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?"