Chapter 34. The Birch-bark Vessels

Not that day, not the next, but on the first day of calm, red, sunsetsky, went Quonab to his hill of worship; and when the little fire thathe lit sent up its thread of smoke, like a plumb-line from the red cloudover him, he burnt a pinch of tobacco, and, with face and arms upraisedin the red light, he sang a new song:“The evil one set a trap for my son,But the Manito saved him;In the form of a Skookum he saved him.”

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

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

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

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

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

The bark was laid flat and cut as below.

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

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

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

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

“Will you let me kill the next Kahk we find?”

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

“Why burn its whiskers?”

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

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

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

“How can we dye them, Quonab?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.”

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.

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.”

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.

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?”

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.

It pays 'bout once in  a hundred times to git mad, but thereain'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.


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