The gambolling grace, the obvious good humour, the animal hilarity of
it all, was absorbingly amusing. The trappers gazed with pleasure that
showed how near akin are naturalist and hunter. Of course, they had
some covetous thought connected with those glossy hides, but this
was September still, and even otter were not yet prime. Shoot, plump,
splash, went the happy crew with apparently unabated joy and hilarity.
The slide improved with use and the otters seemed tireless; when all
at once a loud but muffled yelp was heard and Skookum, forgetting all
caution, came leaping down the bank to take a hand.

With a succession of shrill, birdy chirps the old otters warned their
young. Plump, plump, plump, all shot into the pool, but to reappear,
swimming with heads out, for they were but slightly alarmed. This was
too much for Quonob; he levelled his flintlock; snap, bang, it went,
pointed at the old male, but he dived at the snap and escaped. Down the
bank now rushed the hunters, joined by Skookum, to attack the otters
in the pool, for it was small and shallow; unless a burrow led from it,
they were trapped.

But the otters realized the peril. All six dashed out of the pool, down
the open, gravelly stream the old ones uttering loud chirps that rang
like screams. Under the fallen logs and brush they glided, dodging
beneath roots and over banks, pursued by the hunters, each armed with a
club and by Skookum not armed at all.

The otters seemed to know where they were going and distanced all but
the dog. Forgetting his own condition Skookum had almost overtaken
one of the otter cubs when the mother wheeled about and, hissing and
snarling, charged. Skookum was lucky to get off with a slight nip, for
the otter is a dangerous fighter. But the unlucky dog was sent howling
back to the two packs that he never should have left.

The hunters now found an open stretch of woods through which Quonab
could run ahead and intercept the otters as they bounded on down the
stream bed, pursued by Rolf, who vainly tried to deal a blow with his
club. In a few seconds the family party was up to Quonab, trapped it
seemed, but there is no more desperate assailant than an otter
fighting for its young. So far from being cowed the two old ones made a
simultaneous, furious rush at the Indian. Wholly taken by surprise, he
missed with his club, and sprang aside to escape their jaws. The family
dashed around then past him, and, urged by the continuous chirps of the
mother, they plunged under a succession of log jams and into a willow
swamp that spread out into an ancient beaver lake and were swallowed up
in the silent wilderness.



Chapter 26. Back to the Cabin

The far end of the long swamp the stream emerged, now much larger, and
the trappers kept on with their work. When night fell they had completed
fifty traps, all told, and again they camped without shelter overhead.

Next day Skookum was so much worse that they began to fear for his life.
He had eaten nothing since the sad encounter. He could drink a little,
so Rolf made a pot of soup, and when it was cool the poor doggie managed
to swallow some of the liquid after half an hour's patient endeavour.

They were now on the home line; from a hill top they got a distant view
of their lake, though it was at least five miles away. Down the creek
they went, still making their deadfalls at likely places and still
seeing game tracks at the muddy spots. The creek came at length to an
extensive, open, hardwood bush, and here it was joined by another stream
that came from the south, the two making a small river. From then on
they seemed in a land of game; trails of deer were seen on the ground
everywhere, and every few minutes they started one or two deer. The
shady oak wood itself was flanked and varied with dense cedar swamps
such as the deer love to winter in, and after they had tramped through
two miles of it, the Indian said, "Good! now we know where to come in
winter when we need meat."

At a broad, muddy ford they passed an amazing number of tracks, mostly
deer, but a few of panther, lynx, fisher, wolf, otter, and mink.

In the afternoon they reached the lake. The stream, quite a broad one
here, emptied in about four miles south of the camp. Leaving a deadfall
near its mouth they followed the shore and made a log trap every quarter
mile just above the high water mark.

When they reached the place of Rolf's first deer they turned aside to
see it. The gray jays had picked a good deal of the loose meat. No large
animal had troubled it, and yet in the neighbourhood they found the
tracks of both wolves and foxes.

"Ugh," said Quonab, "they smell it and come near, but they know that a
man has been here; they are not very hungry, so keep away. This is good
for trap."

So they made two deadfalls with the carrion half way between them. Then
one or two more traps and they reached home, arriving at the camp just
as darkness and a heavy rainfall began.

"Good," said Quonab, "our deadfalls are ready; we have done all the work
our fingers could not do when the weather is very cold, and the ground
too hard for stakes to be driven. Now the traps can get weathered before
we go round and set them. Yet we need some strong medicine, some trapper
charm."

Next morning he went forth with fish-line and fish-spear; he soon
returned with a pickerel. He filled a bottle with cut-up shreds of this,
corked it up, and hung it on the warm, sunny side of the shanty. "That
will make a charm that every bear will come to," he said, and left it
to the action of the sun.



Chapter 27. Sick Dog Skookum

Getting home is always a joy; but walking about the place in the morning
they noticed several little things that were wrong. Quonab's lodge was
down, the paddles that stood against the shanty were scattered on the
ground, and a bag of venison hung high at the ridge was opened and
empty.

Quonab studied the tracks and announced "a bad old black bear; he has
rollicked round for mischief, upsetting things. But the venison he could
not reach; that was a marten that ripped open the bag."

"Then that tells what we should do; build a storehouse at the end of the
shanty," said Rolf, adding, "it must be tight and it must be cool."

"Maybe! sometime before winter," said the Indian; "but now we should
make another line of traps while the weather is fine."

"No," replied the lad, "Skookum is not fit to travel now. We can't leave
him behind, and we can make a storehouse in three days."

The unhappy little dog was worse than ever. He could scarcely breathe,
much less eat or drink, and the case was settled.

First they bathed the invalid's head in water as hot as he could stand
it. This seemed to help him so much that he swallowed eagerly some soup
that they poured into his mouth. A bed was made for him in a sunny place
and the hunters set about the new building.

In three days the storehouse was done, excepting the chinking. It was
October now, and a sharp night frost warned them of the hard white moons
to come. Quonab, as he broke the ice in a tin cup and glanced at the
low-hung sun, said: "The leaves are falling fast; snow comes soon; we
need another line of traps."

He stopped suddenly; stared across the lake. Rolf looked, and here came
three deer, two bucks and a doe, trotting, walking, or lightly clearing
obstacles, the doe in advance; the others, rival followers. As they kept
along the shore, they came nearer the cabin. Rolf glanced at Quonab, who
nodded, then slipped in, got down the gun, and quickly glided unseen to
the river where the deer path landed. The bucks did not actually fight,
for the season was not yet on, but their horns were clean, their necks
were swelling, and they threatened each other as they trotted after the
leader. They made for the ford as for some familiar path, and splashed
through, almost without swimming. As they landed, Rolf waited a clear
view, then gave a short sharp "Hist!" It was like a word of magic, for
it turned the three moving deer to three stony-still statues. Rolf's
sights were turned on the smaller buck, and when the great cloud
following the bang had deared away, the two were gone and the lesser
buck was kicking on the ground some fifty yards away.

"We have found the good hunting; the deer walk into camp," said Quonab;
and the product of the chase was quickly stored, the first of the
supplies to be hung in the new storehouse.

The entrails were piled up and covered with brush and stones. "That will
keep off ravens and jays; then in winter the foxes will come and we can
take their coats."

Now they must decide for the morning. Skookum was somewhat better, but
still very sick, and Rolf suggested: "Quonab, you take the gun and axe
and lay a new line. I will stay behind and finish up the cabin for the
winter and look after the dog." So it was agreed. The Indian left the
camp alone this time and crossed to the east shore of the lake; there to
follow up another stream as before and to return in three or four days
to the cabin.



Chapter 28. Alone in the Wilderness

Rolf began the day by giving Skookum a bath as hot as he could stand it,
and later his soup. For the first he whined feebly and for the second
faintly wagged his tail; but clearly he was on the mend.

Now the chinking and moss-plugging of the new cabin required all
attention. That took a day and looked like the biggest job on hand, but
Rolf had been thinking hard about the winter. In Connecticut the
wiser settlers used to bank their houses for the cold weather; in the
Adirondacks he knew it was far, far colder, and he soon decided to bank
the two shanties as deeply as possible with earth. A good spade made of
white oak, with its edge hardened by roasting it brown, was his first
necessity, and after two days of digging he had the cabin with its annex
buried up to "the eyes" in fresh, clean earth.

A stock of new, dry wood for wet weather helped to show how much too
small the cabin was; and now the heavier work was done, and Rolf had
plenty of time to think.

Which of us that has been left alone in the wilderness does not remember
the sensations of the first day! The feeling of self-dependency, not
unmixed with unrestraint; the ending of civilized thought; the total
reversion to the primitive; the nearness of the wood-folk; a sense of
intimacy; a recurrent feeling of awe at the silent inexorability of
all around; and a sweet pervading sense of mastery in the very freedom.
These were among the feelings that swept in waves through Rolf, and
when the first night came, he found such comfort--yes, he had to confess
it--in the company of the helpless little dog whose bed was by his own.

But these were sensations that come not often; in the four days and
nights that he was alone they lost all force.

The hunter proverb about "strange beasts when you have no gun" was amply
illustrated now that Quonab had gone with their only firearm. The second
night before turning in (he slept in the shanty now), he was taking a
last look at the stars, when a large, dark form glided among the tree
trunks between him and the shimmering lake; stopped, gazed at him, then
silently disappeared along the shore. No wonder that he kept the shanty
door closed that night, and next morning when he studied the sandy
ridges he read plainly that his night visitor had been not a lynx or a
fox, but a prowling cougar or panther.

On the third morning as he went forth in the still early dawn he heard
a snort, and looking toward the spruce woods, was amazed to see towering
up, statuesque, almost grotesque, with its mulish ears and antediluvian
horns, a large bull moose.

Rolf was no coward, but the sight of that monster so close to him set
his scalp a-prickling. He felt so helpless without any firearms. He
stepped into the cabin, took down his bow and arrows, then gave a
contemptuous "Humph; all right for partridge and squirrels, but give me
a rifle for the woods!" He went out again; there was the moose standing
as before. The lad rushed toward it a few steps, shouting; it stared
unmoved. But Rolf was moved, and he retreated to the cabin. Then
remembering the potency of fire he started a blaze on the hearth. The
thick smoke curled up on the still air, hung low, made swishes through
the grove, until a faint air current took a wreath of it to the moose.
The great nostrils drank in a draught that conveyed terror to the
creature's soul, and wheeling it started at its best pace to the distant
swamp, to be seen no more.

Five times, during these four days, did deer come by and behave as
though they knew perfectly well that this young human was harmless,
entirely without the power of the far-killing mystery.

How intensely Rolf wished for a gun. How vividly came back the scene
in the trader's store,--when last month he had been offered a beautiful
rifle for twenty-five dollars, to be paid for in fur next spring, and
savagely he blamed himself for not realizing what a chance it was. Then
and there he made resolve to be the owner of a gun as soon as another
chance came, and to make that chance come right soon.

One little victory he had in that time. The creature that had torn open
the venison bag was still around the camp; that was plain by the further
damage on the bag hung in the storehouse, the walls of which were not
chinked. Mindful of Quonab's remark, he set two marten traps, one on
the roof, near the hole that had been used as entry; the other on a log
along which the creature must climb to reach the meat. The method of
setting is simple; a hollow is made, large enough to receive the trap
as it lies open; on the pan of the trap some grass is laid smoothly;
on each side of the trap a piece of prickly brush is placed, so that
in leaping over these the creature will land on the lurking snare. The
chain was made fast to a small log.

Although so seldom seen there is no doubt that the marten comes out
chiefly by day. That night the trap remained unsprung; next morning
as Rolf went at silent dawn to bring water from the lake, he noticed
a long, dark line that proved to be ducks. As he sat gazing he heard
a sound in the tree beyond the cabin. It was like the scratching of
a squirrel climbing about. Then he saw the creature, a large, dark
squirrel, it seemed. It darted up this tree and down that, over logs and
under brush, with the lightning speed of a lightning squirrel, and from
time to time it stopped still as a bump while it gazed at some far and
suspicious object. Up one trunk it went like a brown flash, and a moment
later, out, cackling from its top, flew two partridges. Down to the
ground, sinuous, graceful, incessantly active flashed the marten. Along
a log it raced in undulating leaps; in the middle it stopped as though
frozen, to gaze intently into a bed of sedge; with three billowy bounds
its sleek form reached the sedge, flashed in and out again with a
mouse in its snarling jaws; a side leap now, and another squeaker was
squeakless, and another. The three were slain, then thrown aside, as the
brown terror scanned a flight of ducks passing over. Into a thicket of
willow it disappeared and out again like an eel going through the mud,
then up a tall stub where woodpecker holes were to be seen. Into the
largest it went so quickly Rolf could scarcely see how it entered,
and out in a few seconds bearing a flying squirrel whose skull it had
crushed. Dropping the squirrel it leaped after it, and pounced again on
the quivering form with a fearsome growl; then shook it savagely, tore
it apart, cast it aside. Over the ground it now undulated, its shining
yellow breast like a target of gold. Again it stopped. Now in pose like
a pointer, exquisitely graceful, but oh, so wicked! Then the snaky
neck swung the cobra head in the breeze and the brown one sniffed and
sniffed, advanced a few steps, tried the wind and the ground. Still
farther and the concentrated interest showed in its outstretched neck
and quivering tail. Bounding into a thicket it went, when out of the
other side there leaped a snowshoe rabbit, away and away for dear life.
Jump, jump, jump; twelve feet at every stride, and faster than the eye
could follow, with the marten close behind. What a race it was, and
how they twinkled through the brush! The rabbit is, indeed, faster, but
courage counts for much, and his was low; but luck and his good stars
urged him round to the deer trail crossing of the stream; once there he
could not turn. There was only one course. He sprang into the open river
and swam for his life. And the marten--why should it go in? It hated the
water; it was not hungry; it was out for sport, and water sport is not
to its liking. It braced its sinewy legs and halted at the very brink,
while bunny crossed to the safe woods.

Back now came Wahpestan, the brown death, over the logs like a winged
snake, skimming the ground like a sinister shadow, and heading for the
cabin as the cabin's owner watched. Passing the body of the squirrel it
paused to rend it again, then diving into the brush came out so far away
and so soon that the watcher supposed at first that this was another
marten. Up the shanty corner it flashed, hardly appearing to climb,
swung that yellow throat and dark-brown muzzle for a second, then made
toward the entry.

Rolf sat with staring eyes as the beautiful demon, elegantly
spurning the roof sods, went at easy, measured bounds toward the open
chink--toward its doom. One, two, three--clearing the prickly cedar
bush, its forefeet fell on the hidden trap; clutch, a savage shriek, a
flashing,--a struggle baffling the eyes to follow, and the master of the
squirrels was himself under mastery.

Rolf rushed forward now. The little demon in the trap was frothing with
rage and hate; it ground the iron with its teeth; it shrieked at the
human foeman coming.

The scene must end, the quicker the better, and even as the marten
itself had served the flying squirrel and the mice, and as Quonab served
the mink, so Rolf served the marten and the woods was still.



Chapter 29. Snowshoes

"That's for Annette," said Rolf, remembering his promise as he hung the
stretched marten skin to dry.

"Yi! Yi! Yi!" came three yelps, just as he had heard them the day he
first met Quonab, and crossing the narrow lake he saw his partner's
canoe.

"We have found the good hunting," he said, as Rolf steadied the canoe at
the landing and Skookum, nearly well again, wagged his entire ulterior
person to welcome the wanderer home. The first thing to catch the boy's
eye was a great, splendid beaver skin stretched on a willow hoop.

"Ho, ho!" he exclaimed.

"Ugh; found another pond."

"Good, good," said Rolf as he stroked the first beaver skin he had ever
seen in the woods.

"This is better," said Quonab, and held up the two barkstones, castors,
or smell-glands that are found in every beaver and which for some hid
reason have an irresistible attraction for all wild animals. To us the
odour is slight, but they have the power of intensifying, perpetuating,
and projecting such odorous substances as may be mixed with them.
No trapper considers his bait to be perfect without a little of the
mysterious castor. So that that most stenchable thing they had already
concocted of fish-oil, putrescence, sewer-gas, and sunlight, when
commingled and multiplied with the dried-up powder of a castor, was
intensified into a rich, rancid, gas-exhaling hell-broth as rapturously
bewitching to our furry brothers as it is poisonously nauseating to
ourselves--seductive afar like the sweetest music, inexorable as fate,
insidious as laughing-gas, soothing and numbing as absinthe--this, the
lure and caution-luller, is the fellest trick in all the trappers' code.
As deadly as inexplicable, not a few of the states have classed it with
black magic and declared its use a crime.

But no such sentiment prevailed in the high hills of Quonab's time, and
their preparations for a successful trapping season were nearly perfect.
Thirty deadfalls made by Quonab, with the sixty made on the first trip
and a dozen steel traps, were surely promise of a good haul. It was
nearly November now; the fur was prime; then why not begin? Because
the weather was too fine. You must have frosty weather or the creatures
taken in the deadfalls are spoiled before the trapper can get around.

Already a good, big pile of wood was cut; both shanty and storeroom
were chinked, plugged, and banked for the winter. It was not safe yet to
shoot and store a number of deer, but there was something they could do.
Snowshoes would soon be a necessary of life; and the more of this finger
work they did while the weather was warm, the better.

Birch and ash are used for frames; the former is less liable to split,
but harder to work. White ash was plentiful on the near flat, and a
small ten-foot log was soon cut and split into a lot of long laths.
Quonab of course took charge; but Rolf followed in everything. Each took
a lath and shaved it down evenly until an inch wide and three quarters
of an inch thick. The exact middle was marked, and for ten inches at
each side of that it was shaved down to half an inch in thickness. Two
flat crossbars, ten and twelve inches long, were needed and holes to
receive these made half through the frame. The pot was ready boiling and
by using a cord from end to end of each lath they easily bent it in the
middle and brought the wood into touch with the boiling water. Before an
hour the steam had so softened the wood, and robbed it of spring, that
it was easy to make it into any desired shape. Each lath was cautiously
bent round; the crossbars slipped into their prepared sockets; a
temporary lashing of cord kept all in place; then finally the frames
were set on a level place with the fore end raised two inches and a
heavy log put on the frame to give the upturn to the toe.

Here they were left to dry and the Indian set about preparing the
necessary thongs. A buckskin rolled in wet, hard wood ashes had been
left in the mud hole. Now after a week the hair was easily scraped off
and the hide, cleaned and trimmed of all loose ends and tags, was spread
out--soft, white, and supple. Beginning outside, and following round and
round the edge, Quonab cut a thong of rawhide as nearly as possible a
quarter inch wide. This he carried on till there were many yards of it,
and the hide was all used up. The second deer skin was much smaller and
thinner. He sharpened his knife and cut it much finer, at least half the
width of the other. Now they were ready to lace the shoes, the finer for
the fore and back parts, the heavy for the middle on which the wearer
treads. An expert squaw would have laughed at the rude snowshoes that
were finished that day, but they were strong and serviceable.

Naturally the snowshoes suggested a toboggan. That was easily made by
splitting four thin boards of ash, each six inches wide and ten feet
long. An up-curl was steamed on the prow of each, and rawhide lashings
held all to the crossbars.



Chapter 30. Catching a Fox

     "As to wisdom, a man ain't a spring; he's a tank, an' gives
     out only what he gathers"--Sayings of Si Sylvanne

Quonab would not quit his nightly couch in the canvas lodge so Rolf and
Skookum stayed with him. The dog was himself again, and more than once
in the hours of gloom dashed forth in noisy chase of something which
morning study of the tracks showed to have been foxes. They were
attracted partly by the carrion of the deer, partly by the general
suitability of the sandy beach for a gambolling place, and partly by a
foxy curiosity concerning the cabin, the hunters, and their dog.

One morning after several night arousings and many raids by Skookum,
Rolf said: "Fox is good now; why shouldn't I add some fox pelts to
that?" and he pointed with some pride to the marten skin.

"Ugh, good; go ahead; you will learn," was the reply.

So getting out the two fox traps Rolf set to work. Noting where chiefly
the foxes ran or played he chose two beaten pathways and hid the traps
carefully, exactly as he did for the marten; then selecting a couple of
small cedar branches he cut these and laid them across the path, one on
each side of the trap, assuming that the foxes following the usual route
would leap over the boughs and land in disaster. To make doubly sure he
put a piece of meat by each trap and half-way between them set a large
piece on a stone.

Then he sprinkled fresh earth over the pathways and around each trap and
bait so he should have a record of the tracks.

Foxes came that night, as he learned by the footprints along the beach,
but never one went near his traps. He studied the marks; they slowly
told him all the main facts. The foxes had come as usual, and frolicked
about. They had discovered the bait and the traps at once--how could
such sharp noses miss them--and as quickly noted that the traps were
suspicious-smelling iron things, that manscent, hand, foot, and body,
were very evident all about; that the only inducement to go forward was
some meat which was coarse and cold, not for a moment to be compared
with the hot juicy mouse meat that abounded in every meadow. The foxes
were well fed and unhungry. Why should they venture into such evident
danger? In a word, walls of stone could not have more completely
protected the ground and the meat from the foxes than did the obvious
nature of the traps; not a track was near, and many afar showed how
quickly they had veered off.

"Ugh, it is always so," said Quonab. "Will you try again?"

"Yes, I will," replied Rolf, remembering now that he had omitted to
deodorize his traps and his boots.

He made a fire of cedar and smoked his traps, chains, and all. Then
taking a piece of raw venison he rubbed it on his leather gloves and
on the soles of his boots, wondering how he had expected to succeed the
night before with all these man-scent killers left out. He put fine,
soft moss under the pan of each trap, then removed the cedar brush, and
gently sprinkled all with fine, dry earth. The set was perfect; no human
eye could have told that there was any trap in the place. It seemed a
foregone success.

"Fox don't go by eye," was all the Indian said, for he reckoned it best
to let the learner work it out.

In the morning Rolf was up eager to see the results. There was nothing
at all. A fox had indeed, come within ten feet at one place, but behaved
then as though positively amused at the childishness of the whole smelly
affair. Had a man been there on guard with a club, he could not have
kept the spot more wholly clear of foxes. Rolf turned away baffled and
utterly puzzled. He had not gone far before he heard a most terrific
yelping from Skookum, and turned to see that trouble-seeking pup caught
by the leg in the first trap. It was more the horrible surprise than the
pain, but he did howl.

The hunters came quickly to the rescue and at once he was freed, none
the worse, for the traps have no teeth; they merely hold. It is the
long struggle and the starvation chiefly that are cruel, and these every
trapper should cut short by going often around his line.

Now Quonab took part. "That is a good setting for some things. It would
catch a coon, a mink, or a marten,--or a dog--but not a fox or a wolf.
They are very clever. You shall see."

The Indian got out a pair of thick leather gloves, smoked them in cedar,
also the traps. Next he rubbed his moccasin soles with raw meat and
selecting a little bay in the shore he threw a long pole on the sand,
from the line of high, dry shingle across to the water's edge. In
his hand he carried a rough stake. Walking carefully on the pole and
standing on it, he drove the stake in at about four feet from the shore;
then split it, and stuffed some soft moss into the split. On this he
poured three or four drops of the "smell-charm." Now he put a lump of
spruce gum on the pan of the trap, holding a torch under it till the gum
was fused, and into this he pressed a small, flat stone. The chain of
the trap he fastened to a ten-pound stone of convenient shape, and sank
the stone in the water half-way between the stake and the shore. Last
he placed the trap on this stone, so that when open everything would be
under water except the flat stone on the pan. Now he returned along the
pole and dragged it away with him.

Thus there was now no track or scent of human near the place.

The setting was a perfect one, but even then the foxes did not go near
it the following night; they must become used to it. In their code, "A
strange thing is always dangerous." In the morning Rolf was inclined to
scoff. But Quonab said: "Wah! No trap goes first night."

They did not need to wait for the second morning. In the middle of the
night Skookum rushed forth barking, and they followed to see a wild
struggle, the fox leaping to escape and fast to his foot was the trap
with its anchor stone a-dragging.

Then was repeated the scene that ended the struggle of mink and marten.
The creature's hind feet were tied together and his body hung from a
peg in the shanty. In the morning they gloated over his splendid fur and
added his coat to their store of trophies.



Chapter 31. Following the Trap Line

That night the moon changed. Next day came on with a strong north wind.
By noon the wild ducks had left the lake. Many long strings of geese
passed southeastward, honking as they flew. Colder and colder blew the
strong wind, and soon the frost was showing on the smaller ponds. It
snowed a little, but this ceased. With the clearing sky the wind fell
and the frost grew keener.

At daybreak, when the hunters rose, it was very cold. Everything but the
open lake was frozen over, and they knew that winter was come; the time
of trapping was at hand. Quonab went at once to the pinnacle on the
hill, made a little fire, then chanting the "Hunter's Prayer," he cast
into the fire the whiskers of the fox and the marten, some of the
beaver castor, and some tobacco. Then descended to prepare for the
trail--blankets, beaver traps, weapons, and food for two days, besides
the smell-charm and some fish for bait.

Quickly the deadfalls were baited and set; last the Indian threw into
the trap chamber a piece of moss on which was a drop of the "smell," and
wiped another drop on each of his moccasins. "Phew," said Rolf.

"That make a trail the marten follow for a month," was the explanation.
Skookum seemed to think so too, and if he did not say "phew," it was
because he did not know how.

Very soon the little dog treed a flock of partridge and Rolf with blunt
arrows secured three. The breasts were saved for the hunters' table, but
the rest with the offal and feathers made the best of marten baits and
served for all the traps, till at noon they reached the beaver pond.
It was covered with ice too thin to bear, but the freshly used
landing places were easily selected. At each they set a strong, steel
beaver-trap, concealing it amid some dry grass, and placing in a split
stick a foot away a piece of moss in which were a few drops of the magic
lure. The ring on the trap chain was slipped over a long, thin, smooth
pole which was driven deep in the mud, the top pointing away from
the deep water. The plan was old and proven. The beaver, eager
to investigate that semifriendly smell, sets foot in the trap;
instinctively when in danger he dives for the deep water; the ring slips
along the pole till at the bottom and there it jams so that the beaver
cannot rise again and is drowned.

In an hour the six traps were set for the beavers; presently the
hunters, skirmishing for more partridges, had much trouble to save
Skookum from another porcupine disaster.

They got some more grouse, baited the traps for a couple of miles, then
camped for the night.

Before morning it came on to snow and it was three inches deep when they
arose. There is no place on earth where the first snow is more beautiful
than in the Adirondacks. In early autumn nature seems to prepare for
it. Green leaves are cleared away to expose the berry bunches in red;
rushbeds mass their groups, turn golden brown and bow their heads to
meet the silver load; the low hills and the lines of various Christmas
trees are arrayed for the finest effect: the setting is perfect and the
scene, but it lacks the lime light yet. It needs must have the lavish
blaze of white. And when it comes like the veil on a bride, the silver
mountings on a charger's trappings, or the golden fire in a sunset, the
shining crystal robe is the finishing, the crowning glory, without which
all the rest must fail, could have no bright completeness. Its beauty
stirred the hunters though it found no better expression than Rolf's
simple words, "Ain't it fine," while the Indian gazed in silence.

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.