There is no other place in the eastern woods where the snow has such manifold tales to tell, and the hunters that day tramping found themselves dowered over night with the wonderful power of the hound to whom each trail is a plain record of every living creature that has passed within many hours. And though the first day after a storm has less to tell than the second, just as the second has less than the third, there was no lack of story in the snow. Here sped some antlered buck, trotting along while yet the white was flying. There went a fox, sneaking across the line of march, and eying distrustfully that deadfall. This broad trail with many large tracks not far apart was made by one of Skookum's friends, a knight of many spears. That bounding along was a marten. See how he quartered that thicket like a hound, here he struck our odour trail. Mark, how he paused and whiffed it; now away he goes; yes, straight to our trap.

"It's down; hurrah!" Rolf shouted, for there, dead under the log, was an exquisite marten, dark, almost black, with a great, broad, shining breast of gold.

They were going back now toward the beaver lake. The next trap was sprung and empty; the next held the body of a red squirrel, a nuisance always and good only to rebait the trap he springs. But the next held a marten, and the next a white weasel. Others were unsprung, but they had two good pelts when they reached the beaver lake. They were in high spirits with their good luck, but not prepared for the marvellous haul that now was theirs. Each of the six traps held a big beaver, dead, drowned, and safe. Each skin was worth five dollars, and the hunters felt rich. The incident had, moreover, this pleasing significance: It showed that these beavers were unsophisticated, so had not been hunted. Fifty pelts might easily be taken from these ponds.

The trappers reset the traps; then dividing the load, sought a remote place to camp, for it does not do to light a fire near your beaver pond. One hundred and fifty pounds of beaver, in addition, to their packs, was not a load to be taken miles away; within half a mile on a lower level they selected a warm place, made a fire, and skinned their catch. The bodies they opened and hung in a tree with a view to future use, but the pelts and tails they carried on.

They made a long, hard tramp that day, baiting all the traps and reached home late in the night.



Chapter 32. The Antler-bound Bucks

IN THE man-world, November is the month of gloom, despair, and many suicides. In the wild world, November is the Mad Moon. Many and diverse the madnesses of the time, but none more insane than the rut of the white-tailed deer. Like some disease it appears, first in the swollen necks of the antler-bearers, and then in the feverish habits of all. Long and obstinate combats between the bucks now, characterize the time; neglecting even to eat, they spend their days and nights in rushing about and seeking to kill.

Their horns, growing steadily since spring, are now of full size, sharp, heavy, and cleaned of the velvet; in perfection. For what? Has Nature made them to pierce, wound, and destroy? Strange as it may seem, these weapons of offence are used for little but defence; less as spears than as bucklers they serve the deer in battles with its kind. And the long, hard combats are little more than wrestling and pushing bouts; almost never do they end fatally. When a mortal thrust is given, it is rarely a gaping wound, but a sudden springing and locking of the antlers, whereby the two deer are bound together, inextricably, hopelessly, and so suffer death by starvation. The records of deer killed by their rivals and left on the duel-ground are few; very few and far between. The records of those killed by interlocking are numbered by the scores.

There were hundreds of deer in this country that Rolf and Quonab claimed. Half of them were bucks, and at least half of these engaged in combat some times or many times a day, all through November; that is to say, probably a thousand duels were fought that month within ten miles of the cabin. It was not surprising that Rolf should witness some of them, and hear many more in the distance.

They were living in the cabin now, and during the still, frosty nights, when he took a last look at the stars, before turning in, Rolf formed the habit of listening intently for the voices of the gloom. Sometimes it was the "hoo-hoo" of the horned-owl, once or twice it was the long, smooth howl of the wolf; but many times it was the rattle of antlers that told of two bucks far up in the hardwoods, trying out the all-important question, "Which is the better buck?"

One morning he heard still an occasional rattle at the same place as the night before. He set out alone, after breakfast, and coming cautiously near, peered into a little, open space to see two bucks with heads joined, slowly, feebly pushing this way and that. Their tongues were out; they seemed almost exhausted, and the trampled snow for an acre about plainly showed that they had been fighting for hours; that indeed these were the ones he had heard in the night. Still they were evenly matched, and the green light in their eyes told of the ferocious spirit in each of these gentle-looking deer.

Rolf had no difficulty in walking quite near. If they saw him, they gave slight heed to the testimony of their eyes, for the unenergetic struggle went on until, again pausing for breath, they separated, raised their heads a little, sniffed, then trotted away from the dreaded enemy so near. Fifty yards off, they turned, shook their horns, seemed in doubt whether to run away, join battle again, or attack the man. Fortunately the first was their choice, and Rolf returned to the cabin.

Quonab listened to his account, then said: "You might have been killed. Every buck is crazy now. Often they attack man. My father's brother was killed by a Mad Moon buck. They found only his body, torn to rags. He had got a little way up a tree, but the buck had pinned him. There were the marks, and in the snow they could see how he held on to the deer's horns and was dragged about till his strength gave out. He had no gun. The buck went off. That was all they knew. I would rather trust a bear than a deer."

The Indian's words were few, but they drew a picture all too realistic. The next time Rolf heard the far sound of a deer fight, it brought back the horror of that hopeless fight in the snow, and gave him a new and different feeling for the antler-bearer of the changing mood.

It was two weeks after this, when he was coming in from a trip alone on part of the line, when his ear caught some strange sounds in the woods ahead; deep, sonorous, semi-human they were. Strange and weird wood-notes in winter are nearly sure to be those of a raven or a jay; if deep, they are likely to come from a raven.

"Quok, quok, ha, ha, ha-hreww, hrrr, hooop, hooop," the diabolic noises came, and Rolf, coming gently forward, caught a glimpse of sable pinions swooping through the lower pines.

"Ho, ho, ho yah—hew—w—w—w" came the demon laughter of the death birds, and Rolf soon glimpsed a dozen of them in the branches, hopping or sometimes flying to the ground. One alighted on a brown bump. Then the bump began to move a little. The raven was pecking away, but again the brown bump heaved and the raven leaped to a near perch. "Wah—wah—wah—wo—hoo—yow—wow—rrrrrr-rrrr-rrrr"—and the other ravens joined in.

Rolf had no weapons but his bow, his pocket knife, and a hatchet. He took the latter in his hand and walked gently forward; the hollow-voiced ravens "haw—hawed," then flew to safe perches where they chuckled like ghouls over some extra-ghoulish joke.

The lad, coming closer, witnessed a scene that stirred him with mingled horror and pity. A great, strong buck—once strong, at least—was standing, staggering, kneeling there; sometimes on his hind legs, spasmodically heaving and tugging at a long gray form on the ground, the body of another buck, his rival, dead now, with a broken neck, as it proved, but bearing big, strong antlers with which the antlers of the living buck were interlocked as though riveted with iron, bolted with clamps of steel. With all his strength, the living buck could barely move his head, dragging his adversary's body with him. The snow marks showed that at first he had been able to haul the carcass many yards; had nibbled a little at shoots and twigs; but that was when he was stronger, was long before. How long? For days, at least, perhaps a week, that wretched buck was dying hopelessly a death that would not come. His gaunt sides, his parched and lolling tongue, less than a foot from the snow and yet beyond reach, the filmy eye, whose opaque veil of death was illumined again with a faint fire of fighting green as the new foe came. The ravens had picked the eyes out of the dead buck and eaten a hole in its back. They had even begun on the living buck, but he had been able to use one front foot to defend his eyes; still his plight could scarce have been more dreadful. It made the most pitiful spectacle Rolf had ever seen in wild life; yes, in all his life. He was full of compassion for the poor brute. He forgot it as a thing to be hunted for food; thought of it only as a harmless, beautiful creature in dire and horrible straits; a fellow-being in distress; and he at once set about being its helper. With hatchet in hand he came gently in front, and selecting an exposed part at the base of the dead buck's antler he gave a sharp blow with the hatchet. The effect on the living buck was surprising. He was roused to vigorous action that showed him far from death as yet. He plunged, then pulled backward, carrying with him the carcass and the would-be rescuer. Then Rolf remembered the Indian's words: "You can make strong medicine with your mouth." He spoke to the deer, gently, softly. Then came nearer, and tapped o'n the horn he wished to cut; softly speaking and tapping he increased his force, until at last he was permitted to chop seriously at that prison bar. It took many blows, for the antler stuff is very thick and strong at this time, but the horn was loose at last. Rolf gave it a twist and the strong buck was free. Free for what?

Oh, tell it not among the folk who have been the wild deer's friend! Hide it from all who blindly believe that gratitude must always follow good-will! With unexpected energy, with pent-up fury, with hellish purpose, the ingrate sprang on his deliverer, aiming a blow as deadly as was in his power.

Wholly taken by surprise, Rolf barely had time to seize the murderer's horns and ward them off his vitals. The buck made a furious lunge. Oh! what foul fiend was it gave him then such force?—and Rolf went down. Clinging for dear life to those wicked, shameful horns, he yelled as he never yelled before: "Quonab, Quonabi help me, oh, help me!" But he was pinned at once, the fierce brute above him pressing on his chest, striving to bring its horns to bear; his only salvation had been that their wide spread gave his body room between. But the weight on his chest was crushing out his force, his life; he had no breath to call again. How the ravens chuckled, and "haw-hawed" in the tree!

The buck's eyes gleamed again with the emerald light of murderous hate, and he jerked his strong neck this way and that with the power of madness. It could not last for long. The boy's strength was going fast; the beast was crushing in his chest.

"Oh, God, help me!" he gasped, as the antlered fiend began again struggling for the freedom of those murderous horns. The brute was almost free, when the ravens rose with loud croaks, and out of the woods dashed another to join the fight. A smaller deer? No; what? Rolf knew not, nor how, but in a moment there was a savage growl and Skookum had the murderer by the hind leg. Worrying and tearing he had not the strength to throw the deer, but his teeth were sharp, his heart was in his work, and when he transferred his fierce attack to parts more tender still, the buck, already spent, reared, wheeled, and fell. Before he could recover Skookum pounced upon him by the nose and hung on like a vice. The buck could swing his great neck a little, and drag the dog, but he could not shake him off. Rolf saw the chance, rose to his tottering legs, seized his hatchet, stunned the fierce brute with a blow. Then finding on the snow his missing knife he gave the hunter stroke that spilled the red life-blood and sank on the ground to know no more till Quonab stood beside him.



Chapter 33. A Song of Praise

ROLF was lying by a fire when he came to, Quonab bending over him with a look of grave concern. When he opened his eyes, the Indian smiled; such a soft, sweet smile, with long, ivory rows in its background.

Then he brought hot tea, and Rolf revived so he could sit up and tell the story of the morning.

"He is an evil Manito," and he looked toward the dead buck; "we must not eat him. You surely made medicine to bring Skookum."

"Yes, I made medicine with my mouth," was the answer, "I called, I yelled, when he came at me."

"It is a long way from here to the cabin," was Quonab's reply. "I could not hear you; Skookum could not hear you; but Cos Cob, my father, told me that when you send out a cry for help, you send medicine, too, that goes farther than the cry. May be so; I do not know: my father was very wise."

"Did you see Skookum come, Quonab?"

"No; he was with me hours after you left, but he was restless and whimpered. Then he left me and it was a long time before I heard him bark. It was the 'something-wrong' bark. I went. He brought me here."

"He must have followed my track all 'round the line."

After an hour they set out for the cabin. The ravens "Ha-ha-ed" and "Ho-ho-ed" as they went. Quonab took the fateful horn that Rolf had chopped off, and hung it on a sapling with a piece of tobacco and a red yam streamer ', to appease the evil spirit that surely was near. There it hung for years after, until the sapling grew to a tree that swallowed the horn, all but the tip, which rotted away.

Skookum took a final sniff at his fallen enemy, gave the body the customary expression of a dog's contempt, then led the procession homeward.

Not that day, not the next, but on the first day of calm, red, sunset sky, went Quonab to his hill of worship; and when the little fire that he lit sent up its thread of smoke, like a plumb-line from the red cloud over him, he burnt a pinch of tobacco, and, with face and arms upraised in the red light, he sang a new song:

"The evil one set a trap for my son, But the Manito saved him; In the form of a Skookum he saved him."



Chapter 34. The Birch-bark Vessels

Rolf was sore and stiff for a week afterward; so was Skookum. There were times when Quonab was cold, moody, and silent for days. Then some milder wind would blow in the region of his heart and the bleak ice surface melted into running rills of memory or kindly emanation.

Just before the buck adventure, there had been an unpleasant time of chill and aloofness. It arose over little. Since the frost had come, sealing the waters outside, Quonab would wash his hands in the vessel that was also the bread pan. Rolf had New England ideas of propriety in cooking matters, and finally he forgot the respect due to age and experience. That was one reason why he went out alone that day. Now, with time to think things over, the obvious safeguard would be to have a wash bowl; but where to get it? In those days, tins were scarce and ex-pensive. It was the custom to look in the woods for nearly all the necessaries of life; and, guided by ancient custom and experience, they seldom looked in vain. Rolf had seen, and indeed made, watering troughs, pig troughs, sap troughs, hen troughs, etc., all his life, and he now set to work with the axe and a block of basswood to hew out a trough for a wash bowl. With adequate tools he might have made a good one; but, working with an axe and a stiff arm, the result was a very heavy, crude affair. It would indeed hold water, but it was almost impossible to dip it into the water hole, so that a dipper was needed.

When Quonab saw the plan and the result, he said: "In my father's lodge we had only birch bark. See; I shall make a bowl." He took from the storehouse a big roll of birch bark, gathered in warm weather (it can scarcely be done in cold), for use in repairing the canoe. Selecting a good part he cut out a square, two feet each way, and put it in the big pot which was full of boiling water. At the same time he soaked with it a bundle of wattap, or long fibrous roots of the white spruce, also gathered before the frost came, with a view to canoe repairs in the spring.

While these were softening in the hot water, he cut a couple of long splints of birch, as nearly as possible half an inch wide and an eighth of an inch thick, and put them to steep with the bark. Next he made two or three straddle pins or clamps, like clothes pegs, by splitting the ends of some sticks which had a knot at one end.

Now he took out the spruce roots, soft and pliant, and selecting a lot that were about an eighth of an inch in diameter, scraped off the bark and roughness, until he had a bundle of perhaps ten feet of soft, even, white cords.

The bark was laid flat and cut as below.

The rounding of A and B is necessary, for the holes of the sewing would tear the piece off if all were on the same line of grain. Each corner was now folded and doubled on itself (C), then held so with a straddle pin (D). The rim was trimmed so as to be flat where it crossed the fibre of the bark, and arched where it ran along. The pliant rods of birch were bent around this, and using the large awl to make holes, Quonab sewed the rim rods to the bark with an over-lapping stitch that made a smooth finish to the edge, and the birch-bark wash pan was complete. (E.) Much heavier bark can be used if the plan F G be followed, but it is hard to make it water-tight.

So now they had a wash pan and a cause of friction was removed. Rolf found it amusing as well as useful to make other bark vessels of varying sizes for dippers and dunnage. It was work that he could do now while he was resting and recovering and he became expert. After watching a fairly successful attempt at a box to hold fish-hooks and tackle, Quonab said: "In my father's lodge these would bear quill work in colours."

"That's so," said Rolf, remembering the birch-bark goods often sold by the Indians. "I wish we had a porcupine now."

"Maybe Skookum could find one," said the Indian, with a smile.

"Will you let me kill the next Kahk we find?"

"Yes, if you use the quills and burn its whiskers."

"Why burn its whiskers?"

"My father said it must be so. The smoke goes straight to the All-above; then the Manito knows we have killed, but we have remembered to kill only for use and to thank Him."

It was some days before they found a porcupine, and when they did, it was not necessary for them to kill it. But that belongs to another chapter.

They saved its skin with all its spears and hung it in the storehouse. The quills with the white bodies and ready-made needle at each end are admirable for embroidering, but they are white only.

"How can we dye them, Quonab?

"In the summer are many dyes; in winter they are hard to get. We can get some."

So forth he went to a hemlock tree, and cut till he could gather the inner pink bark, which, boiled with the quills, turned them a dull pink; similarly, alder bark furnished rich orange, and butternut bark a brown. Oak chips, with a few bits of iron in the pot, dyed black.

"Must wait till summer for red and green," said the Indian. "Red comes only from berries; the best is the blitum. We call it squaw-berry and mis-caw-wa, yellow comes from the yellow root (Hydrastis)."

But black, white, orange, pink, brown, and a dull red made by a double dip of orange and pink, are a good range of colour. The method in using the quills is simple. An awl to make holes in the bark for each; the rough parts behind are concealed afterward with a lining of bark stitched over them; and before the winter was over, Rolf had made a birch-bark box, decorated lid and all, with porcupine quill work, in which he kept the sable skin that was meant to buy Annette's new dress, the costume she had dreamed of, the ideal and splendid, almost unbelievable vision of her young life, ninety-five cents' worth of cotton print.

There was one other point of dangerous friction. Whenever it fell to Quonab to wash the dishes, he simply set them on the ground and let Skookum lick them off. This economical arrangement was satisfactory to Quonab, delightful to Skookum, and apparently justified by the finished product, but Rolf objected. The Indian said: "Don't he eat the same food as we do? You cannot tell if you do not see."

Whenever he could do so, Rolf washed the doubtful dishes over again, yet there were many times when this was impossible, and the situation became very irritating. But he knew that the man who loses his temper has lost the first round of the fight, so, finding the general idea of uncleanness without avail, he sought for some purely Indian argument. As they sat by the evening fire, one day, he led up to talk of his mother—of her power as a medicine woman, of the many evil medicines that harmed her. "It was evil medicine for her if a dog licked her hand or touched her food. A dog licked her hand and the dream dog came to her three days before she died." After a long pause, he added, "In some ways I am like my mother."

Two days later, Rolf chanced to see his friend behind the shanty give Skookum the pan to clean off after they had been frying deer fat. The Indian had no idea that Rolf was near, nor did he ever learn the truth of it.

That night, after midnight, the lad rose quietly, lighted the pine splints that served them for a torch, rubbed some charcoal around each eye to make dark rings that should supply a horror-stricken look. Then he started in to pound on Quonab's tom-tom, singing:

"Evil spirit leave me; Dog-face do not harm me."

Quonab sat up in amazement. Rolf paid no heed, but went on, bawling and drumming and staring upward into vacant space. After a few minutes Skookum scratched and whined at the shanty door. Rolf rose, took his knife, cut a bunch of hair from Skookum's neck and burned it in the torch, then went on singing with horrid solemnity:

"Evil spirit leave me; Dog-face do not harm me."

At last he turned, and seeming to discover that Quonab was looking on, said:

"The dream dog came to me. I thought I saw him lick deer grease from the frying pan behind the shanty. He laughed, for he knew that he made evil medicine for me. I am trying to drive him away, so he cannot harm me. I do not know. I am like my mother. She was very wise, but she died after it."

Now Quonab arose, cut some more hair from Skookum, added a pinch of tobacco, then, setting it ablaze, he sang in the rank odour of the burning weed and hair, his strongest song to kill ill magic; and Rolf, as he chuckled and sweetly sank to sleep, knew that the fight was won. His friend would never, never more install Skookum in the high and sacred post of pot-licker, dishwasher, or final polisher.



Chapter 35. Snaring Rabbits

The deepening snow about the cabin was marked in all the thickets by the multitudinous tracks of the snowshoe rabbits or white hares. Occasionally the hunters saw them, but paid little heed. Why should they look at rabbits when deer were plentiful?

"You catch rabbit?" asked Quonab one day when Rolf was feeling fit again.

"I can shoot one with my bow," was the answer, "but why should I, when we have plenty of deer?"

"My people always hunted rabbits. Sometimes no deer were to be found; then the rabbits were food. Sometimes in the enemy's country it was not safe to hunt, except rabbits, with blunt arrows, and they were food. Sometimes only squaws and children in camp—nothing to eat; no guns; then the rabbits were food."

"Well, see me get one," and Rolf took his bow and arrow. He found many white bunnies, but always in the thickest woods. Again and again he tried, but the tantalizing twigs and branches muffled the bow and turned the arrow. It was hours before he returned with a fluffy snowshoe rabbit.

"That is not our way." Quonab led to the thicket and selecting a place of many tracks he cut a lot of brush and made a hedge across with half a dozen openings. At each of these openings he made a snare of strong cord tied to a long pole, hung on a crotch, and so arranged that a tug at the snare would free the pole which in turn would hoist the snare and the creature in it high in the air.

Next morning they went around and found that four of the snares had each a snow-white rabbit hanging by the neck. As he was handling these, Quonab felt a lump I on the hind leg of one. He carefully cut it open and turned out a curious-looking object about the size of an acorn, flattened, made of flesh and covered with hair, and nearly the shape of a large bean. He gazed at it, and, turning to Rolf, said with intense meaning:

"Ugh! we have found the good hunting. This is the Peeto-wab-oos-once, the little medicine rabbit. Now we have strong medicine in the lodge. You shall see."

He went out to the two remaining snares and passed the medicine rabbit through each. An hour later, when they returned, they found a rabbit taken in the first snare.

"It is ever so," said the Indian. "We can always catch rabbits now. My father had the Peeto-wab-i-ush once, the little medicine deer, and so he never failed in hunting but twice. Then he found that his papoose, Quonab, had stolen his great medicine. He was a very wise papoose. He killed a chipmunk each of those days."

"Hark! what is that?" A faint sound of rustling branches, and some short animal noises in the woods had caught Rolf's ear, and Skookum's, too, for he was off like one whose life is bound up in a great purpose.

"Yap, yap, yap," came the angry sound from Skookum. Who can say that animals have no language? His merry "yip, yip, yip," for partridge up a tree, or his long, hilarious, "Yow, yow, yow," when despite all orders he chased some deer, were totally distinct from the angry "Yap, yap," he gave for the bear up the tree, or the "Grrryapgrryap," with which he voiced his hatred of the porcupine.

But now it was the "Yap, yap," as when he had treed the bears.

"Something up a tree," was the Indian's interpretation, as they followed the sound. Something up a tree! A whole menagerie it seemed to Rolf when they got there. Hanging by the neck in the remaining snare, and limp now, was a young lynx, a kit of the year. In the adjoining tree, with Skookum circling and yapping 'round the base, was a savage old lynx. In the crotch above her was another young one, and still higher was a third, all looking their unutterable disgust at the noisy dog below; the mother, indeed, expressing it in occasional hisses, but none of them daring to come down and face him. The lynx is very good fur and very easy prey. The Indian brought the old one down with a shot; then, as fast as he could reload, the others were added to the bag, and, with the one from the snare, they returned laden to the cabin.

The Indian's eyes shone with a peculiar light. "Ugh! Ugh! My father told me; it is great medicine. You see, now, it does not fail."



Chapter 36. Something Wrong at the Beaver Traps

Once they had run the trap lines, and their store of furs was increasing finely. They had taken twenty-five beavers and counted on getting two or three each time they went to the ponds. But they got an unpleasant surprise in December, on going to the beaver grounds, to find all the traps empty and unmistakable signs that some man had been there and had gone off with the catch. They followed the dim trail of his snowshoes, half hidden by a recent wind, but night came on with more snow, and all signs were lost.

The thief had not found the line yet, for the haul of marten and mink was good. But this was merely the beginning.

The trapper law of the wilderness is much like all primitive laws; first come has first right, provided he is able to hold it. If a strong rival comes in, the first must fight as best he can. The law justifies him in anything he may do, if he succeeds. The law justifies the second in anything he may do, except murder. That is, the defender may shoot to kill; the offender may not.

But the fact of Quonab's being an Indian and Rolf supposedly one, would turn opinion against them in the Adirondacks, and it was quite likely that the rival considered them trespassers on his grounds, although the fact that he robbed their traps without removing them, and kept out of sight, rather showed the guilty conscience of a self-accused poacher.

He came in from the west, obviously; probably the Racquet River country; was a large man, judging by his foot and stride, and understood trapping; but lazy, for he set no traps. His principal object seemed to be to steal.

And it was not long before he found their line of marten traps, so his depredations increased. Primitive emotions are near the surface at all times, and under primitive conditions are very ready to appear. Rolf and Quonab felt that now it was war.



Chapter 37. The Pekan or Fisher

There was one large track in the snow that they saw several times—it was like that of a marten, but much larger. "Pekan," said the Indian, "the big marten; the very strong one, that fights without fear."

"When my father was a papoose he shot an arrow at a pekan. He did not know what it was; it seemed only a big black marten. It was wounded, but sprang from the tree on my father's breast. It would have killed him, but for the dog; then it would have killed the dog, but my grandfather was near.

"He made my father eat the pekan's heart, so his heart might be like it. It sought no fight, but it turned, when struck, and fought without fear. That is the right way; seek peace, but fight without fear. That was my father's heart and mine." Then glancing toward the west he continued in a tone of menace: "That trap robber will find it so. We sought no fight, but some day I kill him."

The big track went in bounds, to be lost in a low, thick woods. But they met it again.

They were crossing a hemlock ridge a mile farther on, when they came to another track which was first a long, deep furrow, some fifteen inches wide, and in this were the wide-spread prints of feet as large as those of a fisher.

"Kahk," said Quonab, and Skookum said "Kahk," too, but he did it by growling and raising his back hair, and doubtless also by sadly remembering. His discretion seemed as yet embryonic, so Rolf slipped his sash through the dog's collar, and they followed the track, for the porcupine now stood in Rolf's mind as a sort of embroidery outfit.

They had not followed far before another track joined on—the track of the fisher-pekan; and soon after they heard in the woods ahead scratching sounds, as of something climbing, and once or twice a faint, far, fighting snarl.

Quickly tying the over-valiant Skookum to a tree, they crept forward, ready for anything, and arrived on the scene of a very peculiar action.

Action it was, though it was singularly devoid of action. First, there was a creature, like a huge black marten or a short-legged black fox, standing at a safe distance, while, partly hidden under a log, with hind quarters and tail only exposed, was a large porcupine. Both were very still, but soon the fisher snarled and made a forward lunge. The porcupine, hearing the sounds or feeling the snow dash up on that side, struck with its tail; but the fisher kept out of reach. Next a feint was made on the other side, with the same result; then many, as though the fisher were trying to tire out the tail or use up all its quills.

Sometimes the assailant leaped on the log and teased the quill-pig to strike upward, while many white daggers already sunk in the bark showed that these tactics had been going on for some time.

Now the two spectators saw by the trail that a similar battle had been fought at another log, and that the porcupine trail from that was spotted with blood. How the fisher had forced it out was not then clear, but soon became so.

After feinting till the Kahk would not strike, the pekan began a new manceuvre. Starting on the opposite side of the log that protected the spiny one's nose, he burrowed quickly through the snow and leaves. The log was about three inches from the ground, and before the porcupine could realize it, the fisher had a space cleared and seized the spiny one by its soft, unspiny nose. Grunting and squealing it pulled back and lashed its terrible tail. To what effect? Merely to fill the log around with quills. With all its strength the quill-pig pulled and writhed, but the fisher was stronger. His claws enlarged the hole and when the victim ceased from exhaustion, the fisher made a forward dash and changed his hold from the tender nose to the still more tender throat of the porcupine. His hold was not deep enough and square enough to seize the windpipe, but he held on. For a minute or two the struggles of Kahk were of desperate energy and its lashing tail began to be short of spines, but a red stream trickling from the wound was sapping its strength. Protected by the log, the fisher had but to hold on and play a waiting game.

The heaving and backward pulling of Kahk were very feeble at length; the fisher had nearly finished the fight. But he was impatient of further delay and backing out of the hole he mounted the log, displaying a much scratched nose; then reaching down with deft paw, near the quill-pig's shoulder, he gave a sudden jerk that threw the former over on its back, and before it could recover, the fisher's jaws closed on its ribs, and crushed and tore. The nerveless, almost quilless tail could not harm him there. The red blood flowed and the porcupine lay still. Again and again as he uttered chesty growls the pekan ground his teeth into the warm flesh and shook and worried the unconquerable one he had conquered. He was licking his bloody chops for the twentieth time, gloating in gore, when "crack" went Quonab's gun, and the pekan had an opportunity of resuming the combat with Kahk far away in the Happy Hunting.

"Yap, yap, yap!" and in rushed Skookum, dragging the end of Rolf's sash which he had gnawed through in his determination to be in the fight, no matter what it cost; and it was entirely due to the fact that the porcupine was belly up, that Skookum did not have another hospital experience.

This was Rolf's first sight of a fisher, and he examined it as one does any animal—or man—that one has so long heard described in superlative terms that it has become idealized into a semi-myth. This was the desperado of the woods; the weird black cat that feared no living thing. This was the only one that could fight and win against Kahk.

They made a fire at once, and while Rolf got the mid-day meal of tea and venison, Quonab skinned the fisher. Then he cut out its heart and liver. When these were cooked he gave the first to Rolf and the second to Skookum, saying to the one, "I give you a pekan heart;" and to the dog, "That will force all of the quills out of you if you play the fool again, as I think you will."

In the skin of the fisher's neck and tail they found several quills, some of them new, some of them dating evidently from another fight of the same kind, but none of them had done any damage. There was no inflammation or sign of poisoning. "It is ever so," said Quonab, "the quills cannot hurt him." Then, turning to the porcupine, he remarked, as he prepared to skin it:

"Ho, Kahk! you see now it was a big mistake you did not let Nana Bojou sit on the dry end of that log."



Chapter 38. The Silver Fox

They were returning to the cabin, one day, when Quonab stopped and pointed. Away off on the snow of the far shore was a moving shape to be seen.

"Fox, and I think silver fox; he so black. I think he lives there."

"Why?" "I have seen many times a very big fox track, and they do not go where they do not live. Even in winter they keep their own range."

"He's worth ten martens, they say?" queried Rolf.

"Ugh! fifty."

"Can't we get him?"

"Can try. But the water set will not work in winter; we must try different."

This was the plan, the best that Quonab could devise for the snow: Saving the ashes from the fire (dry sand would have answered), he selected six open places in the woods on the south of the lake, and in each made an ash bed on which he scattered three or four drops of the smell-charm. Then, twenty-five yards from each, on the north or west side (the side of the prevailing wind) he hung from some sapling a few feathers, a partridge wing or tail with some red yarns to it. He left the places unvisited for two weeks, then returned to learn the progress of act one.

Judging from past experience of fox nature and from the few signs that were offered by the snow, this is what had happened: A fox came along soon after the trappers left, followed the track a little way, came to the first opening, smelled the seductive danger-lure, swung around it, saw the dangling feathers, took alarm, and went off. Another of the places had been visited by a marten. He had actually scratched in the ashes. A wolf had gone around another at a safe distance.

Another had been shunned several times by a fox or by foxes, but they had come again and again and at last yielded to the temptation to investigate the danger-smell; finally had rolled in it, evidently wallowing in an abandon of delight. So far, the plan was working there.

The next move was to set the six strong fox traps, each thoroughly smoked, and chained to a fifteen-pound block of wood.

Approaching the place carefully and using his blood-rubbed glove, Quonab set in each ash pile a trap. Under its face he put a wad of white rabbit fur. Next he buried all in the ashes, scattered a few bits of rabbit and a few drops of smell-charm, then dashed snow over the place, renewed the dangling feathers to lure the eye; and finally left the rest to the weather.

Rolf was keen to go the next day, but the old man said: "Wah! no good! no trap go first night; man smell too strong." The second day there was a snowfall, and the third morning Quonab said, "Now seem like good time."

The first trap was untouched, but there was clearly the track of a large fox within ten yards of it.

The second was gone. Quonab said, with surprise in his voice, "Deer!" Yes, truly, there was the record. A deer—a big one—had come wandering past; his keen nose soon apprised him of a strong, queer appeal near by. He had gone unsuspiciously toward it, sniffed and pawed the unaccountable and exciting nose medicine; then "snap!" and he had sprung a dozen feet, with that diabolic smell-thing hanging to his foot. Hop, hop, hop, the terrified deer had gone into a slashing windfall. Then the drag had caught on the logs, and, thanks to the hard and taper hoofs, the trap had slipped off and been left behind, while the deer had sought safer regions.

In the next trap they found a beautiful marten dead, killed at once by the clutch of steel. The last trap was gone, but the tracks and the marks told a tale that any one could read; a fox had been beguiled and had gone off, dragging the trap and log. Not far did they need to go; held in a thicket they found him, and Rolf prepared the mid-day meal while Quonab gathered the pelt. After removing the skin the Indian cut deep and carefully into the body of the fox and removed the bladder. Its contents sprinkled near each of the traps was good medicine, he said; a view that was evidently shared by Skookum.

More than once they saw the track of the big fox of the region, but never very near the snare. He was too clever to be fooled by smell-spells or kidney products, no matter how temptingly arrayed. The trappers did, indeed, capture three red foxes; but it was at cost of great labour. It was a venture that did not pay. The silver fox was there, but he took too good care of his precious hide. The slightest hint of a man being near was enough to treble his already double wariness. They would never have seen him near at hand, but for a stirring episode that told a tale of winter hardship.



Chapter 39. The Humiliation of Skookum

If Skookum could have been interviewed by a newspaper man, he would doubtless have said: "I am a very remarkable dog. I can tree partridges. I'm death on porcupines. I am pretty good in a dog fight; never was licked in fact: but my really marvellous gift is my speed; I'm a terror to run."

Yes, he was very proud of his legs, and the foxes that came about in the winter nights gave him many opportunities of showing what he could do. Many times over he very nearly caught a fox. Skookum did not know that these wily ones were playing with him; but they were, and enjoyed it immensely.

The self-sufficient cur never found this out, and never lost a chance of nearly catching a fox. The men did not see those autumn chases because they were by night; but foxes hunt much by day in winter, perforce, and are often seen; and more than once they witnessed one of these farcical races.

And now the shining white furnished background for a much more important affair.

It was near sundown one day when a faint fox bark was heard out on the snow-covered ice of the lake.

"That's for me," Skookum seemed to think, and jumping up, with a very fierce growl, he trotted forth; the men looked first from the window. Out on the snow, sitting on his haunches, was their friend, the big, black silver fox.

Quonab reached for his gun and Rolf tried to call Skookum, but it was too late. He was out to catch that fox; their business was to look on and applaud. The fox sat on his haunches, grinning apparently, until Skookum dashed through the snow within twenty yards. Then, that shining, black fox loped gently away, his huge tail level out behind him, and Skookum, sure of success, raced up, within six or seven yards. A few more leaps now, and the victory would be won. But somehow he could not close that six or seven yard gap. No matter how he strained and leaped, the great black brush was just so far ahead. At first they had headed for the shore, but the fox wheeled back to the ice and up and down. Skookum felt it was because escape was hopeless, and he redoubled his effort. But all in vain. He was only wearing himself out, panting noisily now. The snow was deep enough to be a great disadvantage, more to dog than to fox, since weight counted as such a handicap. Unconsciously Skookum slowed up. The fox increased his headway; then audaciously turned around and sat down in the snow.

This was too much for the dog. He wasted about a lungful of air in an angry bark, and again went after the enemy. Again the chase was round and round, but very soon the dog was so wearied that he sat down, and now the black fox actually came back and barked at him.

It was maddening. Skookum's pride was touched.

He was in to win or break. His supreme effort brought him within five feet of that white-tipped brush. Then, strange to tell, the big black fox put forth his large reserve of speed, and making for the woods, left Skookum far behind. Why? The cause was clear. Quonab, after vainly watching for a chance to shoot, that would not endanger the dog, had, under cover, crept around the lake and now was awaiting in a thicket. But the fox's keen nose had warned him. He knew that the funny part was over, so ran for the woods and disappeared as a ball tossed up the snow behind him.

Poor Skookum's tongue was nearly a foot long as he walked meekly ashore. He looked depressed; his tail was depressed; so were his ears; but there was nothing to show whether he would have told that reporter that he "wasn't feeling up to his usual, to-day," or "Didn't you see me get the best of him?"



Chapter 40. The Rarest of Pelts

They saw that silver fox three or four times during the winter, and once found that he had had the audacity to jump from a high snowdrift onto the storehouse and thence to the cabin roof, where he had feasted on some white rabbits kept there for deadfall baits. But all attempts to trap or shoot him were vain, and their acquaintance might have ended as it began, but for an accident.

It proved a winter of much snow. Heavy snow is the worst misfortune that can befall the wood folk in fur. It hides their food beyond reach, and it checks their movements so they can neither travel far in search of provender nor run fast to escape their enemies. Deep snow then means fetters, starvation, and death. There are two ways of meeting the problem: stilts and snowshoes. The second is far the better. The caribou, and the moose have stilts; the rabbit, the panther, and the lynx wear snowshoes. When there are three or four feet of soft snow, the lynx is king of all small beasts, and little in fear of the large ones. Man on his snowshoes has most wild four-foots at his mercy.

Skookum, without either means of meeting the trouble was left much alone in the shanty. Apparently, it was on one of these occasions that the silver fox had driven him nearly frantic by eating rabbits on the roof above him.

The exasperating robbery of their trap line had gone on irregularly all winter, but the thief was clever enough or lucky enough to elude them.

They were returning to the cabin after a three days' round, when they saw, far out on the white expanse of the lake, two animals, alternately running and fighting. "Skookum and the fox," was the first thought that came, but on entering the cabin Skookum greeted them in person.

Quonab gazed intently at the two running specks and said: "One has no tail. I think it is a peeshoo (lynx) and a fox."

Rolf was making dinner. From time to time he glanced over the lake and saw the two specks, usually running. After dinner was over, he said, "Let's sneak 'round and see if we can get a shot."

So, putting on their snowshoes and keeping out of sight, they skimmed over the deer crossing and through the woods, till at a point near the fighters, and there they saw something that recalled at once the day of Skookum's humiliation.

A hundred yards away on the open snow was a huge lynx and their old friend, the black and shining silver fox, face to face; the fox desperate, showing his rows of beautiful teeth, but sinking belly deep in the snow as he strove to escape. Already he was badly wounded. In any case he was at the mercy of the lynx who, in spite of his greater weight, had such broad and perfect snowshoes that he skimmed on the surface, while the fox's small feet sank deep. The lynx was far from fresh, and still stood in some awe of those rows of teeth that snapped like traps when he came too near. He was minded, of course, to kill his black rival, but not to be hurt in doing so. Again and again there was in some sort a closing fight, the wearied fox plunging breathlessly through the treacherous, relentless snow. If he could only get back to cover, he might find a corner to protect his rear and have some fighting chance for life. But wherever he turned that huge cat faced him, doubly armed, and equipped as a fox can never be for the snow.

No one could watch that plucky fight without feeling his sympathies go out to the beautiful silver fox. Rolf, at least, was for helping him to escape, when the final onset came. In another dash for the woods the fox plunged out of sight in a drift made soft by sedge sticking through, and before he could recover, the lynx's jaws closed on the back of his neck and the relentless claws had pierced his vitals.

The justification of killing is self-preservation, and in this case the proof would have been the lynx making a meal of the fox. Did he do so? Not at all. He shook his fur, licked his chest and paws in a self-congratulatory way, then giving a final tug at the body, walked calmly over the snow along the shore.

Quonab put the back of his hand to his mouth and made a loud squeaking, much like a rabbit caught in a snare. The lynx stopped, wheeled, and came trotting straight toward the promising music. Unsuspectingly he came within twenty yards of the trappers. The flint-lock banged and the lynx was kicking in the snow.

The beautiful silver fox skin was very little injured and proved of value almost to double their catch so far; while the lynx skin was as good as another marten.

They now had opportunity of studying the tracks and learned that the fox had been hunting rabbits in a thicket when he was set on by the lynx. At first he had run around in the bushes and saved himself from serious injury, for the snow was partly packed by the rabbits. After perhaps an hour of this, he had wearied and sought to save himself by abandoning the lynx's territory, so had struck across the open lake. But here the snow was too soft to bear him at all, and the lynx could still skim over. So it proved a fatal error. He was strong and brave. He fought at least another hour here before the much stronger, heavier lynx had done him to death. There was no justification. It was a clear case of tyrannical murder, but in this case vengeance was swift and justice came sooner than its wont.



Chapter 41. The Enemy's Fort

It pays 'bout once in a hundred times to git mad, but there ain't any way o' tellin' beforehand which is the time. —Sayings of Si Sylvanne.

It generally took two days to run the west line of traps. At a convenient point they had built a rough shack for a half-way house. On entering this one day, they learned that since their last visit it had been occupied by some one who chewed tobacco. Neither of them had this habit. Quonab's face grew darker each time fresh evidence of the enemy was discovered, and the final wrong was added soon.

Some trappers mark their traps; some do not bother. Rolf had marked all of theirs with a file, cutting notches on the iron. Two, one, three, was their mark, and it was a wise plan, as it turned out.

On going around the west beaver pond they found that all six traps had disappeared. In some, there was no evidence of the thief; in some, the tracks showed clearly that they were taken by the same interloper that had bothered them all along, and on a jagged branch was a short blue yarn.

"Now will I take up his trail and kill him," said the Indian.

Rolf had opposed extreme measures, and again he remonstrated. To his surprise, the Indian turned fiercely and said: "You know it is white man. If he was Indian would you be patient? No!"

"There is plenty of country south of the lake; maybe he was here first."

"You know he was not. You should eat many pekan hearts. I have sought peace, now I fight."

He shouldered his pack, grasped his gun, and his snowshoes went "tssape, tssape, tssape," over the snow.

Skookum was sitting by Rolf. He rose to resume the march, and trotted a few steps on Quonab's trail. Rolf did not move; he was dazed by the sudden and painful situation. Mutiny is always worse than war. Skookum looked back, trotted on, still Rolf sat staring. Quonab's figure was lost in the distance; the dog's was nearly so. Rolf moved not. All the events of the last year were rushing through his mind; the refuge he had found with the Indian; the incident of the buck fight and the tender nurse the red man proved. He wavered. Then he saw Skookum coming back on the trail. The dog trotted up to the boy and dropped a glove, one of Quonab's. Undoubtedly the Indian had lost it; Skookum had found it on the trail and mechanically brought it to the nearest of his masters. Without that glove Quonab's hand would freeze. Rolf rose and sped along the other's trail. Having taken the step, he found it easy to send a long halloo, then another and another, till an answer came. In a few minutes Rolf came up. The Indian was sitting on a log, waiting. The glove was handed over in silence, and received with a grunt.

After a minute or two, Rolf said "Let's get on," and started on the dim trail of the robber.

For an hour or two they strode in silence. Then their course rose as they reached a rocky range. Among its bare, wind-swept ridges all sign was lost, but the Indian kept on till they were over and on the other side. A far cast in the thick, windless woods revealed the trail again, surely the same, for the snowshoe was two fingers wider on every side, and a hand-breadth longer than Quonab's; besides the right frame had been broken and the binding of rawhide was faintly seen in the snow mark. It was a mark they had seen all winter, and now it was headed as before for the west.

When night came down, they camped in a hollow. They were used to snow camps. In the morning they went on, but wind and snow had hidden their tell-tale guide.

What was the next move? Rolf did not ask, but wondered.

Quonab evidently was puzzled.

At length Rolf ventured: "He surely lives by some river—that way—and within a day's journey. This track is gone, but we may strike a fresh one. We'll know it when we see it."

The friendly look came back to the Indian's face. "You are Nibowaka."

They had not gone half a mile before they found a fresh track—their old acquaintance. Even Skookum showed his hostile recognition. And in a few minutes it led them to a shanty. They slipped off their snowshoes, and hung them in a tree. Quonab opened the door without knocking. They entered, and in a moment were face to face with a lanky, ill-favoured white man that all three, including Skookum, recognized as Hoag, the man they had met at the trader's.

That worthy made a quick reach for his rifle, but Quonab covered him and said in tones that brooked no discussion, "Sit down!"

Hoag did so, sullenly, then growled: "All right; my partners will be here in ten minutes."

Rolf was startled. Quonab and Skookum were not.

"We settled your partners up in the hills," said the former, knowing that one bluff was as good as another. Skookum growled and sniffed at the enemy's legs. The prisoner made a quick move with his foot.

"You kick that dog again and it's your last kick," said the Indian.

"Who's kicked yer dog, and what do you mean coming here with yer cutthroat ways? You'll find there's law in this country before yer through," was the answer.

"That's what we're looking for, you trap robber, you thief. We're here first to find our traps; second to tell you this: the next time you come on our line there'll be meat for the ravens. Do you suppose I don't know them?" and the Indian pointed to a large pair of snowshoes with long heels and a repair lashing on the right frame. "See that blue yarn," and the Indian matched it with a blue sash hanging to a peg.

"Yes, them belongs to Bill Hawkins; he'll be 'round in five minutes now."

The Indian made a gesture of scorn; then turning to Rolf said: "look 'round for our traps." Rolf made a thorough search in and about the shanty and the adjoining shed. He found some traps but none with his mark; none of a familiar make even.

"Better hunt for a squaw and papoose," sneered Hoag, who was utterly puzzled by the fact that now Rolf was obviously a white lad.

But all the search was vain. Either Hoag had not stolen the traps or had hidden them elsewhere. The only large traps they found were two of the largest size for taking bear.

Hoag's torrent of bad language had been quickly checked by the threat of turning Skookum loose on his legs, and he looked such a grovelling beast that presently the visitors decided to leave him with a warning.

The Indian took the trapper's gun, fired it off out of doors, not in the least perturbed by the possibility of its being heard by Hoag's partners. He knew they were imaginary. Then changing his plan, he said "Ugh! You find your gun in half a mile on our trail. But don't come farther and don't let me see the snowshoe trail on the divide again. Them ravens is awful hungry."

Skookum, to his disappointment, was called off and, talking the trapper's gun for a time, they left it in a bush and made for their own country.



Chapter 42. Skookum's Panther

"Why are there so few deer tracks now?"

"Deer yarded for winter," replied the Indian; "no travel in deep snow."

"We'll soon need another," said Rolf, which unfortunately was true. They could have killed many deer in early winter, when the venison was in fine condition, but they had no place to store it. Now they must get it as they could, and of course it was thinner and poorer every week.

They were on a high hill some days later. There was a clear view and they noticed several ravens circling and swooping.

"Maybe dead deer; maybe deer yard," said the Indian.

It was over a thick, sheltered, and extensive cedar swamp near the woods where last year they had seen so many deer, and they were not surprised to find deer tracks in numbers, as soon as they got into its dense thicket.

A deer yard is commonly supposed to be a place in which the deer have a daily "bee" at road work all winter long and deliberately keep the snow hammered down so they can run on a hard surface everywhere within its limits. The fact is, the deer gather in a place where there is plenty of food and good shelter. The snow does not drift here, so the deer, by continually moving about, soon make a network of tracks in all directions, extending them as they must to seek more food. They may, of course, leave the yard at any time, but at once they encounter the dreaded obstacle of deep, soft snow in which they are helpless.

Once they reached the well-worn trails, the hunters took off their snowshoes and went gently on these deer paths. They saw one or two disappearing forms, which taught them the thick cover was hiding many more. They made for the sound of the ravens, and found that the feast of the sable birds was not a deer but the bodies of three, quite recently killed.

Quonab made a hasty study of the signs and said, "Panther."

Yes, a panther, cougar, or mountain lion also had found the deer yard; and here he was living, like a rat in a grocer shop with nothing to do but help himself whenever he felt like feasting.

Pleasant for the panther, but hard on the deer; for the killer is wasteful and will often kill for the joy of murder.

Not a quarter of the carcasses lying here did he eat; he was feeding at least a score of ravens, and maybe foxes, martens, and lynxes as well.

Before killing a deer, Quonab thought it well to take a quiet prowl around in hopes of seeing the panther. Skookum was turned loose and encouraged to display his talents.

Proud as a general with an ample and obedient following, he dashed ahead, carrying fresh dismay among the deer, if one might judge from the noise. Then he found some new smell of excitement, and voiced the new thrill in a new sound, one not unmixed with fear. At length his barking was far away to the west in a rocky part of the woods. Whatever the prey, it was treed, for the voice kept one place.

The hunters followed quickly and found the dog yapping furiously under a thick cedar. The first thought was of porcupine; but a nearer view showed the game to be a huge panther on the ground, not greatly excited, disdaining to climb, and taking little notice of the dog, except to curl his nose and utter a hissing kind of snarl when the latter came too near.

But the arrival of the hunters gave a new colour to the picture. The panther raised his head, then sprang up a large tree and ensconced himself on a fork, while the valorous Skookum reared against the trunk, threatening loudly to come up and tear him to pieces.

This was a rare find and a noble chance to conserve their stock of deer, so the hunters went around the tree seeking for a fair shot. But every point of view had some serious obstacle. It seemed as though the branches had been told off to guard the panther's vitals, for a big one always stood in the bullet's way.

After vainly going around, Quonab said to Rolf: "Hit him with something, so he'll move."

Rolf always was a good shot with stones, but he found none to throw. Near where they stood, however, was an unfreezing spring, and the soggy snow on it was easily packed into a hard, heavy snowball. Rolf threw it straight, swift, and by good luck it hit the panther square on the nose and startled him so that he sprang right out of the tree and flopped into the snow.

Skookum was on him at once, but got a slap on the ear that changed his music, and the panther bounded away out of sight with the valiant Skookum ten feet behind, whooping and yelling like mad.

It was annoyance rather than fear that made that panther take to a low tree while Skookum boxed the compass, and made a beaten dog path all around him. The hunters approached very carefully now, making little sound and keeping out of sight. The panther was wholly engrossed with observing the astonishing impudence of that dog, when Quonab came quietly up, leaned his rifle against a tree and fired. The smoke cleared to show the panther on his back, his legs convulsively waving in the air, and Skookum tugging valiantly at his tail.

"My panther," he seemed to say; "whatever would you do without me?"

A panther in a deer yard is much like a wolf shut up in a sheepfold. He would probably have killed all the deer that winter, though there were ten times as many as he needed for food; and getting rid of him was a piece of good luck for hunters and deer, while his superb hide made a noble trophy that in years to come had unexpected places of honour.



Chapter 43. Sunday in the Woods

Rolf still kept to the tradition of Sunday, and Quonab had in a manner accepted it. It was a curious fact that the red man had far more toleration for the white man's religious ideas than the white man had for the red's.

Quonab's songs to the sun and the spirit, or his burning of a tobacco pinch, or an animal's whiskers were to Rolf but harmless nonsense. Had he given them other names, calling them hymns and incense, he would have been much nearer respecting them. He had forgotten his mother's teaching: "If any man do anything sincerely, believing that thereby he is worshipping God, he is worshipping God." He disliked seeing Quonab use an axe or a gun on Sunday, and the Indian, realizing that such action made "evil medicine" for Rolf, practically abstained. But Rolf had not yet learned to respect the red yarns the Indian hung from a deer's skull, though he did come to understand that he must let them alone or produce bad feeling in camp.

Sunday had become a day of rest and Quonab made it also a day of song and remembrance.

They were sitting one Sunday night by the fire in the cabin, enjoying the blaze, while a storm rattled on the window and door. A white-footed mouse, one of a family that lived in the shanty, was trying how close he could come to Skookum's nose without being caught, while Rolf looked on. Quonab was lying back on a pile of deer skins, with his pipe in his mouth, his head on the bunk, and his hands clasped back of his neck.

There was an atmosphere of content and brotherly feeling; the evening was young, when Rolf broke silence:

"Were you ever married, Quonab?"

"Ugh," was the Indian's affirmative.

"Where?"

"Myanos."

Rolf did not venture more questions, but left the influence of the hour to work. It was a moment of delicate poise, and Rolf knew a touch would open the door or double bar it. He wondered how he might give that touch as he wished it. Skookum still slept. Both men watched the mouse, as, with quick movements it crept about. Presently it approached a long birch stick that stood up against the wall. High hanging was the song-drum. Rolf wished Quonab would take it and let it open his heart, but he dared not offer it; that might have the exact wrong effect. Now the mouse was behind the birch stick. Then Rolf noticed that the stick if it were to fall would strike a drying line, one end of which was on the song-drum peg. So he made a dash at the mouse and displaced the stick; the jerk it gave the line sent the song-drum with hollow bumping to the ground. The boy stooped to replace it; as he did, Quonab grunted and Rolf turned to see his hand stretched for the drum. Had Rolf officiously offered it, it would have been refused; now the Indian took it, tapped and warmed it at the fire, and sang a song of the Wabanaki. It was softly done, and very low, but Rolf was close, for almost the first time in any long rendition, and he got an entirely new notion of the red music. The singer's face brightened as he tummed and sang with peculiar grace notes and throat warbles of "Kaluscap's war with the magi," and the spirit of his people, rising to the sweet magic of melody, came shining in his eyes. He sang the lovers' song, "The Bark Canoe." (See F. R. Burton's "American Primitive Music.)

"While the stars shine and falls the dew, I seek my love in bark canoe."

And then the cradle song,

"The Naked Bear Shall Never Catch Thee."

When he stopped, he stared at the fire; and after a long pause Rolf ventured, "My mother would have loved your songs."

Whether he heard or not, the warm emanation surely reached the Indian, and he began to answer the question of an hour before:

"Her name was Gamowini, for she sang like the sweet night bird at Asamuk. I brought her from her father's house at Saugatuck. We lived at Myanos. She made beautiful baskets and moccasins. I fished and trapped; we had enough. Then the baby came. He had big round eyes, so we called him Wee-wees, 'our little owl,' and we were very happy. When Gamowini sang to her baby, the world seemed full of sun. One day when Wee-wees could walk she left him with me and she went to Stamford with some baskets to sell. A big ship was in the harbour. A man from the ship told her that his sailors would buy all her baskets. She had no fear. On the ship they seized her for a runaway slave, and hid her till they sailed away.

"When she did not come back I took Wee-wees on my shoulder and went quickly to Stamford. I soon found out a little, but the people did not know the ship, or whence she came, or where she went, they said. They did not seem to care. My heart grew hotter and wilder. I wanted to fight. I would have killed the men on the dock, but they were many. They bound me and put me in jail for three months. 'When I came out Wee-wees was dead. They did not care. I have heard nothing since. Then I went to live under the rock, so I should not see our first home. I do not know; she may be alive. But I think it killed her to lose her baby."

The Indian stopped; then rose quickly. His face was hard set. He stepped out into the snowstorm and the night. Rolf was left alone with Skookum.

Sad, sad, everything seemed sad in his friend's life, and Rolf, brooding over it with wisdom beyond his years, could not help asking: "Had Quonab and Gamowini been white folk, would it have happened so? Would his agony have been received with scornful indifference?" Alas! he knew it would not. He realized it would have been a very different tale, and the sequent questions that would not down, were, "Will this bread cast on the waters return after many days?" "Is there a God of justice and retribution?" "On whom will the flail of vengeance fall for all these abominations?"

Two hours later the Indian returned. No word was spoken as he entered. He was not cold. He must have walked far. Rolf prepared for bed. The Indian stooped, picked up a needle from the dusty ground, one that had been lost the day before, silently handed it to his companion, who gave only a recognizant "Hm," and dropped it into the birch-bark box.



Chapter 44. The Lost Bundle of Furs

There had been a significant cessation of robbery on their trap line after the inconclusive visit to the enemy's camp. But a new and extreme exasperation arose in the month of March, when the alternation of thaw and frost had covered the snow with a hard crust that rendered snowshoes unnecessary and made it easy to run anywhere and leave no track.

They had gathered up a fisher and some martens before they reached the beaver pond. They had no beaver traps now, but it was interesting to call and see how many of the beavers were left, and what they were doing.

Bubbling springs on the bank of the pond had made open water at several places, now that the winter frost was weakening. Out of these the beavers often came, as was plainly seen in the tracks, so the trappers approached them carefully.

They were scrutinizing one of them from behind a log, Quonab with ready gun, Rolf holding the unwilling Skookum, when the familiar broad, flat head appeared. A large beaver swam around the hole, sniffed and looked, then silently climbed the bank, evidently making for a certain aspen tree that he had already been cutting. He was in easy range, and the gunner was about to fire when Rolf pressed his arm and pointed. Here, wandering through the wood, came a large lynx. It had not seen or smelt any of the living creatures ahead, as yet, but speedily sighted the beaver now working away to cut down his tree.

As a pelt, the beaver was worth more than the lynx, but the naturalist is strong in most hunters, and they watched to see what would happen.

The lynx seemed to sink into the ground, and was lost to sight as soon as he knew of a possible prey ahead. And now he began his stalk. The hunters sighted him once as he crossed a level opening in the snow. He seemed less than four inches high as he crawled. Logs, ridges, trees, or twigs, afforded ample concealment, till his whiskers appeared in a thicket within fifteen feet of the beaver.

All this was painfully exciting to Skookum, who, though he could not see, could get some thrilling whiffs, and he strained forward to improve his opportunities. The sound of this slight struggle caught the beaver's ear. It stopped work, wheeled, and made for the water hole. The lynx sprang from his ambush, seized the beaver by the back, and held on; but the beaver was double the lynx's weight, the bank was steep and slippery, the struggling animals kept rolling down hill, nearer and nearer the hole. Then, on the very edge, the beaver gave a great plunge, and splashed into the water with the lynx clinging to its back. At once they disappeared, and the hunters rushed to the place, expecting them to float up and be an easy prey; but they did not float. At length it was clear that the pair had gone under the ice, for in water the beaver was master.

After five minutes it was certain that the lynx must be dead. Quonab cut a sapling and made a grappler. He poked this way and that way under the ice, until at length he felt something soft. With the hatchet they cut a hole over the place and then dragged out the body of the lynx. The beaver, of course, escaped and was probably little the worse.

While Quonab skinned the catch, Rolf prowled around the pond and soon came running back to tell of a remarkable happening.

At another open hole a beaver had come out, wandered twenty yards to a mound which he had castorized, then passed several hard wood trees to find a large poplar or aspen, the favourite food tree. This he had begun to fell with considerable skill, but for some strange reason, perhaps because alone, he had made a miscalculation, and when the tree came crashing down, it had fallen across his back, killed him, and pinned him to the ground.

It was an easy matter for the hunters to remove the log and secure his pelt, so they left the beaver pond, richer than they had expected.

Next night, when they reached their half-way shanty, they had the best haul they had taken on this line since the memorable day when they got six beavers.

The morning dawned clear and bright. As they breakfasted, they noticed an extraordinary gathering of ravens far away to the north, beyond any country they had visited. At least twenty or thirty of the birds were sailing in great circles high above a certain place, uttering a deep, sonorous croak, from time to time. Occasionally one of the ravens would dive down out of sight.

"Why do they fly above that way?"

"That is to let other ravens know there is food here. Their eyes are very good. They can see the signal ten miles away, so all come to the place. My father told me that you can gather all the ravens for twenty miles by leaving a carcass so they can see it and signal each other."

"Seems as if we should look into that. Maybe another panther," was Rolf's remark.

The Indian nodded; so leaving the bundle of furs in a safe place with the snowshoes, that they carried on a chance, they set out over the hard crust. It was two or three miles to the ravens' gathering, and, as before, it proved to be over a cedar brake where was a deer yard.

Skookum knew all about it. He rushed into the woods, filled with the joy of martial glory. But speedily came running out again as hard as he could, yelling "yow, yow, yowl" for help, while swiftly following, behind him were a couple of gray wolves. Quonab waited till they were within forty yards; then, seeing the men, the wolves slowed up and veered; Quonab fired; one of the wolves gave a little, doglike yelp. Then they leaped into the bushes and were lost to view.

A careful study of the snow showed one or two trifling traces of blood. In the deer yard they found at least a dozen carcasses of deer killed by the wolves, but none very recent. They saw but few deer and nothing more of the wolves, for the crust had made all the country easy, and both kinds fled before the hunters.

Exploring a lower level of willow country in hopes of finding beaver delayed them, and it was afternoon when they returned to the half-way shanty, to find everything as they left it, except that their Pack of furs had totally disappeared.

Of course, the hard crust gave no sign of track. Their first thought was of the old enemy, but, seeking far and near for evidence, they found pieces of an ermine skin, and a quarter mile farther, the rest of it, then, at another place, fragments of a muskrat's skin. Those made it look like the work of the trapper's enemy, the wolverine, which, though rare, was surely found in these hills. Yes! there was a wolverine scratch mark, and here another piece of the rat skin. It was very clear who was the thief.

"He tore up the cheapest ones of the lot anyway," said Rolf.

Then the trappers stared at each other significantly—only the cheap ones destroyed; why should a wolverine show such discrimination? There was no positive sign of wolverine; in fact, the icy snow gave no sign of anything. There was little doubt that the tom furs and the scratch marks were there to mislead; that this was the work of a human robber, almost certainly Hoag.

He had doubtless seen them leave in the morning, and it was equally sure, since he had had hours of start, he would now be far away.

"Ugh! Give him few days to think he safe, then I follow and settle all," and this time the Indian clearly meant to end the matter.



Chapter 45. The Subjugation of Hoag

A feller as weeps for pity and never does a finger-tap to help is 'bout as much use as an overcoat on a drowning man. —Sayings of Si Sylvanne.

SOME remarkable changes of weather made some remarkable changes in their plan and saved their enemy from immediate molestation. For two weeks it was a succession of thaws and there was much rain. The lake was covered with six inches of water; the river had a current above the ice, that was rapidly eating, the latter away. Everywhere there were slush and wet snow that put an end to travel and brought on the spring with a rush.

Each night there was, indeed, a trifling frost, but each day's sun seemed stronger, and broad, bare patches of ground appeared on all sunny slopes.

On the first crisp day the trappers set out to go the rounds, knowing full well that this was the end of the season. Henceforth for six months deadfall and snare would lie idle and unset.

They went their accustomed line, carrying their snowshoes, but rarely needing them. Then they crossed a large track to which Quonab pointed, and grunted affirmatively as Rolf said "Bear?" Yes! the bears were about once more; their winter sleep was over. Now they were fat and the fur was yet prime; in a month they would be thin and shedding. Now is the time for bear hunting with either trap or dog.

Doubtless Skookum thought the party most fortunately equipped in the latter respect, but no single dog is enough to bay a bear. There must be three or four to bother him behind, to make him face about and fight; one dog merely makes him run faster.

They had no traps, and knowing that a spring bear is a far traveller, they made no attempt to follow.

The deadfalls yielded two martens, but one of them was spoiled by the warm weather. They learned at last that the enemy had a trap-line, for part of which he used their deadfalls. He had been the rounds lately and had profited at least a little by their labours.

The track, though two days old, was not hard to follow, either on snow or ground. Quonab looked to the lock of his gun; his lower lip tightened and he strode along.

"What are you going to do, Quonab? Not shoot?"

"When I get near enough," and the dangerous look in the red man's eye told Rolf to be quiet and follow.

In three miles they passed but three of his marten traps—very lazy trapping—and then found a great triangle of logs by a tree with a bait and signs enough to tell the experienced eye that, in that corner, was hidden a huge steel trap for bear.

They were almost too late in restraining the knowledge-hunger of Skookum. They went on a mile or two and realized in so doing that, however poor a trapper the enemy might be, he was a good tramper and knew the country.

At sundown they came to their half-way shelter and put up there for the night. Once when Rolf went out to glimpse the skies before turning in, he heard a far tree creaking and wondered, for it was dead calm. Even Skookum noticed it. But it was not repeated. Next morning they went on.

There are many quaint sounds in the woods at all times, the rasping of trees, at least a dozen different calls by jays, twice as many by ravens, and occasional notes from chicadees, grouse, and owls. The quadrupeds in general are more silent, but the red squirrel is ever about and noisy, as well as busy.

Far-reaching sounds are these echoes of the woods—some of them very far. Probably there were not five minutes of the day or night when some weird, woodland chatter, scrape, crack, screech, or whistle did not reach the keen ears of that ever-alert dog. That is, three hundred times a day his outer ear submitted to his inner ear some report of things a-doing, which same report was as often for many days disregarded as of no interest or value. But this did not mean that he missed anything; the steady tramp, tramp of their feet, while it dulled all sounds for the hunter, seemed to have no effect on Skookum. Again the raspy squeal of some far tree reached his inmost brain, and his hair rose as he stopped and gave a low "woof."

The hunters held still; the wise ones always do, when a dog says "Stop!" They waited. After a few minutes it came again—merely the long-drawn creak of a tree bough, wind-rubbed on its neighbour.

And yet, "Woof, woof, woof," said Skookum, and ran ahead.

"Come back, you little fool!" cried Rolf.

But Skookum had a mind of his own. He trotted ahead, then stopped, paused, and sniffed at something in the snow. The Indian picked it up. It was the pocket jackscrew that every bear trapper carries to set the powerful trap, and without which, indeed, one man cannot manage the springs.

He held it up with "Ugh! Hoag in trouble now." Clearly the rival trapper had lost this necessary tool.

But the finding was an accident. Skookum pushed on. They came along a draw to a little hollow. The dog, far forward, began barking and angrily baying at something. The men hurried to the scene to find on the snow, fast held in one of those devilish engines called a bear trap—the body of their enemy—Hoag, the trapper, held by a leg, and a hand in the gin he himself had been setting.

A fierce light played on the Indian's face. Rolf was stricken with horror. But even while they contemplated the body, the faint cry was heard again coming from it.

"He's alive; hurry!" cried Rolf. The Indian did not hurry, but he came. He had vowed vengeance at sight; why should he haste to help?

The implacable iron jaws had clutched the trapper by one knee and the right hand. The first thing was to free him. How? No man has power enough to force that spring. But the jackscrew!

"Quonab, help him! For God's sake, come!" cried Rolf in agony, forgetting their feud and seeing only tortured, dying man.

The Indian gazed a moment, then rose quickly, and put on the jackscrew. Under his deft fingers the first spring went down, but what about the other? They had no other screw. The long buckskin line they always carried was quickly lashed round and round the down spring to hold it. Then the screw was removed and put on the other spring; it bent, and the jaws hung loose. The Indian forced them wide open, drew out the mangled limbs, a the trapper was free, but so near death, it seemed they were too late.

Rolf spread his coat. The Indian made a fire. In fifteen minutes they were pouring hot tea between victim's lips. Even as they did, his feeble throat gave out again the long, low moan.

The weather was mild now. The prisoner was not actually frozen, but numbed and racked. Heat, hot tea, kindly rubbing, and he revived a little.

At first they thought him dying, but in an hour recovered enough to talk. In feeble accents and broken phrases they learned the tale:

"Yest—m-m-m. Yesterday—no; two or three days back—m-m-m-m-m—I dunno; I was a goin'—roun' me traps—me bear traps. Didn't have no luck m-m-m (yes, I'd like another sip; ye ain't got no whiskey no?) m-m-m. Nothing in any trap, and when I come to this un—oh-h—m-m; I seen—the bait was stole by birds, an' the pan—m-m-m; an' the pan, m-m-m—(yes, that's better)—an' the pan laid bare. So I starts to cover it with—ce-ce-dar; the ony thing I c'd get—m-m-m-w—-wuz leanin' over—to fix tother side—me foot slipped on—the—ice—ev'rything was icy—an'—m-m-m-m—I lost—me balance—me knee the pan—O Lord—how I suffer!—m-m-m it grabbed me—knee an'—h-h-hand—" His voice died to a whisper and ceased; he seemed sinking.

Quonab got up to hold him. Then, looking at Rolf, Indian shook his head as though to say all was over; the poor wretch had a woodman's constitution, and in spite of a mangled, dying body, he revived again. They gave him more hot tea, and again he began in a whisper:

"I hed one arm free an'—an'—an'—I might—a—got out—m-m—but I hed no wrench—I lost it some place—m-m-m-m.

"Then—I yelled—I dun—no—maybe some un might hear—it kin-kin-kinder eased me—to yell m-m-m.

"Say—make that yer dog keep—away—will yer I dunno—it seems like a week—must a fainted some M-m-m—I yelled—when I could."

There was a long pause. Rolf said, "Seems to me I heard you last night, when we were up there. And dog heard you, too. Do you want me to move that leg around?"

"M-m-m—yeh—that's better—say, you air white—ain't ye? Ye won't leave me—cos—I done some mean things—m-m-m. Ye won't, will ye?"

"No, you needn't worry—we'll stay by ye."

Then he muttered, they could not tell what. He closed his eyes. After long silence he looked around wildly and began again:

"Say—I done you dirt—but don't leave me—don't leave me." Tears ran down his face and he moaned piteously. "I'll—make it—right—you're white, ain't ye?"

Quonab rose and went for more firewood. The trapper whispered, "I'm scared o' him—now—he'll do me—say, I'm jest a poor ole man. If I do live—through—this—m-m-m-m—I'll never walk again. I'm crippled sure."

It was long before he resumed. Then he began: "Say, what day is it—Friday!—I must—been two days in there—m-m-m—I reckoned it was a week. When—the—dog came I thought it was wolves. Oh—ah, didn't care much—m-m-m. Say, ye won't leave me—coz—coz—I treated—ye mean. I—ain't had no l-l-luck." He went off into a stupor, but presently let out a long, startling cry, the same as that they had heard in the night. The dog growled; the men stared. The wretch's eyes were rolling again. He seemed delirious.

Quonab pointed to the east, made the sun-up sign, and shook his head at the victim. And Rolf understood it to mean that he would never see the sunrise. But they were wrong.

The long night passed in a struggle between heath and the tough make-up of a mountaineer. The waiting light of dawn saw death defeated, retiring from the scene. As the sun rose high, the victim seemed to gain considerably in strength. There was no immediate danger of an end.

Rolf said to Quonab: "Where shall we take him? Guess you better go home for the toboggan, and we'll fetch him to the shanty."

But the invalid was able to take part in the conversation. "Say, don't take me there. Ah—want to go home. 'Pears like—I'd be better at home. My folks is out Moose River way. I'd never get out if I went in there," and by "there" he seemed to mean the Indian's lake, and glanced furtively at the unchanging countenance of the red man.

"Have you a toboggan at your shanty?" asked Rolf.

"Yes—good enough—it's on the roof—say," and he beckoned feebly to Rolf, "let him go after it—don't leave me—he'll kill me," and he wept feebly in his self pity.

So Quonab started down the mountain—a sinewy man—a striding form, a speck in the melting distance.



Chapter 46. Nursing Hoag

In two hours the red man reached the trapper's shanty, and at once, without hesitation or delicacy, set about a thorough examination of its contents. Of course there was the toboggan on the roof, and in fairly good condition for such a shiftless owner.

There were bunches of furs hanging from the rafters, but not many, for fur taking is hard work; and Quonab, looking suspiciously over them, was 'not surprised to see the lynx skin he had lost, easily known by the absence of wound and the fur still in points as it had dried from the wetting. In another bundle, he discovered the beaver that had killed itself, for there was the dark band across its back.

The martens he could not be sure of, but he had a strong suspicion that most of this fur came out of his own traps.

He tied Hoag's blankets on the toboggan, and hastened back to where he left the two on the mountain.

Skookum met him long before he was near. Skookum did not enjoy Hoag's company.

The cripple had been talking freely to Rolf, but the arrival of the Indian seemed to suppress him.

With the wounded man on the toboggan, they set out, The ground was bare in many places, so that the going was hard; but, fortunately, it was all down hill, and four hours' toil brought them to the cabin.

They put the sick man in his bunk, then Rolf set about preparing a meal, while Quonab cut wood.

After the usual tea, bacon, and flour cakes, all were feeling refreshed. Hoag seemed much more like himself. He talked freely, almost cheerfully, while Quonab, with Skookum at his feet, sat silently smoking and staring into the fire.

After a long silence, the Indian turned, looked straight at the trapper, and, pointing with his pipestem to the furs, said, "How many is ours?"

Hoag looked scared, then sulky, and said; "I dunno what ye mean. I'm a awful sick man. You get me out to Lyons Falls all right, and ye can have the hull lot," and he wept.

Rolf shook his head at Quonab, then turned to the sufferer and said: "Don't you worry; we'll get you out all right. Have you a good canoe?"

"Pretty fair; needs a little fixing."

The night passed with one or two breaks, when the invalid asked for a drink of water. In the morning he was evidently recovering, and they began to plan for the future.

He took the first chance of wispering to Rolf, "Can't you send him away? I'll be all right with you." Rolf said nothing.

"Say," he continued, "say, young feller, what's yer name?"

"Rolf Kittering."

"Say, Rolf, you wait a week or ten days, and the ice 'll be out; then I'll be fit to travel. There ain't on'y a few carries between here an' Lyons Falls."

After a long pause, due to Quonab's entry, he continued again: "Moose River's good canoeing; ye can get me out in five days; me folks is at Lyons Falls." He did not say that his folks consisted of a wife and boy that he neglected, but whom he counted on to nurse him now.

Rolf was puzzled by the situation.

"Say! I'll give ye all them furs if ye git me out." Rolf gave him a curious look—as much as to say, "Ye mean our furs."

Again the conversation was ended by the entry of Quonab.

Rolf stepped out, taking the Indian with him. They had a long talk, then, as Rolf reentered, the sick man began:

"You stay by me, and git me out. I'll give ye my rifle"—then, after a short silence—"an' I'll throw in all the traps an' the canoe."

"I'll stay by you," said Rolf, "and in about two weeks we'll take you down to Lyons Falls. I guess you can guide us."

"Ye can have all them pelts," and again the trapper presented the spoils he had stolen, "an' you bet it's your rifle when ye get me out."

So it was arranged. But it was necessary for Quonab to go back to their own cabin. Now what should he do? Carry the new lot of fur there, or bring the old lot here to dispose of all at Lyons Falls?

Rolf had been thinking hard. He had seen the evil side of many men, including Hoag. To go among Hoag's people with a lot of stuff that Hoag might claim was running risks, so he said:

"Quonab, you come back in not more than ten days. We'll take a few furs to Lyons Falls so we can get supplies. Leave the rest of them in good shape, so we can go out later to Warren's. We'll get a square deal there, and we don't know what at Lyon's."

So they picked out the lynx, the beaver, and a dozen martens to leave, and making the rest into a pack, Quonab shouldered them, and followed by Skookum, trudged up the mountain and was lost to view in the woods.

The ten days went by very slowly. Hoag was alternately querulous, weeping, complaining, unpleasantly fawning, or trying to insure good attention by presenting again and again the furs, the gun, and the canoe.

Rolf found it pleasant to get away from the cabin when the weather was fine. One day, taking Hoag's gun, he travelled up the nearest stream for a mile, and came on a big beaver pond. Round this he scouted and soon discovered a drowned beaver, held in a trap which he recognized at once, for it had the (" ' "') mark on the frame. Then he found an empty trap with a beaver leg in it, and another, till six traps were found. Then he gathered up the six and the beaver, and returned to the cabin to be greeted with a string of complaints:

"Ye didn't ought to leave me like this. I'm paying ye well enough. I don't ax no favours," etc.

"See what I got," and Rolf showed the beaver. "An' see what I found;" then he showed the traps. "Queer, ain't it," he went on, "we had six traps just like them, and I marked the face just like these, and they all disappeared, and there was a snowshoe trail pointing this way. You haven't got any crooked neighbours about here, have you?"

The trapper looked sulky and puzzled, and grumbled, "I bet it was Bill Hawkins done it"; then relapsed into silence.



Chapter 47. Hoag's Home-coming

When it comes to personal feelin's better let yer friends do the talkin' and jedgin'. A man can't handle his own case any more than a delirious doctor kin give hisself the right physic—Sayings of Si Sylvanne.

The coming of springtime in the woods is one of the gentlest, sweetest advents in the world. Sometimes there are heavy rains which fill all the little rivers with an overflood that quickly eats away the ice and snow, but usually the woodland streams open, slowly and gradually. Very rarely is there a spate, an upheaval, and a cataclysmal sweep that bursts the ice and ends its reign in an hour or two. That is the way of the large rivers, whose ice is free and floating. The snow in the forest melts slowly, and when the ice is attacked, it goes gradually, gently, without uproar. The spring comes in the woods with swelling of buds and a lengthening of drooping catkins, with honking of wild geese, and cawing of crows coming up from the lower countries to divide with their larger cousins, the ravens, the spoils of winter's killing.

The small birds from the South appear with a few short notes of spring, and the pert chicadees that have braved it all winter, now lead the singing with their cheery "I told you so" notes, till robins and blackbirds join in, and with their more ambitious singing make all the lesser roundelays forgot.

Once the winter had taken a backward step—spring found it easy to turn retreat into panic and rout; and the ten days Quonab stayed away were days of revolutionary change. For in them semi-winter gave place to smiling spring, with all the snow-drifts gone, except perhaps in the shadiest hollows of the woods.