baby's life?" There was a look of awed wonder in the woman's eyes, and suddenly Connie remembered the mirage with the blazing plague flag in the sky.

"Yes," he answered, reverently, "I guess maybe He did."

That night the wind came, the aurora flashed and hissed in the heavens, and early in the morning when Connie opened the door the air was alive with the keen tang of the North. Hastily he made up his pack for the trail. Most of the grub he left behind, and when the woman protested he laughed, and lied nobly, in that he told her that they had far too much grub for their needs. While 'Merican Joe looked solemnly on and said nothing.

With the blessing of the woman ringing in their ears they started on the trail of Rene Bossuet. When they were out of sight of the cabin, the Indian halted and looked straight into the boy's eyes.

"We have one day's grub, for a three-day's trail if we hit straight for Fort Norman," he announced. "Why then do we follow this man's trail? He has done nothing to us! Why do you always take upon yourself the troubles of others?"

"Where would you have been if I didn't?" flashed the boy angrily. "And where would the trapper have been and that woman and little baby? When I first struck Alaska I was just a little kid with torn clothes and only eight dollars and I thought I didn't have a friend in the world. And then, at Anvik, I found that every one of the big men of the North was my friend! And ever since that time I have been trying to pay back the debt I owe the men of the North—and I'll keep on trying till I die!"

With a shrug 'Merican Joe started his dogs and took up the trail. Two hours later Connie took the lead, and pointed to the tracks in the snow. "He's slowing up," he exclaimed. "If we don't strike his camp within a half an hour, we'll strike—something else!"

A few minutes later both halted abruptly. Before them was a wide place in the snow that had been trampled by many feet—the soft padded feet of the wolf pack. A toboggan, with its pack still securely lashed, stood at the end of Rene Bossuet's trail. Small scraps of leather showed where the dogs had been torn from the harness. Connie closed his eyes and pictured to himself what had happened there, in the night, in the sound of the roaring wind, and in the changing lights of the brilliantly flashing aurora. Then he opened his eyes and stepped out into the trampled space and gazed thoughtfully down upon the few scattered bits that lay strewn about upon the snow—a grinning skull, deeply gored here and there with fang marks, the gnawed ends of bones, and here and there ravellings and tiny patches of vivid blue cloth. And as he fastened the toboggan behind his own and swung the dogs onto the back-trail, he paused once more and smiled grimly:

"He had always lived in the North," he said, "but he didn't know the North. He ran like the coward he was from the red death when there was no danger. And not only that, but he stole the food from a woman and a sick baby. He thought he could get away with it—'way up here. But there's something in the silent places that men don't understand—and never will understand. I've heard men speak of it. And now I have seen it—the working of the justice of the North!"



CHAPTER VII

AT FORT NORMAN

No trading post in all the North is more beautifully situated than Fort Norman. The snug buildings of the Hudson's Bay Company and the Northern Trading Company are located upon a high bank, at the foot of which the mighty Mackenzie rushes northward to the frozen sea. On a clear day the Rocky Mountains are plainly visible, and a half mile below the post, Bear River, the swift running outlet to Great Bear Lake, flows into the Mackenzie. It is to Fort Norman that the Indians from up and down the great river, from the mountains to the westward, and from Great Bear Lake, and a thousand other lakes and rivers, named and unnamed, to the eastward, come each year to trade their furs. And it was there that Connie Morgan and 'Merican Joe arrived just thirty-seven days after they pulled out of Dawson.

Except at the time of the holiday trading, winter visitors are few at the isolated post, and the two were heartily welcomed by the agents of the rival trading companies, and by the two priests of the little Roman Catholic Mission.

Connie learned from the representatives of both companies that from all indications fur would be plentiful that year, but both expressed doubt that Fort Norman would get its share of the trading.

"It's this way," explained McTavish, a huge, bearded Scot, as they sat about the fur trader's roaring stove upon the evening of their arrival. "The mountain Indians—the moose eaters, from the westward—are trading on the Yukon. They claim they get better prices over there an' maybe they do. The Yukon traders get the goods into the country cheaper, an' they could sell them cheaper, an' I ain't blamin' the Indians for tradin' where they can do best. But, now comes reports of a free trader that has trailed up the Coppermine from the coast to trade amongst the caribou eaters to the eastward. If that's so—an' he gets 'em to trade with him—God help those Indians along towards spring."

The man relapsed into silence and Connie grinned to himself. "They've had it all their way up here for so long it makes them mad if anybody else comes in for a share of their profits," thought the boy. Aloud, he asked innocently:

"What's the matter with the free traders?"

McTavish frowned, and Berl Hansen, the Dane who managed the affairs of the Northern Trading Company's post, laughed harshly.

"Go down along the railroads, boy," he said, "if you want to see the handiwork of the free traders, an' look at the Indians that has dealt with 'em. You can see 'em hanging around them railroad towns, that was once posts where they handled good clean furs. Them Injuns an' their fathers before 'em was good trappers—an' look at 'em now!"

"Yes," interrupted Connie, "but they are the victims of the bootleggers and the whiskey runners! How about the free trader that won't handle liquor?"

"There ain't no such a free trader!" exclaimed Hansen, angrily. "They're a pack of lying, thievin'——"

"There, there, Berl, lad!" rumbled McTavish, checking the irate Dane, who had fairly launched upon his favourite theme. "Ye're right, in the main—but the lad's question was a fair one an' deserves a fair answer. I'm an older man, an' I've be'n thirty years in the service of the Company. Let me talk a bit, for there are a few traders that for aught I know are honest men an' no rum peddlers. But, there's reasons why they don't last long." The old Scotchman paused, whittled deliberately at his plug tobacco, and filled his pipe. "It's this way," he began. "We'll suppose this trader over on the Coppermine is a legitimate trader. We will handle his case fairly, an' to do that we must consider first the Hudson's Bay Company. For two hundred an' fifty years we have been traders of the North—we know the needs of the North—an' we supply them. The Indian's interests are our interests, and we trade nothing but the best goods. For two centuries an' a half we have studied the North and we have dealt fairly. And may I say here," with a glance toward Hansen, "that there are several other companies with sound financial backing and established posts that have profited by our experience and also supply only the best of goods, and deal fairly. With them we have no quarrel—honest competition, of course, we have—but no quarrel. Comes now the free trader. He is a man of small capital. His goods are cheap, they are of inferior quality. He cannot give 'debt,' as the credit of the North is called. He cannot carry a large number of Indians for six months or a year as we do. If he attempts it, his creditors press him and he goes to the wall—or the Indians find out before time for payment comes that the goods are inferior, and they repudiate their debt. It is bad all around—bad for the Indians, bad for the free traders, and bad for us——"

"I should think it would be good for you," interrupted Connie.

The factor shook his head: "I told you the Indians' interests are our interests. I will show you. Take it at this very post. We will suppose that the beaver are becoming scarce around here; what do we do? We say to the Indians, 'Do not kill any beaver this year and next year.' And they obey us—why? Because we will not buy any beaver here during that time. They will not kill what they cannot sell. Then, when the beavers have become numerous again, we resume trade in them. Were it not for this policy, many fur-bearing animals that once were numerous would now be extinct.

"But—suppose there are free traders in the country—we will pay nothing for beavers, so they begin to buy them cheap—they can name their own price, and the Indians will keep on killing them. The Indian says: 'It is better that I should sell this beaver now at six skins than that my neighbour should sell him in two years at twelve skins.' Then, soon, there are no more beavers left in that part of the country. Another thing, in the fur posts our word is law. We tell the Indians when they can begin to take fur, and when they must stop. The result is we handle only clean, prime pelts with the flesh side white as paper. With the free trader a pelt is a pelt, prime or unprime, it makes no difference. So the killing goes merrily on where the free traders are—and soon all the fur-bearing animals are exterminated from that section. What does the free trader care? He loads his fly-by-night outfit into canoes or a York boat, and passes on to lay waste another section, leaving the poor Indians to face the rigours of the coming winter with ruined credit, cheap, inadequate clothing, cheap food, and worthless trinkets, and their hunting grounds barren of game."

"But," objected Connie, "suppose a free trader dealt in goods as good as yours——"

McTavish laughed. "I have yet to see that trader in thirty years' experience. Admit that his goods did measure up to our standard. What would he have to charge for them? We buy in vast quantities—in some cases we take the entire output of factories, and we have an established system of transportation to get it into the wilds. No free trader can compete with us—cost plus freight would ruin him, especially as he must allow the Indians a debt."

"How much debt do they get?"

"That depends upon several things. First of all upon the Indian—his reputation for honesty, and his reputation as a hunter. It also depends upon the size of his family, the distance of his hunting ground from the post, and his general prospects for the season. It varies from one hundred to five or six hundred, and in exceptional cases even to a thousand skins."

"What do you mean by a skin?"

"A skin," explained McTavish, "is our unit of trade. Instead of saying a certain thing is worth so many dollars, we say it is worth so many 'skins' or 'made beaver.'. At this post the value of the made beaver is a half-dollar." The factor opened a drawer and drew forth a handful of brass tokens which he handed to Connie for inspection. "These are skins, or made beaver. We offer an Indian so many skins for his pack of furs. He has little idea of what we mean when we tell him he has five hundred skins' worth of fur, so we count out five hundred of these made beaver—he can see them, can feel them—the value of his catch is immediately reduced to something concrete—something he can understand—then we take away the amount of his debt, and if there are still some made beaver remaining, he knows he has something left over to spend for finery and frippery. Rarely does he use these extra skins for the purchase of food or necessary clothing—he contracts a new debt for that. But, wait till spring when the Indians come in, and you will witness the trading for yourself. It is then you will see why it is that the free trader has small chance of doing business at a profit north of sixty."

"But, why wouldn't it be just as easy to figure it in dollars?" asked the boy.

McTavish laughed. "There were several reasons, although, with the government paying treaty in cash nowadays, the Indians are beginning to know something of money. But the main reason is that when the made beaver was first invented, no one seems to know just when or where or by whom, there was no money in the country—everything was traded or bartered for some other thing. And because the skin, and particularly the beaver skin, was the thing most bartered by Indians, the unit of value came to be known as a 'skin' or 'made beaver.' Another reason why money has never been popular with us is because of its destructibility. Take this post, for instance. Suppose we were compelled to ship silver dollars back and forth between here and Edmonton? Ten thousand of them would weigh close to six hundred pounds! Six hundred pounds would mean, on scows, six pieces—and mighty valuable pieces too, to be loaded and unloaded a dozen times, carried over portages, shot through dangerous rapids, carried up and down slippery river banks and across slippery planks to the scows. Suppose one of these pieces were dropped overboard by one of the none too careful half-breed rivermen? The Company would lose just so many dollars. Or, suppose the riverman very conveniently dropped the piece into the water where he could recover it again? A dollar is a dollar—it can be spent anywhere. But suppose that the piece contained only a supply of these brass 'made beaver'—the whole ten thousand would only make one piece—and if it dropped into the river the Company would lose only so much brass. Then if the riverman afterward recovered it, instead of finding himself possessed of dollars which he could spend anywhere, he would only have a hundred pounds or so of brass tokens whose value had been cancelled. And, again, the expense of transportation, even granted the consignment arrived safely at its destination, would be against the dollar. One hundred pounds, where freight costs sixteen cents a pound to move, is much cheaper to move than six hundred pounds."

"Yes," agreed Connie, "but how about using paper money?"

"Worse, and more of it!" exclaimed McTavish. "In the first place the piece, or package, would be lighter and of greater value—therefore much easier to make away with. Some lone bandit, or gang of bandits, might find it well worth their while to hold up the scow brigade and make off with that little piece. And, besides, until very recently, the Indians have had no sense of the value of paper money. An Indian cannot see why one piece of paper should be worth five dollars, and another exactly like it in size and colour should be worth ten, or twenty, or fifty—and another piece of paper be worth nothing at all. I am sure no one at the posts would welcome the carrying on of business upon a cash basis—I know I should not. The Canadian North is the cleanest land in the world, in so far as robbery is concerned, thanks to the Mounted. But with its vast wilderness for hiding places and its lack of quick transportation and facility for spreading news, I am afraid it would not long remain so, if it became known that every trading post possessed its cash vault. As it is, the goods of the North, in a great measure, protect themselves from theft by their very bulk. A man could hardly expect to get out of this country, for instance, with even a very few packs of stolen fur. The Mounted would have him before he could get half way to the railroad."

"It seems funny," grinned Connie, "to find an outfit that doesn't like to do business for cash!"

"Funny enough, till you know the reason—then, the most natural thing in the world. And, there is yet one more reason—take the treaty money. The Indians bring the treaty money to us and buy goods with it. We make the profit on the goods—but if they had bought those same goods for fur—we would have made the profit on the fur, also—and primarily, we are a fur company—although every year we are becoming more and more of a trading company and a land company. I am glad I shall not live to see the last of the fur trade—I love the fur—it speaks a language I know."

A short time later the company broke up, Berl Hansen returned to his own quarters, and Connie and 'Merican Joe were given the spare room in the factor's house where for the first time since leaving Dawson they slept under a roof.



CHAPTER VIII

BAIT—AND A BEAR

The business of outfitting for the balance of the winter occupied two whole days and when it was finished down to the last item Connie viewed the result with a frown. "It's going to take two trips to pack all that stuff. And by the time we make two trips and build a cabin besides, we won't have much time left for trapping."

"Where you headin' for?" queried McTavish.

"Somewhere over on the Coppermine," answered the boy. "I don't know just where—and I guess it don't make much difference."

The big Scotchman laughed. "No, lad, it won't make no great difference. What put it in your head to trap on the Coppermine?"

"Why, the truth is, it isn't so much the trapping I'm interested in. I want to try my hand at prospecting over there."

"Gold?"

"Yes—mainly."

McTavish shook his head forebodingly.

Connie smiled. "You don't believe there's any gold there?" he asked. "'Gold's where you find it,' you know."

"There must be lots of it there, then. Nobody's ever found it. But, it's a bad time of year to be hittin' for the Coppermine country. It's bleak, an' barren, an' storm ridden. An' as for trappin' you'll find nothin' there to trap but foxes this time of year, an' you won't be able to do any prospectin' till summer. You might better trap in closer to the post this winter, an' when the lake opens you can take a York boat an' a canoe an' cover most of the distance by water."

Connie frowned. "I started out for the Coppermine," he began, but the factor interrupted him with a gesture.

"Sure you did—an' you'll get there, too. It's this way, lad. You're a sourdough, all right, I knew that the minute I saw you. An' bein' a sourdough, that way, you ain't goin' to do nothin' that it ain't in reason to do. There's a deal of difference between a determination to stick to a thing an' see it through in the face of all odds when the thing you're stickin' to is worth doin'; an' stickin' to a thing that ain't worth doin' out of sheer stubbornness. The first is a fine thing an' the second is a foolish thing to do."

"I guess that's right," agreed Connie, after a moment of silence.

"Of course it's right!" interrupted McTavish. "You ought to find a good trappin' ground down along the south shore, somewheres between the Blackwater and Lake Ste. Therese. Ought to be plenty of caribou in there too, an' what with droppin' a few nets through the ice, an' what you can bring in with your rifles you won't need to draw in your belts none."

"How far is it from here?" asked the boy.

"Not over a hundred an' fifty miles at the outside, an' if you'll wait around a couple of days, there'll be some of the Bear Lake Indians in with some fish from the Fisheries. They're due now. You can hire them for guides. They'll be bringin' down a couple of tons of fish, so they'll have plenty sled room so you can make it in one trip."

And so it was decided that Connie and 'Merican Joe should winter somewhere on the south shore of Great Bear Lake, and for a certain band of Indians that had established their camp upon the river that flows from Lake Ste. Therese into the extreme point of McVicker Bay, it was well they did.

The Bear Lake Indians appeared the following day, delivered their fish at the post, and Connie employed two of them with their dog teams to make the trip. The journey was uneventful enough, with only one storm to break the monotony of steady trailing with the thermometer at forty and even fifty below—for the strong cold had settled upon the Northland in earnest.

Upon the sixth day 'Merican Joe halted the outfit upon the shore of a little lake which lay some five miles from the south shore of Keith Bay. "Build camp here," he said, indicating a low knoll covered with a dense growth of spruce. Connie paid off the guides with an order on the Hudson's Bay Company, and hardly had they disappeared before he and 'Merican Joe were busy clearing away the snow and setting up the tent that was to serve as temporary quarters until the tiny cabin that would be their winter home could be completed.

The extra sled provided by the Indians, and the fact that they were to go only a comparatively short distance from the post, had induced Connie to add to his outfit a few conveniences that would have been entirely out of the question had he insisted in pushing on to the Coppermine. There was a real sheet iron stove with several lengths of pipe, a double window—small to be sure, but provided with panes of glass—and enough planking for a small sized door and door frame. Although the snow all about them showed innumerable tracks of the fur bearers, the two paid no attention to them until the cabin stood finished in its tiny clearing. And a snug little cabin it was, with its walls banked high with snow, its chinks all sealed with water-soaked snow that froze hard the moment it was in place, and its roof of small logs completely covered with a thick layer of the same wind-proof covering.

On the morning following the completion of the cabin Connie and 'Merican Joe ate their breakfast by candlelight. Connie glanced toward the pile of steel traps of assorted sizes that lay in the corner. "We'll be setting them today, Joe. The fox tracks are thick all along the lake, and yesterday I saw where a big lynx had prowled along the edge of that windfall across the coulee."

'Merican Joe smiled. "Firs' we got to git de bait. Dat ain' no good we set de trap wit'out no bait."

"What kind of bait? And where do we get it?" asked the boy.

"Mos' any kin'—rabbit, bird, caribou, moose. Today we set 'bout wan hondre snare for de rabbit. We tak' de leetle gun 'long, mebbe-so we git de shot at de ptarmigan."

"Why can't we take a few fox traps with us? We could bait 'em with bacon, or a piece of fish."

"No, dat ain' no good for ketch de fox. Dat leetle fox she too mooch smart. She hard to trap. She ain' goin' fool wit' bacon an' fish. She stick out de nose an' smell de man-smell on de bacon an' she laugh an' run away. Same lak de fish—she say: 'De fish b'long in de wataire. How he git t'rough de ice an' sit on de snow, eh?' An' den she run 'way an' laugh som' mor'. We ain' goin' trap no fox yet annyhow. Novembaire, she mos' gon'. Decembaire we trap de marten an' de loup cervier. In Janueer de marten curl up in de stump an' sleep. Den we trap de fox. She ain' so smart den—she too mooch hongre."

At daylight the two started, 'Merican Joe leading the way to a dense swamp that stretched from the lake shore far inland. Once in the thicket the Indian showed Connie how to set snares along the innumerable runways, or well-beaten paths of the rabbits, and how to secure each snare to the end of a bent sapling, or tossing pole, which, when released by the struggles of the rabbit from the notch that held it down, would spring upright and jerk the little animal high out of reach of the forest prowlers. During the forenoon Connie succeeded in shooting four of the big white snowshoe rabbits, and at the noon camp 'Merican Joe skinned these, being careful to leave the head attached to the skin.

"I didn't know rabbit skins were worth saving," said Connie, as the Indian placed them together with the carcasses in the pack.

"You wait—by-m-by I show you somet'ing," answered the Indian. And it was not long after the snare setting had been resumed that Connie learned the value of the rabbit skins. As they worked deeper into the swamp, lynx, or loup cervier tracks became more numerous. Near one of the runways 'Merican Joe paused, drew a skin from his pack, and proceeded to stuff it with brush. When it had gained something the shape of the rabbit, he placed it in a natural position beneath the low-hanging branches of a young spruce and proceeded to set a heavier snare with a larger loop. The setting of this snare was slightly different from the setting of the rabbit snares, for instead of a tossing pole the snare was secured to the middle of a clog, or stout stick about two inches in diameter and four feet long. The ends of this clog were then supported upon two forked sticks in such manner that the snare hung downward where it was secured in position by tying the loop to a light switch thrust into the snow at either side. The snare was set only a foot or two from the stuffed rabbit skin and sticks and brush so arranged that in order to reach the rabbit the lynx must leap straight into the snare. The remaining rabbit skins were similarly used during the afternoon, as were the skins of two ptarmigan that Connie managed to bring down.

"Use de skin for bait de loup cervier, an' de meat for bait de marten—dat de bes' way," explained 'Merican Joe, as they worked their way toward the edge of the swamp after the last snare had been set.



The early darkness was already beginning to fall when Connie stopped suddenly and stared down at the snow at the base of a huge mass of earth and moss that had been thrown upward by the roots of a fallen tree. The thing that caught the boy's attention was a round hole in the snow—a hole hardly larger in diameter than a silver quarter, and edged with a lacy filigree of frost spicules. The boy called to 'Merican Joe who had paused to refasten the thongs of his rackets. At the first glance the Indian's eyes lighted:

"Bear in dere!" he exclaimed. "We dig um out. We git plenty meat—plenty bait—an' de good skin besides."

"Hadn't we better wait till tomorrow and bring the heavy rifle?" Connie asked. "We can't kill a bear with this dinky little twenty-two."

"We ain' need no gun. Me—I cut de good stout club, an' you tak' de ax. De bear she too mooch sleepy to do no fightin'. Den we git de toboggan an' haul um in. We only 'bout wan half-mile from camp. Tomor' we got plenty bait, we set de marten trap. We skin de bear tonight we save wan whole day." As he talked, the Indian felled a small birch and trimmed about five feet of its trunk which measured about two inches and a half in thickness. "Dat fix um good, an' den we cut de t'roat," he explained, brandishing the club in the air.

"I don't know," replied Connie, dubiously. "Waseche and I have killed several bears, and there was a time or two when a couple of good thirty-forty's came near not being big enough."

'Merican Joe grinned. "Dat was grizzlies. I ain' t'ink de grizzly com' so far from de montaine. Dis leetle black bear, she ain' lak to fight mooch."

"I hope you're right," grinned the boy, as he fell to work helping the Indian to trample the snow into good solid footing for a space of ten feet or more about the airhole. This done, they removed snowshoes and coats and with ax and pole attacked the snow that covered their quarry.

"I feel um!" cried the Indian, as he thrust his pole deep into the snow after five minutes of hard work. "We wake um up firs', an' when he stick out de head we bang um good." 'Merican Joe continued to ram his pole into the snow where he had felt the yielding mass of the bear's body, all the time haranguing the bear in jargon, addressing him as "cousin," and inviting him to come out and be killed, and in the same breath apologizing for the necessity of taking his life.

Then—very suddenly—"cousin" came out! There was a mighty upheaval of snow, a whistling snort, and a mountain of brown fur projected itself into the rapidly gathering dusk. 'Merican Joe struck valiantly with his club at the monstrous head that in the half-light seemed to Connie to measure two feet between the ears. The boy heard the sharp crack of the weapon as it struck the skull, and the next instant he heard the club crashing through the limbs of a small spruce. The infuriated bear had caught it fairly with a sweep of his giant paw. Then Connie struck with his ax, just as 'Merican Joe, with the bear almost upon him, scrambled into the branches of a tree. The boy's blow fell upon the bear's hip, and with a roar the great brute whirled to meet the new attack as Connie gathered himself to strike again.

Then, a very fortunate thing happened. When 'Merican Joe had removed his snowshoes he had stuck them upright in the snow and hung his coat over them. The figure thus formed caught the bear's attention, and with a lurch he was upon it. There was a crackling of ash bows as the snowshoes were crushed in the ponderous embrace. And, seeing his chance, Connie darted forward, for the momentum of the bear's lurch had carried him on to all fours in the soft snow at the edge of the trampled space. As the huge animal struggled, belly deep, the boy brought the bit of his ax down with all his force upon the middle of the brute's spine. The feel of the blow was good as the keen blade sank to the helve. The next instant the ax was jerked from his hands and the boy turned to collide with 'Merican Joe, who had recovered his club and was rushing in to renew the attack. Both went sprawling upon the trodden snow, and before they could recover their feet the bear was almost upon them. They sprang clear, the Indian waiting with upraised club, but the bear advanced slowly, ripping and tearing at the snow with his huge forepaws with their claws as long as a man's fingers. Down came the Indian's club upon the broad skull, but there was no rearing upward to ward off the blow, and then it was that both saw that the animal was dragging its useless hinder part. Connie's ax had severed the animal's backbone, and so long as they kept out of reach of those terrible forepaws they were safe. While the Indian continued to belabour the bear's head, Connie managed to slip around behind the animal and recover his ax, after which it was but the work of a few moments to dispatch the huge bear with a few well-directed blows.

It was almost dark when the two stood looking down upon the carcass of the great barren ground grizzly.

"So that's your little black bear that don't like to fight much!" grinned Connie.

'Merican Joe returned the grin. "All de tam kin learn somet'ing new. Nex' tam we dig out de den bear we bring de big gun 'long. Annyhow, we git mor' bait an' dog feed, an' de good meat, an' de bigger skin, an' we git mor', w'at you call, excite!" He placed his foot upon the head of the dead bear. "Dat too bad we got to kill you, cousin. But Injun an' white boy got to git de meat to eat, an' de bait to ketch de leetle marten. We mooch oblig' you ain' kill us."

'Merican Joe's crushed snowshoes and his coat were dug out of the snow, and together the two managed to work the carcass on to its back. The Indian proceeded to build a fire by the light of which he could skin the bear while Connie fastened on his own rackets and hit out for the cabin to procure the toboggan and dogs, and an extra pair of snowshoes. An hour later he returned, just as 'Merican Joe was stripping the hide from the hind legs. While Connie folded it into a convenient pack, the Indian took the ax and chopped off the bear's head which he proceeded to tie to the branches of a small spruce at the foot of which the animal had been killed.

"What in thunder are you doing?" asked the boy.

'Merican Joe regarded him gravely. "Mus' hang up de skull right where he git kill," he answered.

"Why?"

"Cause Sah-ha-lee Tyee, w'at you call, de Great Spirit, he com' 'long an' count de bears in de springtime. He count de Injun, too, an' de moose, an' de beaver' an' all de big people. S'pose he ain' fin' dat bear. He ain' know dat bear git kill. He t'ink dat bear ain' wake up yet, or else he hide in de den. If de skull ain' hang up she git cover up wit' leaves, or sink in de swamp, an' Sah-ha-lee Tyee no kin fin'. But, w'en he see skull hang up, he say: 'De Injun kill de bear an' git meat. Dat good. I sen' um nodder bear.' So de bear always plenty in de Injun country. De white men com' 'long an' kill de bear. Dey ain' hang up de skull—an' by-m-by, w'ere de white man live de bears is all gon'."

The duty performed to 'Merican Joe's satisfaction, the carcass and skin were loaded on to the toboggan and by the thin light of the little stars they started the dogs and wended their way across the narrow lake to the little cabin in the spruce grove, well satisfied with their first day of trapping.



CHAPTER IX

OUT ON THE TRAP LINE

Connie Morgan was anxious to be off on the trap line early in the morning following the adventure with the bear. But 'Merican Joe shook his head and pointed to the carcass of the bear that for want of a better place had been deposited upon the floor of the cabin. "First we got to build de cache. We ain' got no room in de cabin—an' besides, she too warm for keep de meat good. De dog, an' de wolf, an' de loup cervier, an' de carcajo, w'at you call 'Injun devil,' dey all hongre an' hunt de meat. We got to build de cache high up."

The first thing, of course, was to locate the site. This was quickly done by selecting four spruce trees about three inches in diameter and ten feet apart, and so situated as to form the corner posts of a rude square. Taking his ax, the Indian ascended one of these trees, lopping off the limbs as he went, but leaving the stubs for foot and hand holds. About twelve feet from the ground he cut off the trunk just above the place where a good stout limb stub formed a convenient crotch. The other three trees were similarly treated. Four strong poles were cut and placed from one crotch to another to form the frame of the cache. These poles were cut long enough to extend about four feet beyond the corner posts. Upon this frame-work lighter poles were laid side by side to form the platform of the cache—a platform that protruded beyond the corner posts so far that no animal which might succeed in climbing one of the posts could possibly manage to scramble over the edge. The corner posts were trimmed smooth, and a rude ladder, which consisted simply of a young spruce with the limb stubs left on for the rungs was made. The last step in the completion of the cache was to cut down all trees whose limbs over-hung in such manner that a carcajo could crawl out and drop down upon the platform, and also those trees whose proximity might tempt a lynx to try a flying leap to the cache.

When the carcass of the bear had been quartered and deposited upon the platform, the brush and limbs cleared away, and the ladder removed, the two trappers gazed in satisfaction at their handiwork. The stout cache, capable of protecting several tons of meat from the inroads of the forest prowlers, had been constructed without the use of a single nail, or bit of rope, or thong, and with no tool except an ax!

It was noon when the task was completed, and after a hasty lunch of tea, bear's liver, and bannock, 'Merican Joe selected fifteen small steel traps which he placed in his pack sack. He also carried a light belt ax, while Connie shouldered the larger ax and reached for the 30-40 rifle. 'Merican Joe shook his head.

"Dat ain' no good to tak' de big gun. Tak' de leetle wan an' mebbe-so you git som' mor' bait."

"Yes, and what if we run on to another one of your little black bears that don't like to fight? And what if we should see a caribou? And suppose we found a lynx in one of those snares?"

"We ain' goin' hunt no caribou. We goin' set marten traps, an' if we com' on de bear den we wait an' com' back som' odder time."

"But suppose there is a lynx in one of those snares?" persisted the boy.

"Let um be in de snare. We ain' goin' to de swamp. Dat ain' no good to go 'long de trap line too mooch. Let um be for week—mebbe-so ten day. We go runnin' t'rough de woods every day same place, we scare everyt'ing off. Anyhow, we ain' need de big gun for de loup cervier. De leetle gun better, he don' mak' so big hole in de skin. An' if de loup cervier is in de snare, we ain' need no gun at all. She choke dead."

A half mile from camp, 'Merican Joe set his first trap. The place selected for the set was the trunk of a large spruce that had been uprooted by the wind, and leaned against another tree at an angle of forty-five degrees. Two blows of the light belt ax made a notch into which the small steel trap fitted perfectly. The bait was placed upon the tree trunk just above the trap and a small barrier of bark was constructed close below the trap in such a manner that the marten in clambering over the barrier must almost to a certainty plant at least one fore foot upon the pan of the trap. The trap chain was secured to the tree so that when the marten was caught he would leap from the trunk and hang suspended in the air, which would give him no chance to free himself by gnawing his leg off above the jaws of the trap. This leaning tree set was 'Merican Joe's favourite with the steel traps.

A particularly ingenious set was made upon the trunk of a standing tree whose bark showed tiny scars and scratches that indicated to the practised eyes of the Indian that it was frequently ascended by martens. In this case two short sticks were sharpened and driven into the tree trunk to form a tiny platform for the trap. Some slabs were then cut from a nearby dead spruce and these also were sharpened and driven into the trunk on either side of the trap. Then a piece of bark was laid over the top for a roof, and the bait placed in the back of the little house thus formed. The marten must enter from the bottom and in order to reach the bait, the only possible spot for him to place his feet would be upon the pan of the trap.

Several sets were also made on the ground in places where the sign showed right. These ground sets were made generally at the base of a tree or a stump and consisted of little houses made of bark, with the bait in the back and the trap placed between the door and the bait. In the case of these sets, instead of securing the chain to the tree or stump, it was made fast to a clog, care being taken to fasten the chain to the middle of the stick.

Three or four sets were made for mink, also. These sets were very simple, and yet the Indian made them with elaborate care. They consisted in placing the trap just within the mouth of a hole that showed evidence of occupation, after first scooping out a depression in the snow. The trap was placed in the bottom of the depression and carefully covered with light, dry leaves that had been previously collected. 'Merican Joe took great care to so arrange these leaves that while the jaws, pan, and spring were covered, no leaves would be caught in the angle of the jaws and thus prevent their closing about the leg of the mink. The leaves were now covered with snow, and the chain carried outward, buried in the snow, and secured to a tossing pole.

The short sub-arctic day had drawn to a close even before the last set was made, and in the darkness the two swung wide of their trap line, and headed for the cabin.

"Fifteen sets isn't so bad for an afternoon's work," opined Connie, "especially when you had to do all the work. Tomorrow I can help, and we ought to be able to get out all the rest of the marten traps. There are only fifty all told."

"Fifty steel traps—we git dem set first. We gon 'bout t'ree, four mile today. We use up de steel trap in 'bout fifteen mile. Dat good—dey too mooch heavy to carry. Den we begin to set de deadfall."

"Deadfalls!" cried Connie. "How many traps are we going to put out?"

"Oh, couple hondre marten an' mink trap. We git de trap line 'bout fifty mile long. Den we set lot more loup cervier snare."

They swung out on to their little lake about a mile above the camp and as they mushed along near shore Connie stopped suddenly and pointed to a great grey shape that was running swiftly across the mouth of a small bay. The huge animal ran in a smooth, easy lope and in the starlight his hair gleamed like silver.

"Look!" he whispered to the Indian. "There goes Leloo!" Even as he spoke there came floating down the wind from the direction of the timber at the head of the lake, the long-drawn howl of a wolf. Leloo halted in his tracks and stood ears erect, motionless as a carved statue, until the sound trailed away into silence. A fox trotted out of the timber within ten yards of where the two stood watching and, catching sight of Connie as the boy shifted his twenty-two, turned and dashed along a thin sand point and straight across the lake, passing in his blind haste so close to Leloo that his thick brush almost touched the motionless animal's nose. But the big ruffed wolf-dog never gave so much as a passing glance.

"That's funny," whispered Connie "Why didn't he grab that fox?"

"Leloo, he ain' fool wit' no fox tonight," answered 'Merican Joe. "He goin' far off an' run de ridges wit' de big people." And even as the Indian spoke, Leloo resumed his long, silent lope.

"I sure would like to follow him tonight," breathed the boy, as he watched the great dog until he disappeared upon the smooth, white surface of the lake where the aurora borealis was casting its weird, shifting lights upon the snow.

The weather had moderated to about the zero mark and by the middle of the following afternoon 'Merican Joe set the last of the remaining marten traps. Connie proved an apt pupil and not only did he set fourteen of the thirty-five traps, but each set was minutely examined and approved by the critical eye of 'Merican Joe. When the last trap was set, the Indian commenced the construction of deadfalls, and again Connie became a mere spectator. And a very interested spectator he was as he watched every movement of 'Merican Joe who, with only such material as came to hand on the spot, and no tools except his belt ax and knife, constructed and baited his cunningly devised deadfalls. These traps were built upon stumps and logs and were of the common figure-of-four type familiar to every schoolboy. The weight, or fall log, was of sufficient size to break the back of a marten.

"De steel trap she bes'," explained the Indian. "She easy to set, an' she ketch mor' marten. Wit' de steel trap if de marten com' 'long an' smell de bait he mus' got to put de foot in de trap—but in de deadfall she got to grab de bait an' give de pull to spring de trap. But, de deadfall don't cost nuttin', an' if you go far de steel trap too mooch heavy to carry. Dat why I set de steel trap in close, an' de deadfall far out."

For four days the two continued to set deadfalls. The last two days they packed their sleeping bags, camping where night overtook them, and the evening of the fourth day found them with an even two hundred traps and thirty lynx snares set, and a trap line that was approximately fifty miles long and so arranged that either end was within a half mile of the cabin.

"We go over de snare line in de swamp tomor'," said 'Merican Joe, as they sat that night at their little table beside the roaring sheet-iron stove, "an' next day we start over de trap line."

"About how many marten do you think we ought to catch?" asked Connie.

The Indian shrugged: "Can't tell 'bout de luck—sometam lot of um—sometam mebbe-so not none."

"What do you mean by a lot?" persisted the boy.

"Oh, mebbe-so, twenty—twenty five."

"About one marten for every eight or ten traps," figured the boy.

The Indian nodded. "You set seven steel trap an' catch wan marten, dat good. You set ten deadfall an' ketch wan marten, dat good, too."

"We've got six lynx snares down in the swamp to look at tomorrow. How many lynx are we going to get?"

'Merican Joe grinned. "Mebbe-so not none—mebbe-so one, two. Dat all tam bes' we count de skin w'en we git hom'."

"Don't count your chickens before they're hatched, eh?" laughed Connie.

The Indian looked puzzled. "W'at you mean—chicken hatch?" And when the boy explained to the best of his ability the old saw, 'Merican Joe, who had never seen a chicken in his life, nodded sagely. "Dat right—an' you ain' kin count de fur hatch first, nieder."



CHAPTER X

THE TRAIL OF THE CARCAJO

At daylight next morning they crossed the narrow lake, travelling light, that is, each carried only his lunch in his pack sack, and Connie carried the light rifle, while 'Merican Joe dragged an empty toboggan upon which to haul home the rabbits and the lynx if they were lucky enough to get one.

The toboggan was left at the edge of the swamp and the two entered and plunged into the maze of rabbit paths that crisscrossed the snow in all directions. The first two snares were undisturbed, the third was pushed aside and had to be readjusted. Where the fourth and fifth snares had been a white snowshoe rabbit dangled from each tossing pole, and they were promptly transferred to the pack sacks and the snares reset.

Numerous new snares were set, the old ones adjusted, and the rabbits taken from the tossing poles of the lucky ones. One snare was missing altogether, and 'Merican Joe pointed to the tracks of a large wolf. "He run 'long an' git de foot or de nose in de snare, but she ain' strong 'nough to hold um," he explained. At noon they camped at the place where 'Merican Joe had skinned the rabbits on the first trip. They had twelve rabbits in the packs and these they cached to pick up on the return.

It was not long after they resumed operations on the snare line that Connie, with a whoop of delight, dashed toward the spot where the first lynx snare had been set. The sparse underbrush had been broken down, and for a considerable space the snow had been torn up and trampled in a manner that told of a furious struggle. And right in the middle of the trampled space lay the body of a huge lynx doubled into a curious ball and frozen to the hardness of iron. The struggle had evidently been brief but furious, and terminated with the lynx sealing his own doom. Finding himself caught and held by the ever tightening noose, he had first tried to escape by flight, but the clog immediately caught on the underbrush and held him fast. The infuriated animal had then begun a ferocious attack upon the clog, which showed the deep scars of teeth and claws, and had wound up by catching his powerful hind feet upon the clog, one on either side of the center where the snare was fastened, and by straining the great muscles of his legs, literally choked himself to death.

More rabbits were added to the packs, and a short time later another cache was made. Connie wanted to set some more lynx snares, but they had shot no rabbits, and it was impossible to skin the frozen ones they had taken from the snares without wasting time in thawing them out.

"Let's use a whole one," suggested the boy. "We've got lots of 'em, and a lynx is worth a rabbit, any time."

'Merican Joe objected. "We got plenty rabbit today—mebbe-so nex' tam we ain' got none. It ain' no good we waste de rabbit. S'pose we leave de rabbit for bait; de wolf an' de fox he com' long an' he too mooch smart to git in de snare, but he git de rabbit jes' de sam'. Anyhow, we ain' kin make de rabbit look lak he sittin' down w'en de hine legs is stickin' down straight lak de sawbuck. Nex' tam we got plenty rabbit skin for set de snare—de loup cervier she run all winter, anyhow."

The next four lynx snares were undisturbed, but the sixth and last had disappeared altogether.

"It held him for a while, though," said Connie, as he gazed in disappointment at the snow which had been scratched and thrown in all directions by the big cat.

The Indian laughed aloud at the evident disappointment that showed in the boy's face.

"I don't see anything so funny about it!" frowned Connie.

"Dat mak' me laugh I see you sorry 'bout lose de loup cervier. You rich. You got plenty money. An' when you lose wan loup cervier, you look lak you los' de gol' mine."

"It isn't the value of the skin!" exclaimed the boy, quickly. "But when I start to do a thing I like to do it. It don't make any difference what it is, and it don't make any difference whether the stakes are high or low. If it's worth doing, it's worth doing right. And if it's worth starting, it's worth finishing."

'Merican Joe nodded: "I know. We go finish um loup cervier, now."

"What do you mean—finish him?" cried Connie, pointing to the tracks in the snow that led from the scene of the brief struggle with the snare—tracks that showed where the lynx had fled in powerful, fifteen-foot leaps. "That don't look much like we'd finish that fellow, does it? Believe me, he left here in a hurry! He's probably climbing the North Pole right now!"

"I ain' know nuttin' 'bout no Nort' Poles. W'ere you t'ink de stick go w'at we fix on de snare?"

Connie examined the scene of the struggle minutely, kicking the loose snow about, but failed to find the clog.

"Why, he skipped out, clog and all! That clog wasn't very heavy."

"No, she ain' heavy, but she fasten in de middle, an' she ketch in de brush an' hol' loup cervier tight, you bet! You ain' see no track w'ere de stick drag, eh?"

Connie scrutinized the trail of the lynx, but the snow gave no sign of the clog. He turned a puzzled glance upon the Indian. "That's funny. He certainly didn't leave it here, and he couldn't have dragged it without leaving a trail, even if it hadn't caught on the brush."

Again 'Merican Joe laughed. "No, he ain' leave it—an' he ain' drag it. He ol' man loup cervier—he smart. He fin' out he ain' kin break loose, an' he ain' kin drag de stick, so he pick him up an' carry him in de mout'. But he ain' so mooch smart lak he t'ink. De firs' t'ing de loup cervier do w'en you chase um—he climb de tree. He t'ink de snare chase um—so he climb de tree. Den, by-m-by he git tire to hol' de stick in de mout' an' he let him go. Den he set on de limb long time an' growl. Den he t'ink he go som' mor', an' he start to climb down de tree. An' den de stick ketch on de limb an' he can't git down. He pull an' fight, but dat ain' no good—so he giv' de big jump—an' den he git hung—lak de mans do w'en dey kill nodder mans. Com' on—he ain' lak to go far. He lak to climb de tree. We fin' um queek."

That 'Merican Joe knew what he was talking about was soon demonstrated. For several hundred yards the tracks led straight through the swamp. Suddenly the Indian halted at the foot of a spruce that reared high above its neighbours and pointed to the snow which was littered with needles and bits of bark. There were no tracks beyond the foot of the tree, and Connie peered upward, but so thick were the branches that he could see nothing. Removing his snowshoes and pack, 'Merican Joe climbed the tree and a few moments later Connie heard the blows of his belt ax as he hacked at the limb that held the clog. There was a swish of snow-laden branches, and amid a deluge of fine snow the frozen body of the lynx struck the ground at the boy's feet.

Loading himself with as much as his pack sack could hold, the Indian struck off to get the toboggan, leaving Connie to pack the carcass of the lynx and the remaining rabbits back to the noon-time cache. This necessitated two trips, and when Connie returned with the second load he found 'Merican Joe waiting. "Thirty-two rabbits and two lynx," counted Connie as they loaded the toboggan. "And let's beat it and get 'em skinned so we can start out in the morning on the real trap line."

The rabbits were placed just as they were upon the platform of the cache, to be used as needed, and the evening was spent in thawing and skinning the two lynx.

"Why don't you rip him up the belly like you did the bear?" asked Connie, as the Indian started to slit the animal's head.

"No. Skin um, w'at you call, case. De bear an' de beaver skin flat. Case all de rest. Start on de head lak dis. Den draw de skin down over de body. You see she com' wrong side out. Den you finish on de tail an' de hine legs an' you got um done—all de fur inside, and de flesh side out."

Connie watched with interest while the Indian skillfully drew the pelt from the carcass and stretched it upon splints prepared with his belt ax.

"Now you skin nex' wan," smiled the Indian. "I bet you mak' de good job. You learn queek."

Connie set to work with a will and, in truth, he did a very creditable job, although it took him three times as long as it had taken the Indian, and his pelt showed two small knife cuts. "Now what do we do with 'em?" he asked when he had his skin all stretched.

"Dry um."

Connie started to place them close to the hot stove, but 'Merican Joe shook his head.



"No! Dat ain' no good!" he exclaimed. "Dat fat she melt an' de heat she dry de skin too queek, an' she git, w'at you call, grease burnt. Dat why we nail de bear skin on de outside of de cabin. De skin she got to dry in de cold. W'en de frost dry um, den we mus' got to scrape all de fat an' de meat off, an' wash um, and dry um ag'in—den we got de good prime skin." The Indian fastened a stout piece of line into the nose of each pelt, and climbing the ladder, secured them to one of the poles of the cache in such manner that they hung free to the air, and yet out of reach of any prowling animals. When they returned to the cabin 'Merican Joe proceeded to cut thick slices from the hams of the two lynx carcasses.

"Is that good for bait?" asked the boy.

'Merican Joe laughed. "Dat too mooch good for bait!" he exclaimed. "We goin' have dat meat for de breakfas'."

"For breakfast!" cried Connie. "You don't mean you're going to eat lynx meat! Why, a lynx is a cat!"

"Mebbe-so cat—mebbe-so ain't. Dat don't mak' no differ' w'at you call um. You wait, I fry um an' I bet you t'ink dat de bes' meat you ever eat."

"I don't believe I could tackle a cat," grinned the boy.

"Dat better you forgit dat cat business. If it good, it good. If it ain' good, it ain' good. W'at you care you call um cat—dog—pig? Plenty t'ing good to eat w'en you fin' dat out. De owl, she good meat. De musquash, w'at you call de mushrat—dat don' hurt de meat 'cause you call um rat! De skunk mak' de fine meat, an' de porkypine, too."

"I guess Injuns ain't so particular what they eat," laughed Connie.

"De Injun know w'at de good meat is," retorted 'Merican Joe. "By golly, I seen de white mans eat de rotten cheese, an' she stink so bad dat mak' de Injun sick."

"I guess you win!" laughed the boy. "I've seen 'em too—but you bet I never ate any of it!"

"You try de loup cervier steak in de mornin'," the Indian urged earnestly. "If you don' lak him I bet you my dogs to wan chaw tobac'!"

"I don't chew tobacco," Connie grinned, "but seeing you've gone to all the trouble of slicing the meat up, I'll take a chance."

"How you lak him, eh?" 'Merican Joe grinned across the little table at Connie next morning, as the boy gingerly mouthed a small piece of lynx steak. Connie swallowed the morsel, and, without answering, took another bite. There was nothing gingerly about the action this time, and the Indian noted that the boy's jaws worked with evident relish.

"Well," answered Connie, when the second morsel had gone the way of the first, "if the rest of the things you were telling me about are as good as this, all I've got to say is: Bring 'em along!"

Daylight found them on the trap line with sleeping bags and provisions in their packs, for it would require at least two days to "fresh up" the line.

At noon they camped for lunch almost at the end of the line of steel traps. So far they had been unusually lucky. Only two traps had been sprung empty, and eight martens and a mink were in the pack sacks. Only two of the martens, and the mink were alive when found and Connie quickly learned the Indian method of killing a trapped animal—a method that is far more humane and very much easier when it comes to skinning the animal than the white man's method of beating him on the head with the ax handle. With the latter practice the skull is crushed with the result that there is a nasty mess which discolours the flesh side of the pelt and makes very disagreeable work for the skinner.

The first live marten was in one of the "ground set" traps and upon the approach of the trappers he arched his back and stood at bay, emitting sharp squalls and growls of anger. 'Merican Joe simply planted his snowshoe on him, pressing him into the snow, then with one hand he reached down and secured a firm hold on the animal's neck and gradually worked the fore part of his body from under the snowshoe, taking care to keep the hinder part held fast by the web. Snapping the mitten from his other hand, the Indian felt just behind the lower ribs for the animal's heart, and grasping it firmly between thumb and fingers he pulled quickly downward. The heart was thus torn from its position and the animal died instantly and painlessly. The mink which was suspended by the tossing pole, and the other marten which had fallen victim to one of the "tree sets," of course, could not be held by the snowshoe. As both were caught by the fore leg, a loop of copper wire was slipped about their hind legs and the animals thus stretched out and dispatched in the same manner as the first.

As these three animals were not frozen, 'Merican Joe skinned them at the noon camp, thereby doing away with the weight of the useless carcasses.

"What are we going to do when we finish up this trap line?" asked Connie. "It won't be time to look at the snares again."

"No. We tak' a day an' res' up, an' skin de martens an' stretch um. Den we mus' got to git som' dog feed. We put out de fish nets an' hunt de caribou. Leloo, he be'n killing caribou wit' de wolf pack—he ain' hongre w'en we feed de dogs."

But the revelation of the next few miles drove all thought of a day of rest or a caribou hunt from the mind of the Indian, for real trouble began with the second trap visited in the afternoon. This trap which had been set upon the trunk of a leaning tree, was found dangling empty by its chain, and held firmly between its jaws was the frozen leg of a marten. The keen eyes of 'Merican Joe saw at a glance that the animal had neither gnawed nor twisted its own way out of the trap but had been torn from it by violence. The Indian scowled darkly at certain telltale tracks in the snow, and an exclamation of anger escaped him.

Connie laughed. "Now who's growling about the loss of a skin? One marten more or less won't make much difference."

'Merican Joe continued to scowl. "No, one marten don't mak' mooch differ', but we ain' goin' to git no more marten on dis trap line s'pose we ain' kill dat carcajo! He start in here an' he clean out de whole line. He steal all de marten, an' he bust up de deadfalls. An' we got to ketch um or we got got to move som' nodder place!" And in all truth, the Indian's fears were well justified. For of all the animals of the North, the carcajo is the most hated by the trappers. And he has fairly earned every bit of hatred he gets because for absolute malicious fiendishness this thick-bodied brute of many names has no equal. Scientists, who have no personal quarrel with him, have given him the dignified Latin name of gulo luscus—the last syllable of the last word being particularly apt. In the dictionaries and encyclopaedias he is listed as the glutton. In the United States he is commonly known as the wolverine. The lumberjacks call him the Injun devil. While among the trappers and the Indians themselves he is known as the carcajo, or as bad dog—which is the Indian's idea of absolute cussedness and degeneracy.

Connie broke the silence that had fallen upon the two as they stared at the empty trap. "Well, we won't move!" he cried. "There's no measly carcajo going to run me out of here! We'll get busy, and in two or three days from now we'll have that scoundrel's hide hanging up on the cache with the lynx skins!"

The Indian nodded slowly. "Mebbe-so—mebbe-so not. De carcajo, she smart. She hard to ketch."

"So are we smart!" exclaimed the boy. "Come on—let's go!"

"Ain' no good we go 'long de trap line. De trap she all be bust up. We go back to de cabin an' git som' beaver trap, an' we start out on de odder end an' back-track 'long de trap line. Mebbe-so de carcajo ain' had time to git over de whole line yet. Anyhow, we got to set plenty trap for him."

Hastening back to the cabin, the frozen martens were thawed out and skinned, and 'Merican Joe made up his pack for the trail. Connie refrained from asking questions, as the Indian solemnly made up his queer pack, but the boy resolved to keep his eyes open the following day, for of all the things the Indian placed in his pack sack, there was nothing that appeared to be of any use whatever except the six stout beaver traps.

Daylight next morning found them at the end of the trap line which they back-trailed for some five or six miles without seeing any signs of the presence of the carcajo. They had four martens in their packs, and Connie was beginning to believe that the outlook was not so bad after all, when they suddenly came upon one of the deadfalls literally torn to pieces. There had been a marten in this trap, but nothing remained of him except a few hairs that clung to the bark of the fall-log. The bait was gone, the bait house was broken apart, and the pieces strewn about in the most savage and wanton manner. The tracks were only a few hours old, and Connie was for following them and killing the marauder with the rifle. But 'Merican Joe shook his head: "No, we ain' kin fin' him. He climb de tree and den git in nodder tree an' keep on goin' an' we lose time an' don' do no good. He quit here las' night. He start in ag'in tonight w'ere he leave off. We go back, now, an' set som' trap w'ere he ain' be'n."

Retracing their steps to the first unmolested deadfall, the Indian set one of the beaver traps. But instead of baiting it, or setting it at the opening of the bait house, he carefully scooped a depression in the snow at the back of the house. Placing the trap in this depression so that it lay about two inches below the level of the snow, he carefully laid small clusters of needles from the pan outward so that they rested upon the jaws. This was to keep the snow from packing or freezing on the trap which would prevent it from springing. When the trap was completely covered the Indian took two pieces of crust from the snow and, holding them above the trap, rubbed them together, thus grinding the snow and letting it fall upon the needles until the whole was covered with what looked like a natural fall of snow. "De carcajo he com' to de trap at de back an' break it up," he explained as he stood up and examined his handiwork critically.

"I hope he tries it on that one," grinned Connie, as he followed the Indian who had already started for the next set.

This set was different, in that it was not made at any trap. The Indian paused beside a fallen log and with the ax cut a half-dozen green poles. These he cut into three-foot lengths and laid them one on top of the other in the shape of a three-cornered crib. Then he took from the pack some of the articles that had excited Connie's curiosity. An old coat, tightly rolled, was first placed within the enclosure of the crib. Then several empty tin cans were placed on top of the coat, and covered with an old scrap of canvas. On top of the canvas were placed the snowshoes that had been crushed by the bear. Four of the beaver traps were now set, one on each side of the crib, close to the wall and one on top of the snowshoes inside the enclosure. The traps on the outside were covered in exactly the same manner as the trap set at the deadfall, and the one inside was simply covered with an old worn-out sock.

"Where does the bait go?" asked Connie, as he glanced curiously at the contrivance.

"De bait she all ready. We ain' want no meat bait. De carcajo com' 'long, she see de leetle log house. She sniff 'roun' an' she say: 'Dis is wan cache. I bust him up an' steal all de t'ings.' An' so he go to bust up de cache an' de firs' t'ing she know she got de leg in de trap. Dat mak' him mad an' he jump 'roun' an' by-m-by anodder leg gits in odder trap, an' by golly, den he ain' kin git away no mor'!"

"Why don't you fasten the chains to the big log, instead of to those light clogs?" asked the boy.

"Dat ain' no good way to do," replied the Indian. "If she fasten on de big solid log, de carcajo git chance to mak' de big pull. He git w'at you call de brace, an' he pull an' pull, an' by-m-by, he pull hees foot out. But w'en you mak' de trap on de clog he ain' kin git no good pull. Every tam he pull, de clog com' 'long a leetle, an' all he do is drag de stick."

The remaining trap was set at another deadfall, and the two trappers returned home to await results. But while they waited, they were not idle. The dog food was running low, so armed with ice chisels and axes they went out on to the snow-covered lake and busied themselves in setting their whitefish nets through the ice.



CHAPTER XI

THE CARIBOU HUNT

Connie Morgan and his trapping partner, 'Merican Joe, bolted a hurried breakfast. For both were eager to know the result of their attempt to trap the carcajo that had worked such havoc with their line of marten and mink traps.

"Suppose we do catch this one?" asked Connie as he fastened his rackets. "Won't there be an other one along in a day or two, so we'll have to do it all over again?"

"No," explained the Indian. "Carcajo no like nodder carcajo. In de winter tam de carcajo got he's own place to hunt. If nodder wan comes 'long dey mak' de big fight, an' wan gits lick an' he got to go off an' fin' nodder place to hunt. Injun hate carcajo. Marten hate um. Mink, an fox hate um. Deer hate um. All de peoples hate um—de big peoples, an' de leetle peoples. Carcajo so mean even carcajo hate carcajo!"

A yell of triumph escaped Connie as, closely followed by 'Merican Joe, he pushed aside the thick screen of spruce branches and came suddenly upon the crib-like cache that the Indian had constructed to entice the malicious night prowler. For right in the midst of the wreckage of the cache, surrounded by the broken snowshoes, the tin cans, the old coat, and the sticks that had formed the crib, was the carcajo himself, a foreleg in one trap and his thick shaggy tail in another! When he caught sight of the trappers the animal immediately showed fight. And never had Connie seen such an exhibition of insensate ferocity as the carcajo, every hair erect, teeth bared, and emitting squall-like growls of rage, tugged at the rattling trap chains in a vain effort to attack. Beside this animal the rage of even the disturbed barren ground grizzly seemed a mild thing. But, of course, the grizzly had been too dopey and dazed from his long sleep, to really put forth his best efforts.

"Shoot um in de ear," advised 'Merican Joe, "an' it ain' no hole in de hide an' it kill um queek." And, holding the muzzle of the little twenty-two close, Connie dispatched the animal with one well-placed shot. The next instant, 'Merican Joe was laughing as Connie held his nose, for like the skunk, the carcajo has the power to emit a yellowish fluid with an exceedingly disagreeable odour—and this particular member of the family used his power lavishly.

"He too mooch smart to git in de trap in de snow," said the Indian, pointing to the dead carcajo. "He climb up on de log an' den he jump 'cross de leetle space an' put de foot in de trap on top of de pile. Den w'en he git mad an tear up de cache an' try to git loose, he sit down in wan more trap, an it ketch him on he's tail."

While 'Merican Joe drew the shaggy brownish-black skin from the thick body, Connie recovered the traps, removed the clogs, and cached them where they could be picked up later. Neither of the two traps that had been set at the backs of the marten traphouses had been disturbed, and as Connie gathered these and placed them with the others, he learned of the extreme wariness and caution of the carcajo. For the snow told the story of how the prowler had circled the traphouses several times, and then lumbered on, leaving them untouched.

"It's a wonder you don't cut some steaks out of him," grinned the boy as he looked at the fat carcass.

The Indian shook his head. "No. De carcajo, an' de mink, an' de marten, an' de fisher, an' de otter ain' no good to eat. W'en you fin' de Injun w'at eat 'em—look out! Dat one bad Injun, you bet!"

The work of "freshing up" the trap line in the wake of the carcajo took almost as long as the laying of a new line. For the marauder had done his work thoroughly and well. Hardly a trap was left unmolested. In some places the snow showed where he had eaten a marten, but in most instances the traps were simply destroyed apparently from sheer wantonness. Three or four martens and one lynx were recovered where they had been taken from the traps, carried off the line for some distance, and buried in the snow.

By evening of the third day the task was finished and the two trappers returned to their cabin.

The following day was spent in getting ready a trail outfit for the caribou hunt. Both of the toboggans and dog teams were to be taken to haul home the meat, and provisions for a week's trip were loaded. Only a few caribou tracks had been seen on the trap line and 'Merican Joe believed that more would be found to the south-eastward.

The first night on the trail they camped at the edge of a wide brule, some twenty miles from the cabin. No caribou had been sighted during the day, although tracks were much more numerous than they had been in the vicinity of the cabin. 'Merican Joe had not brought his heavy rifle, preferring instead the twenty-two, with which he had succeeded in bringing down four ptarmigan. And as they sat snug and cozy in the little tent and devoured their supper of stew and tea and pilot bread, Connie bantered the Indian.

"You must think you're going to sneak up as close to the caribou as I did to the carcajo, to get one with that gun."

'Merican Joe grinned. "You wait. You see I git mor' caribou wit' de knife den you git wit' de big gun," he answered. "Me an' Leloo, we ain' need no gun, do we, Leloo?" The great wolf-dog had been secured in the tent to prevent his slipping off during the night, and at the mention of his name he pricked up his ears and searched the faces of the two, as if trying to figure out what all the talk was about. Far away in the timber a wolf howled, and Leloo's eyes at once assumed an expression of intense longing and he listened motionless until the sound died away, then with a glance at the babiche thong that secured him, settled slowly to the robe and lay with his long pointed muzzle upon his outstretched forepaws, and his dull yellow eyes blinking lazily.

Early the following morning they skirted the south shore of Lake Ste. Therese, crossed the river, and headed for a range of hills that could be seen to the south-eastward. The day was warm, ten to fifteen degrees above zero, and the gusty south-east wind was freighted with frequent snow squalls. Toward noon, as they were crossing a frozen muskeg, Connie, who was in the lead, stopped to examine some fresh caribou tracks that led toward the timber of the opposite side in a course nearly parallel with their own. 'Merican Joe halted his team and came forward. Leloo nosed the tracks and, with no more show of interest than a slight twitching of the ears, raised his head and eyed first 'Merican Joe, then Connie. The trail was very fresh and the scent strong so that the other dogs sniffed the air and whined and whimpered in nervous eagerness. The trail was no surprise to Leloo. So keen was his sense of scent that for a quarter of a mile he had known that they were nearing it. Had he been alone, or running at the head of the hunt-pack, he would even now have been wolfing down huge mouthfuls of the warm, blood-dripping meat. But this case was different. At this moment he was a dog, and not a wolf. His work was the work of the harness. Leloo's yellow eyes scrutinized the faces of his two masters as they talked, for he had been quick to recognize Connie as his new master, although he never quite renounced allegiance to the Indian. He obeyed alike the command of either, and both were too wise in the way of dogs to try him out with conflicting commands just to see "which he would mind."