With a shrug 'Merican Joe started his dogs andtook up the trail. Two hours later Connie took the lead, and pointed to the tracks in the snow. "He's slowing up," he exclaimed. "If we don't strike his camp within a half an hour, we'll strike—something else!"
A few minutes later both halted abruptly. Before them was a wide place in the snow that had been trampled by many feet—the soft padded feet of the wolf pack. A toboggan, with its pack still securely lashed, stood at the end of René Bossuet's trail. Small scraps of leather showed where the dogs had been torn from the harness. Connie closed his eyes and pictured to himself what had happened there, in the night, in the sound of the roaring wind, and in the changing lights of the brilliantly flashing aurora. Then he opened his eyes and stepped out into the trampled space and gazed thoughtfully down upon the few scattered bits that lay strewn about upon the snow—a grinning skull, deeply gored here and there with fang marks, the gnawed ends of bones, and here and there ravellings and tiny patches of vivid blue cloth. And as he fastened the toboggan behind his own and swung the dogs onto the back-trail, he paused once more and smiled grimly:
"He had always lived in the North," he said, "but he didn't know the North. He ran like the coward he was from the red death when there was no danger. And not only that, but he stole the food from a woman and a sick baby. He thought he could get away with it—'way up here. But there's something in the silent places that men don't understand—and never will understand. I've heard men speak of it. And now I have seen it—the working of the justice of the North!"
Notrading post in all the North is more beautifully situated than Fort Norman. The snug buildings of the Hudson's Bay Company and the Northern Trading Company are located upon a high bank, at the foot of which the mighty Mackenzie rushes northward to the frozen sea. On a clear day the Rocky Mountains are plainly visible, and a half mile below the post, Bear River, the swift running outlet to Great Bear Lake, flows into the Mackenzie. It is to Fort Norman that the Indians from up and down the great river, from the mountains to the westward, and from Great Bear Lake, and a thousand other lakes and rivers, named and unnamed, to the eastward, come each year to trade their furs. And it was there that Connie Morgan and 'Merican Joe arrived just thirty-seven days after they pulled out of Dawson.
Except at the time of the holiday trading, winter visitors are few at the isolated post, and the two were heartily welcomed by the agents of the rival trading companies, and by the two priests of the little Roman Catholic Mission.
Connie learned from the representatives of both companies that from all indications fur would be plentiful that year, but both expressed doubt that Fort Norman would get its share of the trading.
"It's this way," explained McTavish, a huge, bearded Scot, as they sat about the fur trader's roaring stove upon the evening of their arrival. "The mountain Indians—the moose eaters, from the westward—are trading on the Yukon. They claim they get better prices over there an' maybe they do. The Yukon traders get the goods into the country cheaper, an' they could sell them cheaper, an' I ain't blamin' the Indians for tradin' where they can do best. But, now comes reports of a free trader that has trailed up the Coppermine from the coast to trade amongst the caribou eaters to the eastward. If that's so—an' he gets 'em to trade with him—God help those Indians along towards spring."
The man relapsed into silence and Connie grinned to himself. "They've had it all their way up here for so long it makes them mad if anybody else comes in for a share of their profits," thought the boy. Aloud, he asked innocently:
"What's the matter with the free traders?"
McTavish frowned, and Berl Hansen, the Dane who managed the affairs of the Northern Trading Company's post, laughed harshly.
"Go down along the railroads, boy," he said, "if you want to see the handiwork of the free traders, an' look at the Indians that has dealt with 'em. You can see 'em hanging around them railroad towns, that was once posts where they handled good clean furs. Them Injuns an' their fathers before 'em was good trappers—an' look at 'em now!"
"Yes," interrupted Connie, "but they are the victims of the bootleggers and the whiskey runners! How about the free trader that won't handle liquor?"
"There ain't no such a free trader!" exclaimed Hansen, angrily. "They're a pack of lying, thievin'——"
"There, there, Berl, lad!" rumbled McTavish,checking the irate Dane, who had fairly launched upon his favourite theme. "Ye're right, in the main—but the lad's question was a fair one an' deserves a fair answer. I'm an older man, an' I've be'n thirty years in the service of the Company. Let me talk a bit, for there are a few traders that for aught I know are honest men an' no rum peddlers. But, there's reasons why they don't last long." The old Scotchman paused, whittled deliberately at his plug tobacco, and filled his pipe. "It's this way," he began. "We'll suppose this trader over on the Coppermine is a legitimate trader. We will handle his case fairly, an' to do that we must consider first the Hudson's Bay Company. For two hundred an' fifty years we have been traders of the North—we know the needs of the North—an' we supply them. The Indian's interests are our interests, and we trade nothing but the best goods. For two centuries an' a half we have studied the North and we have dealt fairly. And may I say here," with a glance toward Hansen, "that there are several other companies with sound financial backing and established posts that have profited by our experience and also supply only the best of goods, anddeal fairly. With them we have no quarrel—honest competition, of course, we have—but no quarrel. Comes now the free trader. He is a man of small capital. His goods are cheap, they are of inferior quality. He cannot give 'debt,' as the credit of the North is called. He cannot carry a large number of Indians for six months or a year as we do. If he attempts it, his creditors press him and he goes to the wall—or the Indians find out before time for payment comes that the goods are inferior, and they repudiate their debt. It is bad all around—bad for the Indians, bad for the free traders, and bad for us——"
"I should think it would be good for you," interrupted Connie.
The factor shook his head: "I told you the Indians' interests are our interests. I will show you. Take it at this very post. We will suppose that the beaver are becoming scarce around here; what do we do? We say to the Indians, 'Do not kill any beaver this year and next year.' And they obey us—why? Because we will not buy any beaver here during that time. They will not kill what they cannot sell. Then, when the beavers have become numerous again, we resumetrade in them. Were it not for this policy, many fur-bearing animals that once were numerous would now be extinct.
"But—suppose there are free traders in the country—we will pay nothing for beavers, so they begin to buy them cheap—they can name their own price, and the Indians will keep on killing them. The Indian says: 'It is better that I should sell this beaver now at six skins than that my neighbour should sell him in two years at twelve skins.' Then, soon, there are no more beavers left in that part of the country. Another thing, in the fur posts our word is law. We tell the Indians when they can begin to take fur, and when they must stop. The result is we handle only clean, prime pelts with the flesh side white as paper. With the free trader a pelt is a pelt, prime or unprime, it makes no difference. So the killing goes merrily on where the free traders are—and soon all the fur-bearing animals are exterminated from that section. What does the free trader care? He loads his fly-by-night outfit into canoes or a York boat, and passes on to lay waste another section, leaving the poor Indians to face the rigours of the coming winter with ruined credit, cheap,inadequate clothing, cheap food, and worthless trinkets, and their hunting grounds barren of game."
"But," objected Connie, "suppose a free trader dealt in goods as good as yours——"
McTavish laughed. "I have yet to see that trader in thirty years' experience. Admit that his goods did measure up to our standard. What would he have to charge for them? We buy in vast quantities—in some cases we take the entire output of factories, and we have an established system of transportation to get it into the wilds. No free trader can compete with us—cost plus freight would ruin him, especially as he must allow the Indians a debt."
"How much debt do they get?"
"That depends upon several things. First of all upon the Indian—his reputation for honesty, and his reputation as a hunter. It also depends upon the size of his family, the distance of his hunting ground from the post, and his general prospects for the season. It varies from one hundred to five or six hundred, and in exceptional cases even to a thousand skins."
"What do you mean by a skin?"
"A skin," explained McTavish, "is our unit of trade. Instead of saying a certain thing is worth so many dollars, we say it is worth so many 'skins' or 'made beaver.'. At this post the value of the made beaver is a half-dollar." The factor opened a drawer and drew forth a handful of brass tokens which he handed to Connie for inspection. "These are skins, or made beaver. We offer an Indian so many skins for his pack of furs. He has little idea of what we mean when we tell him he has five hundred skins' worth of fur, so we count out five hundred of these made beaver—he can see them, can feel them—the value of his catch is immediately reduced to something concrete—something he can understand—then we take away the amount of his debt, and if there are still some made beaver remaining, he knows he has something left over to spend for finery and frippery. Rarely does he use these extra skins for the purchase of food or necessary clothing—he contracts a new debt for that. But, wait till spring when the Indians come in, and you will witness the trading for yourself. It is then you will see why it is that the free trader has small chance of doing business at a profit north of sixty."
"But, why wouldn't it be just as easy to figure it in dollars?" asked the boy.
McTavish laughed. "There were several reasons, although, with the government paying treaty in cash nowadays, the Indians are beginning to know something of money. But the main reason is that when the made beaver was first invented, no one seems to know just when or where or by whom, there was no money in the country—everything was traded or bartered for some other thing. And because the skin, and particularly the beaver skin, was the thing most bartered by Indians, the unit of value came to be known as a 'skin' or 'made beaver.' Another reason why money has never been popular with us is because of its destructibility. Take this post, for instance. Suppose we were compelled to ship silver dollars back and forth between here and Edmonton? Ten thousand of them would weigh close to six hundred pounds! Six hundred pounds would mean, on scows, six pieces—and mighty valuable pieces too, to be loaded and unloaded a dozen times, carried over portages, shot through dangerous rapids, carried up and down slippery river banks and across slippery planks to the scows. Suppose oneof these pieces were dropped overboard by one of the none too careful half-breed rivermen? The Company would lose just so many dollars. Or, suppose the riverman very conveniently dropped the piece into the water where he could recover it again? A dollar is a dollar—it can be spent anywhere. But suppose that the piece contained only a supply of these brass 'made beaver'—the whole ten thousand would only make one piece—and if it dropped into the river the Company would lose only so much brass. Then if the riverman afterward recovered it, instead of finding himself possessed of dollars which he could spend anywhere, he would only have a hundred pounds or so of brass tokens whose value had been cancelled. And, again, the expense of transportation, even granted the consignment arrived safely at its destination, would be against the dollar. One hundred pounds, where freight costs sixteen cents a pound to move, is much cheaper to move than six hundred pounds."
"Yes," agreed Connie, "but how about using paper money?"
"Worse, and more of it!" exclaimed McTavish. "In the first place the piece, or package, wouldbe lighter and of greater value—therefore much easier to make away with. Some lone bandit, or gang of bandits, might find it well worth their while to hold up the scow brigade and make off with that little piece. And, besides, until very recently, the Indians have had no sense of the value of paper money. An Indian cannot see why one piece of paper should be worth five dollars, and another exactly like it in size and colour should be worth ten, or twenty, or fifty—and another piece of paper be worth nothing at all. I am sure no one at the posts would welcome the carrying on of business upon a cash basis—I know I should not. The Canadian North is the cleanest land in the world, in so far as robbery is concerned, thanks to the Mounted. But with its vast wilderness for hiding places and its lack of quick transportation and facility for spreading news, I am afraid it would not long remain so, if it became known that every trading post possessed its cash vault. As it is, the goods of the North, in a great measure, protect themselves from theft by their very bulk. A man could hardly expect to get out of this country, for instance, with even a very few packs of stolen fur. The Mounted would have himbefore he could get half way to the railroad."
"It seems funny," grinned Connie, "to find an outfit that doesn't like to do business for cash!"
"Funny enough, till you know the reason—then, the most natural thing in the world. And, there is yet one more reason—take the treaty money. The Indians bring the treaty money to us and buy goods with it. We make the profit on the goods—but if they had bought those same goods for fur—we would have made the profit on the fur, also—and primarily, we are a fur company—although every year we are becoming more and more of a trading company and a land company. I am glad I shall not live to see the last of the fur trade—I love the fur—it speaks a language I know."
A short time later the company broke up, Berl Hansen returned to his own quarters, and Connie and 'Merican Joe were given the spare room in the factor's house where for the first time since leaving Dawson they slept under a roof.
Thebusiness of outfitting for the balance of the winter occupied two whole days and when it was finished down to the last item Connie viewed the result with a frown. "It's going to take two trips to pack all that stuff. And by the time we make two trips and build a cabin besides, we won't have much time left for trapping."
"Where you headin' for?" queried McTavish.
"Somewhere over on the Coppermine," answered the boy. "I don't know just where—and I guess it don't make much difference."
The big Scotchman laughed. "No, lad, it won't make no great difference. What put it in your head to trap on the Coppermine?"
"Why, the truth is, it isn't so much the trapping I'm interested in. I want to try my hand at prospecting over there."
"Gold?"
"Yes—mainly."
McTavish shook his head forebodingly.
Connie smiled. "You don't believe there's any gold there?" he asked. "'Gold's where you find it,' you know."
"There must be lots of it there, then. Nobody's ever found it. But, it's a bad time of year to be hittin' for the Coppermine country. It's bleak, an' barren, an' storm ridden. An' as for trappin' you'll find nothin' there to trap but foxes this time of year, an' you won't be able to do any prospectin' till summer. You might better trap in closer to the post this winter, an' when the lake opens you can take a York boat an' a canoe an' cover most of the distance by water."
Connie frowned. "I started out for the Coppermine," he began, but the factor interrupted him with a gesture.
"Sure you did—an' you'll get there, too. It's this way, lad. You're a sourdough, all right, I knew that the minute I saw you. An' bein' a sourdough, that way, you ain't goin' to do nothin' that it ain't in reason to do. There's a deal of difference between a determination to stick to a thing an' see it through in the face of all oddswhen the thing you're stickin' to is worth doin'; an' stickin' to a thing that ain't worth doin' out of sheer stubbornness. The first is a fine thing an' the second is a foolish thing to do."
"I guess that's right," agreed Connie, after a moment of silence.
"Of course it's right!" interrupted McTavish. "You ought to find a good trappin' ground down along the south shore, somewheres between the Blackwater and Lake Ste. Therese. Ought to be plenty of caribou in there too, an' what with droppin' a few nets through the ice, an' what you can bring in with your rifles you won't need to draw in your belts none."
"How far is it from here?" asked the boy.
"Not over a hundred an' fifty miles at the outside, an' if you'll wait around a couple of days, there'll be some of the Bear Lake Indians in with some fish from the Fisheries. They're due now. You can hire them for guides. They'll be bringin' down a couple of tons of fish, so they'll have plenty sled room so you can make it in one trip."
And so it was decided that Connie and 'Merican Joe should winter somewhere on the south shore of Great Bear Lake, and for a certain band ofIndians that had established their camp upon the river that flows from Lake Ste. Therese into the extreme point of McVicker Bay, it was well they did.
The Bear Lake Indians appeared the following day, delivered their fish at the post, and Connie employed two of them with their dog teams to make the trip. The journey was uneventful enough, with only one storm to break the monotony of steady trailing with the thermometer at forty and even fifty below—for the strong cold had settled upon the Northland in earnest.
Upon the sixth day 'Merican Joe halted the outfit upon the shore of a little lake which lay some five miles from the south shore of Keith Bay. "Build camp here," he said, indicating a low knoll covered with a dense growth of spruce. Connie paid off the guides with an order on the Hudson's Bay Company, and hardly had they disappeared before he and 'Merican Joe were busy clearing away the snow and setting up the tent that was to serve as temporary quarters until the tiny cabin that would be their winter home could be completed.
The extra sled provided by the Indians, and thefact that they were to go only a comparatively short distance from the post, had induced Connie to add to his outfit a few conveniences that would have been entirely out of the question had he insisted in pushing on to the Coppermine. There was a real sheet iron stove with several lengths of pipe, a double window—small to be sure, but provided with panes of glass—and enough planking for a small sized door and door frame. Although the snow all about them showed innumerable tracks of the fur bearers, the two paid no attention to them until the cabin stood finished in its tiny clearing. And a snug little cabin it was, with its walls banked high with snow, its chinks all sealed with water-soaked snow that froze hard the moment it was in place, and its roof of small logs completely covered with a thick layer of the same wind-proof covering.
On the morning following the completion of the cabin Connie and 'Merican Joe ate their breakfast by candlelight. Connie glanced toward the pile of steel traps of assorted sizes that lay in the corner. "We'll be setting them today, Joe. The fox tracks are thick all along the lake, and yesterday I saw where a big lynx had prowledalong the edge of that windfall across the coulee."
'Merican Joe smiled. "Firs' we got to git de bait. Dat ain' no good we set de trap wit'out no bait."
"What kind of bait? And where do we get it?" asked the boy.
"Mos' any kin'—rabbit, bird, caribou, moose. Today we set 'bout wan hondre snare for de rabbit. We tak' de leetle gun 'long, mebbe-so we git de shot at de ptarmigan."
"Why can't we take a few fox traps with us? We could bait 'em with bacon, or a piece of fish."
"No, dat ain' no good for ketch de fox. Dat leetle fox she too mooch smart. She hard to trap. She ain' goin' fool wit' bacon an' fish. She stick out de nose an' smell de man-smell on de bacon an' she laugh an' run away. Same lak de fish—she say: 'De fish b'long in de wataire. How he git t'rough de ice an' sit on de snow, eh?' An' den she run 'way an' laugh som' mor'. We ain' goin' trap no fox yet annyhow. Novembaire, she mos' gon'. Decembaire we trap de marten an' deloup cervier. In Janueer de marten curl up in de stump an' sleep. Den we trap de fox. She ain' so smart den—she too mooch hongre."
At daylight the two started, 'Merican Joe leading the way to a dense swamp that stretched from the lake shore far inland. Once in the thicket the Indian showed Connie how to set snares along the innumerable runways, or well-beaten paths of the rabbits, and how to secure each snare to the end of a bent sapling, or tossing pole, which, when released by the struggles of the rabbit from the notch that held it down, would spring upright and jerk the little animal high out of reach of the forest prowlers. During the forenoon Connie succeeded in shooting four of the big white snowshoe rabbits, and at the noon camp 'Merican Joe skinned these, being careful to leave the head attached to the skin.
"I didn't know rabbit skins were worth saving," said Connie, as the Indian placed them together with the carcasses in the pack.
"You wait—by-m-by I show you somet'ing," answered the Indian. And it was not long after the snare setting had been resumed that Connie learned the value of the rabbit skins. As they worked deeper into the swamp, lynx, orloup cerviertracks became more numerous. Near one of the runways 'Merican Joe paused, drew a skinfrom his pack, and proceeded to stuff it with brush. When it had gained something the shape of the rabbit, he placed it in a natural position beneath the low-hanging branches of a young spruce and proceeded to set a heavier snare with a larger loop. The setting of this snare was slightly different from the setting of the rabbit snares, for instead of a tossing pole the snare was secured to the middle of a clog, or stout stick about two inches in diameter and four feet long. The ends of this clog were then supported upon two forked sticks in such manner that the snare hung downward where it was secured in position by tying the loop to a light switch thrust into the snow at either side. The snare was set only a foot or two from the stuffed rabbit skin and sticks and brush so arranged that in order to reach the rabbit the lynx must leap straight into the snare. The remaining rabbit skins were similarly used during the afternoon, as were the skins of two ptarmigan that Connie managed to bring down.
"Use de skin for bait deloup cervier, an' de meat for bait de marten—dat de bes' way," explained 'Merican Joe, as they worked their way toward the edge of the swamp after the last snare had been set.
The snare was set"The snare was set only a foot or two from the stuffed rabbit skin and sticks and brush so arranged that in order to reach the rabbit the lynx must leap straight into the snare."Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover
The early darkness was already beginning to fall when Connie stopped suddenly and stared down at the snow at the base of a huge mass of earth and moss that had been thrown upward by the roots of a fallen tree. The thing that caught the boy's attention was a round hole in the snow—a hole hardly larger in diameter than a silver quarter, and edged with a lacy filigree of frost spicules. The boy called to 'Merican Joe who had paused to refasten the thongs of his rackets. At the first glance the Indian's eyes lighted:
"Bear in dere!" he exclaimed. "We dig um out. We git plenty meat—plenty bait—an' de good skin besides."
"Hadn't we better wait till tomorrow and bring the heavy rifle?" Connie asked. "We can't kill a bear with this dinky little twenty-two."
"We ain' need no gun. Me—I cut de good stout club, an' you tak' de ax. De bear she too mooch sleepy to do no fightin'. Den we git de toboggan an' haul um in. We only 'bout wan half-mile from camp. Tomor' we got plenty bait, we set de marten trap. We skin de bear tonight we save wan whole day." As he talked, the Indian felled a small birch and trimmed aboutfive feet of its trunk which measured about two inches and a half in thickness. "Dat fix um good, an' den we cut de t'roat," he explained, brandishing the club in the air.
"I don't know," replied Connie, dubiously. "Waseche and I have killed several bears, and there was a time or two when a couple of good thirty-forty's came near not being big enough."
'Merican Joe grinned. "Dat was grizzlies. I ain' t'ink de grizzly com' so far from de montaine. Dis leetle black bear, she ain' lak to fight mooch."
"I hope you're right," grinned the boy, as he fell to work helping the Indian to trample the snow into good solid footing for a space of ten feet or more about the airhole. This done, they removed snowshoes and coats and with ax and pole attacked the snow that covered their quarry.
"I feel um!" cried the Indian, as he thrust his pole deep into the snow after five minutes of hard work. "We wake um up firs', an' when he stick out de head we bang um good." 'Merican Joe continued to ram his pole into the snow where he had felt the yielding mass of the bear's body, all the time haranguing the bear in jargon, addressing him as "cousin," and inviting him to come out andbe killed, and in the same breath apologizing for the necessity of taking his life.
Then—very suddenly—"cousin" came out! There was a mighty upheaval of snow, a whistling snort, and a mountain of brown fur projected itself into the rapidly gathering dusk. 'Merican Joe struck valiantly with his club at the monstrous head that in the half-light seemed to Connie to measure two feet between the ears. The boy heard the sharp crack of the weapon as it struck the skull, and the next instant he heard the club crashing through the limbs of a small spruce. The infuriated bear had caught it fairly with a sweep of his giant paw. Then Connie struck with his ax, just as 'Merican Joe, with the bear almost upon him, scrambled into the branches of a tree. The boy's blow fell upon the bear's hip, and with a roar the great brute whirled to meet the new attack as Connie gathered himself to strike again.
Then, a very fortunate thing happened. When 'Merican Joe had removed his snowshoes he had stuck them upright in the snow and hung his coat over them. The figure thus formed caught the bear's attention, and with a lurch he was upon it.There was a crackling of ash bows as the snowshoes were crushed in the ponderous embrace. And, seeing his chance, Connie darted forward, for the momentum of the bear's lurch had carried him on to all fours in the soft snow at the edge of the trampled space. As the huge animal struggled, belly deep, the boy brought the bit of his ax down with all his force upon the middle of the brute's spine. The feel of the blow was good as the keen blade sank to the helve. The next instant the ax was jerked from his hands and the boy turned to collide with 'Merican Joe, who had recovered his club and was rushing in to renew the attack. Both went sprawling upon the trodden snow, and before they could recover their feet the bear was almost upon them. They sprang clear, the Indian waiting with upraised club, but the bear advanced slowly, ripping and tearing at the snow with his huge forepaws with their claws as long as a man's fingers. Down came the Indian's club upon the broad skull, but there was no rearing upward to ward off the blow, and then it was that both saw that the animal was dragging its useless hinder part. Connie's ax had severed the animal's backbone, and so long as they kept out of reach ofthose terrible forepaws they were safe. While the Indian continued to belabour the bear's head, Connie managed to slip around behind the animal and recover his ax, after which it was but the work of a few moments to dispatch the huge bear with a few well-directed blows.
It was almost dark when the two stood looking down upon the carcass of the great barren ground grizzly.
"So that's your little black bear that don't like to fight much!" grinned Connie.
'Merican Joe returned the grin. "All de tam kin learn somet'ing new. Nex' tam we dig out de den bear we bring de big gun 'long. Annyhow, we git mor' bait an' dog feed, an' de good meat, an' de bigger skin, an' we git mor', w'at you call, excite!" He placed his foot upon the head of the dead bear. "Dat too bad we got to kill you, cousin. But Injun an' white boy got to git de meat to eat, an' de bait to ketch de leetle marten. We mooch oblig' you ain' kill us."
'Merican Joe's crushed snowshoes and his coat were dug out of the snow, and together the two managed to work the carcass on to its back. The Indian proceeded to build a fire by the light ofwhich he could skin the bear while Connie fastened on his own rackets and hit out for the cabin to procure the toboggan and dogs, and an extra pair of snowshoes. An hour later he returned, just as 'Merican Joe was stripping the hide from the hind legs. While Connie folded it into a convenient pack, the Indian took the ax and chopped off the bear's head which he proceeded to tie to the branches of a small spruce at the foot of which the animal had been killed.
"What in thunder are you doing?" asked the boy.
'Merican Joe regarded him gravely. "Mus' hang up de skull right where he git kill," he answered.
"Why?"
"CauseSah-ha-lee Tyee, w'at you call, de Great Spirit, he com' 'long an' count de bears in de springtime. He count de Injun, too, an' de moose, an' de beaver' an' all de big people.S'posehe ain' fin' dat bear. He ain' know dat bear git kill. He t'ink dat bear ain' wake up yet, or else he hide in de den. If de skull ain' hang up she git cover up wit' leaves, or sink in de swamp, an'Sah-ha-lee Tyeeno kin fin'. But, w'en he see skull hang up,he say: 'De Injun kill de bear an' git meat. Dat good. I sen' um nodder bear.' So de bear always plenty in de Injun country. De white men com' 'long an' kill de bear. Dey ain' hang up de skull—an' by-m-by, w'ere de white man live de bears is all gon'."
The duty performed to 'Merican Joe's satisfaction, the carcass and skin were loaded on to the toboggan and by the thin light of the little stars they started the dogs and wended their way across the narrow lake to the little cabin in the spruce grove, well satisfied with their first day of trapping.
Connie Morganwas anxious to be off on the trap line early in the morning following the adventure with the bear. But 'Merican Joe shook his head and pointed to the carcass of the bear that for want of a better place had been deposited upon the floor of the cabin. "First we got to build decache. We ain' got no room in de cabin—an' besides, she too warm for keep de meat good. De dog, an' de wolf, an' deloup cervier, an' decarcajo, w'at you call 'Injun devil,' dey all hongre an' hunt de meat. We got to build decachehigh up."
The first thing, of course, was to locate the site. This was quickly done by selecting four spruce trees about three inches in diameter and ten feet apart, and so situated as to form the corner posts of a rude square. Taking his ax, the Indian ascended one of these trees, lopping off the limbs as he went, but leaving the stubs for foot and handholds. About twelve feet from the ground he cut off the trunk just above the place where a good stout limb stub formed a convenient crotch. The other three trees were similarly treated. Four strong poles were cut and placed from one crotch to another to form the frame of thecache. These poles were cut long enough to extend about four feet beyond the corner posts. Upon this frame-work lighter poles were laid side by side to form the platform of thecache—a platform that protruded beyond the corner posts so far that no animal which might succeed in climbing one of the posts could possibly manage to scramble over the edge. The corner posts were trimmed smooth, and a rude ladder, which consisted simply of a young spruce with the limb stubs left on for the rungs was made. The last step in the completion of thecachewas to cut down all trees whose limbs over-hung in such manner that acarcajocould crawl out and drop down upon the platform, and also those trees whose proximity might tempt a lynx to try a flying leap to thecache.
When the carcass of the bear had been quartered and deposited upon the platform, the brush and limbs cleared away, and the ladder removed, thetwo trappers gazed in satisfaction at their handiwork. The stoutcache, capable of protecting several tons of meat from the inroads of the forest prowlers, had been constructed without the use of a single nail, or bit of rope, or thong, and with no tool except an ax!
It was noon when the task was completed, and after a hasty lunch of tea, bear's liver, and bannock, 'Merican Joe selected fifteen small steel traps which he placed in his pack sack. He also carried a light belt ax, while Connie shouldered the larger ax and reached for the 30–40 rifle. 'Merican Joe shook his head.
"Dat ain' no good to tak' de big gun. Tak' de leetle wan an' mebbe-so you git som' mor' bait."
"Yes, and what if we run on to another one of your little black bears that don't like to fight? And what if we should see a caribou? And suppose we found a lynx in one of those snares?"
"We ain' goin' hunt no caribou. We goin' set marten traps, an' if we com' on de bear den we wait an' com' back som' odder time."
"But suppose there is a lynx in one of those snares?" persisted the boy.
"Let um be in de snare. We ain' goin' to de swamp. Dat ain' no good to go 'long de trap line too mooch. Let um be for week—mebbe-so ten day. We go runnin' t'rough de woods every day same place, we scare everyt'ing off. Anyhow, we ain' need de big gun for deloup cervier. De leetle gun better, he don' mak' so big hole in de skin. An' if deloup cervieris in de snare, we ain' need no gun at all. She choke dead."
A half mile from camp, 'Merican Joe set his first trap. The place selected for the set was the trunk of a large spruce that had been uprooted by the wind, and leaned against another tree at an angle of forty-five degrees. Two blows of the light belt ax made a notch into which the small steel trap fitted perfectly. The bait was placed upon the tree trunk just above the trap and a small barrier of bark was constructed close below the trap in such a manner that the marten in clambering over the barrier must almost to a certainty plant at least one fore foot upon the pan of the trap. The trap chain was secured to the tree so that when the marten was caught he would leap from the trunk and hang suspended in the air, which would give him no chance to free himselfby gnawing his leg off above the jaws of the trap. This leaning tree set was 'Merican Joe's favourite with the steel traps.
A particularly ingenious set was made upon the trunk of a standing tree whose bark showed tiny scars and scratches that indicated to the practised eyes of the Indian that it was frequently ascended by martens. In this case two short sticks were sharpened and driven into the tree trunk to form a tiny platform for the trap. Some slabs were then cut from a nearby dead spruce and these also were sharpened and driven into the trunk on either side of the trap. Then a piece of bark was laid over the top for a roof, and the bait placed in the back of the little house thus formed. The marten must enter from the bottom and in order to reach the bait, the only possible spot for him to place his feet would be upon the pan of the trap.
Several sets were also made on the ground in places where the sign showed right. These ground sets were made generally at the base of a tree or a stump and consisted of little houses made of bark, with the bait in the back and the trap placed between the door and the bait. Inthe case of these sets, instead of securing the chain to the tree or stump, it was made fast to a clog, care being taken to fasten the chain to the middle of the stick.
Three or four sets were made for mink, also. These sets were very simple, and yet the Indian made them with elaborate care. They consisted in placing the trap just within the mouth of a hole that showed evidence of occupation, after first scooping out a depression in the snow. The trap was placed in the bottom of the depression and carefully covered with light, dry leaves that had been previously collected. 'Merican Joe took great care to so arrange these leaves that while the jaws, pan, and spring were covered, no leaves would be caught in the angle of the jaws and thus prevent their closing about the leg of the mink. The leaves were now covered with snow, and the chain carried outward, buried in the snow, and secured to a tossing pole.
The short sub-arctic day had drawn to a close even before the last set was made, and in the darkness the two swung wide of their trap line, and headed for the cabin.
"Fifteen sets isn't so bad for an afternoon'swork," opined Connie, "especially when you had to do all the work. Tomorrow I can help, and we ought to be able to get out all the rest of the marten traps. There are only fifty all told."
"Fifty steel traps—we git dem set first. We gon 'bout t'ree, four mile today. We use up de steel trap in 'bout fifteen mile. Dat good—dey too mooch heavy to carry. Den we begin to set de deadfall."
"Deadfalls!" cried Connie. "How many traps are we going to put out?"
"Oh, couple hondre marten an' mink trap. We git de trap line 'bout fifty mile long. Den we set lot moreloup cerviersnare."
They swung out on to their little lake about a mile above the camp and as they mushed along near shore Connie stopped suddenly and pointed to a great grey shape that was running swiftly across the mouth of a small bay. The huge animal ran in a smooth, easy lope and in the starlight his hair gleamed like silver.
"Look!" he whispered to the Indian. "There goes Leloo!" Even as he spoke there came floating down the wind from the direction of the timber at the head of the lake, the long-drawn howl of awolf. Leloo halted in his tracks and stood ears erect, motionless as a carved statue, until the sound trailed away into silence. A fox trotted out of the timber within ten yards of where the two stood watching and, catching sight of Connie as the boy shifted his twenty-two, turned and dashed along a thin sand point and straight across the lake, passing in his blind haste so close to Leloo that his thick brush almost touched the motionless animal's nose. But the big ruffed wolf-dog never gave so much as a passing glance.
"That's funny," whispered Connie "Why didn't he grab that fox?"
"Leloo, he ain' fool wit' no fox tonight," answered 'Merican Joe. "He goin' far off an' run de ridges wit' de big people." And even as the Indian spoke, Leloo resumed his long, silent lope.
"I sure would like to follow him tonight," breathed the boy, as he watched the great dog until he disappeared upon the smooth, white surface of the lake where the aurora borealis was casting its weird, shifting lights upon the snow.
The weather had moderated to about the zero mark and by the middle of the following afternoon 'Merican Joe set the last of the remaining martentraps. Connie proved an apt pupil and not only did he set fourteen of the thirty-five traps, but each set was minutely examined and approved by the critical eye of 'Merican Joe. When the last trap was set, the Indian commenced the construction of deadfalls, and again Connie became a mere spectator. And a very interested spectator he was as he watched every movement of 'Merican Joe who, with only such material as came to hand on the spot, and no tools except his belt ax and knife, constructed and baited his cunningly devised deadfalls. These traps were built upon stumps and logs and were of the common figure-of-four type familiar to every schoolboy. The weight, or fall log, was of sufficient size to break the back of a marten.
"De steel trap she bes'," explained the Indian. "She easy to set, an' she ketch mor' marten. Wit' de steel trap if de marten com' 'long an' smell de bait he mus' got to put de foot in de trap—but in de deadfall she got to grab de bait an' give de pull to spring de trap. But, de deadfall don't cost nuttin', an' if you go far de steel trap too mooch heavy to carry. Dat why I set de steel trap in close, an' de deadfall far out."
For four days the two continued to set deadfalls. The last two days they packed their sleeping bags, camping where night overtook them, and the evening of the fourth day found them with an even two hundred traps and thirty lynx snares set, and a trap line that was approximately fifty miles long and so arranged that either end was within a half mile of the cabin.
"We go over de snare line in de swamp tomor'," said 'Merican Joe, as they sat that night at their little table beside the roaring sheet-iron stove, "an' next day we start over de trap line."
"About how many marten do you think we ought to catch?" asked Connie.
The Indian shrugged: "Can't tell 'bout de luck—sometam lot of um—sometam mebbe-so not none."
"What do you mean by a lot?" persisted the boy.
"Oh, mebbe-so, twenty—twenty five."
"About one marten for every eight or ten traps," figured the boy.
The Indian nodded. "You set seven steel trap an' catch wan marten, dat good. You set ten deadfall an' ketch wan marten, dat good, too."
"We've got six lynx snares down in the swamp to look at tomorrow. How many lynx are we going to get?"
'Merican Joe grinned. "Mebbe-so not none—mebbe-so one, two. Dat all tam bes' we count de skin w'en we git hom'."
"Don't count your chickens before they're hatched, eh?" laughed Connie.
The Indian looked puzzled. "W'at you mean—chicken hatch?" And when the boy explained to the best of his ability the old saw, 'Merican Joe, who had never seen a chicken in his life, nodded sagely. "Dat right—an' you ain' kin count de fur hatch first, nieder."
Atdaylight next morning they crossed the narrow lake, travelling light, that is, each carried only his lunch in his pack sack, and Connie carried the light rifle, while 'Merican Joe dragged an empty toboggan upon which to haul home the rabbits and the lynx if they were lucky enough to get one.
The toboggan was left at the edge of the swamp and the two entered and plunged into the maze of rabbit paths that crisscrossed the snow in all directions. The first two snares were undisturbed, the third was pushed aside and had to be readjusted. Where the fourth and fifth snares had been a white snowshoe rabbit dangled from each tossing pole, and they were promptly transferred to the pack sacks and the snares reset.
Numerous new snares were set, the old ones adjusted, and the rabbits taken from the tossing poles of the lucky ones. One snare was missingaltogether, and 'Merican Joe pointed to the tracks of a large wolf. "He run 'long an' git de foot or de nose in de snare, but she ain' strong 'nough to hold um," he explained. At noon they camped at the place where 'Merican Joe had skinned the rabbits on the first trip. They had twelve rabbits in the packs and these theycachedto pick up on the return.
It was not long after they resumed operations on the snare line that Connie, with a whoop of delight, dashed toward the spot where the first lynx snare had been set. The sparse underbrush had been broken down, and for a considerable space the snow had been torn up and trampled in a manner that told of a furious struggle. And right in the middle of the trampled space lay the body of a huge lynx doubled into a curious ball and frozen to the hardness of iron. The struggle had evidently been brief but furious, and terminated with the lynx sealing his own doom. Finding himself caught and held by the ever tightening noose, he had first tried to escape by flight, but the clog immediately caught on the underbrush and held him fast. The infuriated animal had then begun a ferocious attack upon the clog, which showed thedeep scars of teeth and claws, and had wound up by catching his powerful hind feet upon the clog, one on either side of the center where the snare was fastened, and by straining the great muscles of his legs, literally choked himself to death.
More rabbits were added to the packs, and a short time later anothercachewas made. Connie wanted to set some more lynx snares, but they had shot no rabbits, and it was impossible to skin the frozen ones they had taken from the snares without wasting time in thawing them out.
"Let's use a whole one," suggested the boy. "We've got lots of 'em, and a lynx is worth a rabbit, any time."
'Merican Joe objected. "We got plenty rabbit today—mebbe-so nex' tam we ain' got none. It ain' no good we waste de rabbit. S'pose we leave de rabbit for bait; de wolf an' de fox he com' long an' he too mooch smart to git in de snare, but he git de rabbit jes' de sam'. Anyhow, we ain' kin make de rabbit look lak he sittin' down w'en de hine legs is stickin' down straight lak de sawbuck. Nex' tam we got plenty rabbit skin for set de snare—deloup cerviershe run all winter, anyhow."
The next four lynx snares were undisturbed,but the sixth and last had disappeared altogether.
"It held him for a while, though," said Connie, as he gazed in disappointment at the snow which had been scratched and thrown in all directions by the big cat.
The Indian laughed aloud at the evident disappointment that showed in the boy's face.
"I don't see anything so funny about it!" frowned Connie.
"Dat mak' me laugh I see you sorry 'bout lose deloup cervier. You rich. You got plenty money. An' when you lose wanloup cervier, you look lak you los' de gol' mine."
"It isn't the value of the skin!" exclaimed the boy, quickly. "But when I start to do a thing I like to do it. It don't make any difference what it is, and it don't make any difference whether the stakes are high or low. If it's worth doing, it's worth doing right. And if it's worth starting, it's worth finishing."
'Merican Joe nodded: "I know. We go finish umloup cervier, now."
"What do you mean—finish him?" cried Connie, pointing to the tracks in the snow that led from the scene of the brief struggle with thesnare—tracks that showed where the lynx had fled in powerful, fifteen-foot leaps. "That don't look much like we'd finish that fellow, does it? Believe me, he left here in a hurry! He's probably climbing the North Pole right now!"
"I ain' know nuttin' 'bout no Nort' Poles. W'ere you t'ink de stick go w'at we fix on de snare?"
Connie examined the scene of the struggle minutely, kicking the loose snow about, but failed to find the clog.
"Why, he skipped out, clog and all! That clog wasn't very heavy."
"No, she ain' heavy, but she fasten in de middle, an' she ketch in de brush an' hol'loup cerviertight, you bet! You ain' see no track w'ere de stick drag, eh?"
Connie scrutinized the trail of the lynx, but the snow gave no sign of the clog. He turned a puzzled glance upon the Indian. "That's funny. He certainly didn't leave it here, and he couldn't have dragged it without leaving a trail, even if it hadn't caught on the brush."
Again 'Merican Joe laughed. "No, he ain' leave it—an' he ain' drag it. He ol' manloupcervier—he smart. He fin' out he ain' kin break loose, an' he ain' kin drag de stick, so he pick him up an' carry him in de mout'. But he ain' so mooch smart lak he t'ink. De firs' t'ing deloup cervierdo w'en you chase um—he climb de tree. He t'ink de snare chase um—so he climb de tree. Den, by-m-by he git tire to hol' de stick in de mout' an' he let him go. Den he set on de limb long time an' growl. Den he t'ink he go som' mor', an' he start to climb down de tree. An' den de stick ketch on de limb an' he can't git down. He pull an' fight, but dat ain' no good—so he giv' de big jump—an' den he git hung—lak de mans do w'en dey kill nodder mans. Com' on—he ain' lak to go far. He lak to climb de tree. We fin' um queek."
That 'Merican Joe knew what he was talking about was soon demonstrated. For several hundred yards the tracks led straight through the swamp. Suddenly the Indian halted at the foot of a spruce that reared high above its neighbours and pointed to the snow which was littered with needles and bits of bark. There were no tracks beyond the foot of the tree, and Connie peered upward, but so thick were the branches that hecould see nothing. Removing his snowshoes and pack, 'Merican Joe climbed the tree and a few moments later Connie heard the blows of his belt ax as he hacked at the limb that held the clog. There was a swish of snow-laden branches, and amid a deluge of fine snow the frozen body of the lynx struck the ground at the boy's feet.
Loading himself with as much as his pack sack could hold, the Indian struck off to get the toboggan, leaving Connie to pack the carcass of the lynx and the remaining rabbits back to the noon-timecache. This necessitated two trips, and when Connie returned with the second load he found 'Merican Joe waiting. "Thirty-two rabbits and two lynx," counted Connie as they loaded the toboggan. "And let's beat it and get 'em skinned so we can start out in the morning on the real trap line."
The rabbits were placed just as they were upon the platform of thecache, to be used as needed, and the evening was spent in thawing and skinning the two lynx.
"Why don't you rip him up the belly like you did the bear?" asked Connie, as the Indian started to slit the animal's head.
"No. Skin um, w'at you call, case. De bear an' de beaver skin flat. Case all de rest. Start on de head lak dis. Den draw de skin down over de body. You see she com' wrong side out. Den you finish on de tail an' de hine legs an' you got um done—all de fur inside, and de flesh side out."
Connie watched with interest while the Indian skillfully drew the pelt from the carcass and stretched it upon splints prepared with his belt ax.
"Now you skin nex' wan," smiled the Indian. "I bet you mak' de good job. You learn queek."
Connie set to work with a will and, in truth, he did a very creditable job, although it took him three times as long as it had taken the Indian, and his pelt showed two small knife cuts. "Now what do we do with 'em?" he asked when he had his skin all stretched.
"Dry um."
Connie started to place them close to the hot stove, but 'Merican Joe shook his head.