Bill was strangely silent, and the boys watched him as he sat playfully
tickling Moze.
“Of course, if you can’t take us back then, why, I guess we could stay
here another day; only we promised Ben,” explained Ed, thinking that
perhaps their sudden decision had interfered with the plans of the old
trapper.
“No; no, that’s all right. I’ve got to go out with these furs, anyway.
I’ll get around to-morrow and spring my traps, and we can pull out
early the next morning,” he said.
“And you and Moze must spend Christmas with us!” cried George,
enthusiastically.
Again a strange silence came over the trapper, and he walked slowly
away toward the door.
“Maybe you have other plans; and, of course--” began Ed; but Bill
interrupted him.
“No, I’ve no plans, son; I never make them any more, ’cause, you see--”
he paused and looked at them out of misty, troubled eyes, and they
instantly understood. “But we’ll do it this time! Won’t we, Moze?” he
laughed, suddenly, and the hound rose and wagged his tail.
The next day was to be a busy one, and with the first gray streak of
dawn they were away on the trap line. About an inch of snow had fallen
during the night, and the trapper pointed out many new tracks as he
hurried along.
“Do you see that trail there, the little footprints, two by two?” he
inquired.
The boys said they did.
“Well, that was made by a mink. See, here he’s stepped into one of his
front tracks, and left only three footprints on the snow. That’s a
great trail of his, always looks like he’d suddenly lost a leg.”
It was a glorious winter day, and Bill was in high spirits. Nothing
escaped his wonderful eyes, and everything seemed to contain a message,
which he gladly read to the boys. He showed them the delicate,
lace-like trails of the little wood-mice, and pointed to where one had
tunneled its way beneath the snow in search of hidden seeds.
Then he drew their attention to what looked like grains of pepper
shaken over the snow. The boys were astounded when told that
these minute black specks were tiny insects which woodsmen called
“snow-fleas.” Bill said they lived in the moss, and could be seen with
the naked eye only when they hopped about over a white background.
Farther along they came upon the tracks of a moose which, Bill
declared, had gone by that very morning. George proposed that they
follow after it, but the trapper refused for two reasons; first,
because the law was on, and secondly, because it was a cow moose. The
boys asked him how he knew it was a cow, and he proceeded to explain
the difference between the track of the cow and that of the bull. Bill
said that, like the buck deer, the bull moose usually left a larger,
less pointed track than his mate. And he explained further that the
“dew-claws” of the bull were set wider apart, and so registered in the
snow.
The trapper declared that when the marks showed close together, as they
did in the present instance, it was safe to presume that the tracks
were those of a cow. Not wishing to break any game laws, the boys
turned willingly from the tracks and continued on the trail to the
traps.
They came at length to the spring-hole where Bill had been trying for
so long to catch the mink. Once more he was doomed to disappointment,
and, springing the trap, he hung it on a near-by sapling, until he
might return, and started on.
Several times they crossed fox trails, which the lads had learned to
distinguish at sight. Then they came upon a track that was entirely new
to them. Bill laughed when they asked him to name it, and said it had
been made by a skunk. The trail consisted of two continuous rows of
footprints, one beside the other, and each print close up to the one
before it. The trapper explained that this animal did not often venture
forth in winter, except on warm, balmy days.
At one of the sets Bill captured another lynx; but, as it was not a
particularly large one, he despatched it with his hickory club.
While they were eating their midday lunch a flock of sociable little
chickadees gathered in the branches above, and, cocking their
black-capped heads sideways, peered inquisitively down at them. The
diners threw some crumbs and shreds of meat on the snow. Instantly
the fearless chickadees accepted the invitation and dropped down to
the feast. After a time, as the birds became bolder, the boys offered
scraps of meat held between their fingers. They thrilled with pleasure
when the confiding chickadees alighted trustfully on the outstretched
hands and pecked energetically at the morsels offered them.
Having finished their meal, the three trappers rose and continued the
circuit of their traps. Everywhere the forest shone forth resplendent
in its mantle of glistening white, where, on the telltale surface, was
scrawled and dotted a complete record of woodland happenings. Helped
and encouraged by Bill, the lads were soon able to read and decipher
these code-writings of nature. The tread of a cautious paw, the sweep
of a fluttering wing, or the mark of the passing wind was instantly
noted and recognized.
Thus the day wore on, and, though their toll of fur was not heavy,
they had a goodly number of pelts by the time the shadows commenced to
gather. There were still a number of traps to be examined, and in one
of them Bill had hopes of finding the highest prize in the trapper’s
lottery--a silver fox!
He had seen one in the vicinity several times during the summer, and
again early in the autumn before he set his traps. As the fur of the
beautiful creature was comparatively valueless at such times, Bill had
wisely refrained from destroying it. With the coming of cold weather
and the trapping season, however, he had set skilfully concealed traps
about the locality of its wanderings. Several of them had been deftly
sprung and robbed of their bait. Bill, of course, blamed the silver
fox, and each time he reset them with greater care, hopeful that he
would eventually capture the idol of his dreams.
Now, as they drew near the spot, the boys noticed that the old trapper
unconsciously quickened his stride. He acknowledged that the fur of
this fox would bring him in “quite a roll of money,” and the lads were
most anxious for his success.
“Wouldn’t it be fine if you got him for a Christmas present?” laughed
George, as they hustled along.
Bill smiled, but made no reply. Then he halted and, parting a fringe of
bushes, stooped over and sprung an empty trap.
“Number one, and nothing,” he said, a bit disappointedly. “Well, I’ve
four more set for that black rascal, and we can’t tell what we’ll
find,” he added, hopefully.
“Black rascal? I thought you said it was a silver fox?” said Ed,
somewhat puzzled.
“So it is,” responded Bill; “but it’s black just the same. You see, the
fur is tipped with silver-gray at the end of each guard hair, though
the pelt itself is rich, glossy black. Looks like a black fox that has
been caught out in a heavy frost,” he explained.
Soon they came to the second trap, and their hearts beat hard with
excitement when they heard some animal tumbling about in the bushes.
Bill ran eagerly forward, club in hand, and the boys saw him deliver
the fatal blow. Then, in response to their inquiry, he reached down,
and, when he straightened, held up a long, reddish-brown body, somewhat
smaller and slimmer than that of a fox.
“What is it?” inquired the lads, though, of course, they knew it was
not the hoped-for prize.
“Fisher,” replied Bill, a satisfied smile on his face, “and a nice one.”
While he proceeded to skin it the trapper explained the habits of the
animal he had just caught. He said it was a skilled hunter, and that
it was seemingly without fear, having been known to find and kill bear
cubs larger and more powerful than itself. Bill pronounced it a great
destroyer of game birds, rabbits, and small creatures in general.
“Looks almost like a cross between a fox and a mink, don’t it?” he
inquired, shaking out the freshly skinned pelt.
The boys at once noted a certain resemblance to each of the creatures
mentioned.
“Yes, and he’s got both dispositions, too,” he declared. “All the
tricks of the fox, and all the fight of the mink. I’ve known one of
these fellows to follow a line of traps all season and destroy hundreds
of dollars’ worth of pelts, just out of pure cussedness.”
Then he told how the fisher would sometimes follow the trail of the
trapper, until it had learned the round of his traps. Then it would
make the circuit daily and destroy whatever it happened to find
imprisoned in them.
“Well, we have two more chances for that Christmas present you were
talking about, George,” said Bill, as they came near the third trap
set for the silver fox.
“Yes, and I feel that you’ll get him,” replied George.
Twilight had fallen, and it was growing dark beneath the towering
evergreens. Bill had thoughtfully brought a lantern, but as yet had not
lighted it. Silently the three comrades trudged along in the gathering
gloom. Each hoped with all his heart that somewhere ahead of them
waited the prize which was to reward the veteran trapper for his long,
hard work on the trap line.
The boys almost held their breath when he finally halted and then made
his way, alone, to the last trap but one. Several moments went by while
they waited anxiously for a shout that would proclaim the capture of
the prize. None came, and their hearts sank.
“Nothing,” said Bill, at last, and he hung the sprung trap in the
crotch of a sapling.
There was one more chance to catch the silver fox, and the trapper led
them silently away in the direction of his last trap.
“This one is set where he usually crossed,” he observed, rather
hopefully. “Don’t suppose there’s much chance, though,” he added, after
a pause.
Not a word was spoken as they cautiously approached the last chance.
The afterglow had long since faded from the western sky, and it was now
dark in the woods. Bill stopped to light the lantern. Then he turned
abruptly down into a dry brook-bed at his right.
“There’s something here!” he shouted.
The boys fairly trembled with excitement. With all their souls they
hoped the trapper had won the prize he so justly deserved. Eager and
anxious, they hurried down to him.
Suddenly they began to whoop like Indians, for Bill held up the smooth,
black body of his silver fox.
“Got him at last,” he chuckled, delightedly, “and he’s sure a beauty.”
By the aid of the lantern they stretched the fox out to be admired. The
lads stroked the valuable fur, and congratulated Bill warmly on his
success.
“Guess we’ll carry him home as he is and skin him where we have better
light,” he said. “We can’t afford to make a miss on this fellow.” And
he shouldered the fox and led the way toward the cabin.
“How did you fool him?” inquired Ed, later, when the costly pelt had
been removed and pulled on a stretching-board to dry.
“I fooled him with a mouse,” laughed the trapper.
“A mouse?” queried George, incredulously. “How?”
“Well, I smoked the trap over balsam boughs for several days. You see,
the nose of a fox is powerful keen, and he can smell iron rust or
man-scent every time. Of course, unless you can cover up such odors,
there’s not much use making a set. Once a fox knows the trap is there,
he’ll dig carefully around it till it’s all exposed to view. Then, like
as not, he’ll put his paw underneath, turn the trap over, spring it,
and walk off with the bait.
“There are several ways to fool him by destroying the scent. The two
most used are smoking the trap thoroughly and setting it an inch or so
under water. That’s what we call a ‘wet-set,’ and it usually fools the
wisest of them. To make it, we place the trap just beneath the surface,
at some still place of the lake, or stream, and float a piece of moss,
or mass of leaves, directly over the pan, arranged in such a way as
to protrude slightly out of water and give the impression of a dry
foothold. You see, a fox doesn’t like to wet his feet if he can avoid
it. Well, he comes to the edge of the water, sees that he must cross
it to reach the bait, and, spying the dry footing above the trap, steps
on it and is caught.
“But to get back to the mouse. You’ll remember that there was no water
near where this fellow crossed, so I was obliged to make a ‘dry-set.’
As I’ve said, I smoked the trap thoroughly over balsam. Then I hunted
around until I found a wood-mouse. Next I poured anise-seed oil over
the soles of my moccasins, and also on the gloves I intended to wear.
This destroyed the human scent about the trap and set. I carefully
concealed the trap, sprinkled some weed seeds over the center of it,
and placed my mouse, all huddled up in a heap, directly over the pan,
as though he had squatted there to eat the seeds.
“Now then, what happened? Why, the fox came sneaking along on the scent
of the anise, which he likes, saw the mouse crouching plumb before him,
and, without waiting to ask any questions, pounced on it with his front
paws and landed in the trap.”
XVI A VISITOR
The next day the boys started early on the return trail to Ben,
accompanied by Bill and Moze. They had long since learned to love
the great silent forest, and as they went on they constantly called
attention to some one of its manifold beauties.
Moze, now quite recovered from his honorable wounds, dashed on ahead as
usual. His short, snappy bark echoed through the woods as he sped away
on each fresh trail that crossed his path.
Realizing that they had a long trip before them, and anxious to reach
the cabin in daylight, they paid no attention to his urgent appeals,
but kept steadily to their course. Although quite deep in some places,
the snow was dry and powdery, and the walking was easy.
Coming to an open spot in the woods where the snow had been piled into
drifts by the wind, the boys saw something which greatly surprised
them. A covey of grouse were flushed at the edge of the timber, and
thundered away into the clearing. Like a meteor a feathered form
dropped from the sky, and the grouse dove beneath the soft snow.
The baffled hawk made a vicious sweep over the spot where they had
disappeared, and then, rising, flew off above the tree-tops.
Bill led the lads to the place and pointed out the individual dents in
the snow, beneath which the birds were buried. Stooping down, he spread
his hands apart and, plunging them suddenly beneath the white surface,
brought up a fine, plump grouse. He released it immediately, and
said that none but a “pot-hunter” would take so noble a bird in that
despicable manner. The boys had much sport grabbing beneath the snow
for the balance of the covey, and refused to move on until they had
each caught and released several of the struggling birds. Bill assured
them this is a trick of the grouse when pursued by winged enemies where
cover is scarce.
At another place they saw many moose tracks, some old, others quite
fresh. Numerous young birch trees in the near vicinity were bowed to
earth, and a few were broken off at greater or lesser distances from
the ground. All of them had been stripped of their smaller branches
and shoots. The boys were at a loss to account for it, until Bill
said that the animals had been “riding down” the trees to browse on
the tender branches and tops. He explained how a moose straddles such
a tree with his fore legs and then proceeds to bend it earthward by
walking along with the supple trunk beneath his heavy body.
When the sun was directly overhead they halted by the side of a
woodland spring to eat their lunch. It was a warm spot, sheltered from
the wind by tall trees. The sunlight found its way down between the
branches and warmed a broad, flat rock on which they sat and ate. The
brisk walk in the sharp air had put a keen edge to their appetites, and
Bill laughed at the way the luncheon disappeared.
Moze came in panting and hot from an exhausting chase. He was speedily
provided with his share of the food, which he gulped down with little
attention to table manners.
Then they “hit the trail” again. Moze, evidently very tired, was
content to follow slowly along at their heels. Suddenly he stopped,
raised his head, and sniffed the air suspiciously. The hair along the
back of his neck rose instantly, and he began to growl.
“He’s got wind of something,” declared Bill, halting and searching the
forest with his eyes.
“What do you suppose it is?” asked Ed.
“Don’t know; I can’t see any tracks. What’s the matter, Moze?” inquired
the trapper, addressing his hound.
For answer the dog uttered a long, dismal howl and dashed away into the
woods, his nose held high against the wind. For some time his excited
yelps could be heard ringing through the forest. Finally they died away
in the distance as he ran out of hearing.
“Well, there’s no use waiting for him,” said Bill. “He’s gone the other
way.”
Once more they resumed the journey, though the boys would have lingered
there in the hope that Moze might drive something to them. Farther on
they came to the fresh trail of what Bill declared was a large lynx.
They wondered if it was this animal that had enticed Moze into a chase.
Just beyond, Bill was much surprised to find fresh moccasin tracks
headed in the direction he and the boys were traveling. The unknown
footprints soon branched off to follow some deer tracks, and the
trapper wondered who the mysterious hunter might be.
Suddenly they heard a rifle-shot, far to the right, and a second one a
moment afterward. They halted at once, and the boys turned to Bill for
an explanation.
“Whoever that is has got his deer, I reckon,” he said, when the echo of
the reports had subsided. “There’s nobody hunts this country except Ben
and me; not unless it’s Indian Pete.”
“Indian Pete?” chorused the lads, thoroughly interested by the
possibilities of such a name.
“Yes, he’s an old Indian trapper who wanders down here from the north.
Pretty good old fellow, too. Did me a big favor once.”
“Are there Indians near here?” inquired George.
“No; he’s the last of a tribe that lived north of here a long time ago.
Most of them died off, or went to a reservation, which is about the
same thing; but Pete did some jobs for the State and stayed here. When
he became too old to work he built himself a little shack, and lives
by hunting and trapping. If it’s Pete, we’ll probably find him at the
cabin, ’cause he and Ben are great friends.”
When the sun hung low and the early shadows of a winter afternoon began
to gather, Bill halted and pointed to a spot far below them, where lay
the lake in front of the cabin. The little log abode was not visible,
but a thin, wavering column of blue smoke rose above the tops of the
pines and showed them where it was. They knew that the guide was
expecting them for supper.
“I can almost smell the biscuits,” laughed Ed.
“And the bacon, and beans, and coffee, and--” began George.
“Hold on there, son! You’ll get indigestion smelling so fast,” Bill
laughed, as they hurried on down the mountain.
It was almost dark by the time they had crossed the lake. Their loud
helloas brought Ben to meet them.
“Thought you fellows had deserted me,” he laughed, when they drew near.
“Helloa, Bill, I’m powerful glad to see you; walk in. Hey, Moze, you
old black rascal!”
A tall, straight figure in buckskin rose and greeted Bill. The boys
gazed, fascinated, for it was none other than Indian Pete.
“Pete, these are the fellows I’ve been telling you about. Shake hands
with Ed Williams and George Rand,” commanded the guide.
The lads beamed with pleasure when the long, bony hand of the Indian
closed tightly over their own. For a moment or two he stood smiling
down at them. Then he relaxed his friendly grasp and resumed his seat.
Bill learned that the tracks they had seen had been made by Pete. The
two shots had sealed the doom of a noble five-prong buck, which now
hung outside the cabin. While the Indian and the trapper conversed, Ben
busied himself with the preparation of the evening meal.
The boys, left to themselves, noted Indian Pete’s well-proportioned
athletic figure; his coarse, straight black hair, which fell below the
square shoulders; his wrinkled, copper-colored face, with its prominent
nose and cheek bones, and most particularly his penetrating black eyes,
which looked directly into those of the listener.
Although Bill had told them that Pete was well over seventy years, they
would not have judged him to be more than fifty-five or sixty. The
lads looked on him admiringly as a superb specimen of well-preserved
manhood. They were so much interested in the old Indian that for the
time being they forgot all about “Snow Ball,” the captive owl.
They were soon reminded of his presence in a most startling manner.
Moze, in wandering about the room, crawled inquisitively under one of
the bunks. Instantly there was a terrific commotion, and the hound
promptly bounded out with “Snow Ball” holding fast to his tail.
The poor dog raced twice around the room before the great white bird
lost its grip. Then, finding himself free, Moze tried to retrieve
his reputation. He dashed bravely at his new-found adversary. It
instantly turned over on its back and scratched his nose with its sharp
talons. The dog jumped away with a yelp of pain, and seemed content,
thereafter, to stand out of harm’s way and express his opinion in a
series of savage barks.
Laughing heartily, Bill took hold of him, and Ben caught up the owl and
set it on a perch which he had made for it. The bird allowed itself to
be freely handled by the guide, who promptly fastened a small chain
about its leg and left it serenely preening its ruffled plumage and
glaring fiercely at Moze.
“Those two will be enemies for life, I reckon,” prophesied Bill.
“How on earth did you ever make ‘Snow Ball’ so tame?” Ed inquired.
“Just fed and treated him well; which will bring ’most any wild
creature around.”
They all gathered about the table to do full honor to the supper which
Ben had prepared. He and Bill exchanged glances of amusement when the
boys chose their seats, one on either side of Indian Pete.
“By gracious, to-morrow will be Christmas!” cried George, later, as
they were sitting before the stove.
“Strange we’ve had no word from home,” said Ed, in a disappointed tone.
“Don’t let it worry you, son,” drawled Ben, rising and going to the
book-shelf. “There are several letters and books here for you. Yes, and
a big box, too, over beyond, under that robe; but it’s not to be opened
until to-morrow.”
He handed the letters and magazines to Ed and George, winking at Bill
as he resumed his seat.
“How did you get them?” asked Ed.
“Why, Tom Westbrook came over and took me to town.”
The boys read the letters from home with much enjoyment. When they had
finished, they went over to the box and began raising the folds of the
robe that hid it.
The guide playfully dragged them away. Then they promised that they
would not open the box until the next morning if Indian Pete would tell
a story, and his tale of a single-handed fight with a wolf closed the
evening.
XVII CHRISTMAS AT THE CABIN
“Merry Christmas, everybody!”
This from the boys as they slipped quietly from their bunk.
“Merry Christmas!” replied Bill, turning in his blankets.
“Merry Christmas, and many more of them!” added Ben, sitting up
drowsily.
“Merry Christmas, Pete!” shouted George, determined that no one should
be left out of the cordial greetings.
“Chrismus!” returned the Indian, his dark eyes twinkling kindly.
“Well, you fellows stole a march on us this time,” laughed Ben, as he
rose and lighted the lamp--it was still dark outside.
“Now for the box!” cried Ed.
“Yes, let’s open it!” urged George.
They soon had the cover off, and were busily engaged taking out the
contents. There was a deliciously roasted turkey with dressing such as
they relished at home; a plum-pudding decorated with sprigs of holly;
two great cakes, one filled with raisins, the other with nuts; besides
many presents for the boys, and boxes of cigars, warm gloves and caps
for Ben and the trapper. Then they found some tobacco and a pipe, and
immediately presented them to Pete, who seemed much pleased. Nor was
Moze forgotten, for lying in the very bottom of the box was a handsome
collar with his name engraved on the metal plate.