THE TRAIL OF THE _CARCAJO_
At daylight 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 missing
altogether, 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 they _cached_ to 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 the deep 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 another
_cache_ was 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--de _loup cervier_ she 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 de _loup cervier_. You
rich. You got plenty money. An' when you lose wan _loup 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 um _loup 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 the
snare--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 cervier_ tight, 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' man _loup cervier_--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 de
_loup cervier_ do 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 he
could 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-time _cache_. 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 the
_cache_, 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.
[Illustration: "'Merican Joe climbed the tree and a few minutes later
Connie heard the blows of his belt ax as he hacked at the limb that held
the clog."
Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover]
"No! Dat ain' no good!" he exclaimed. "Dat fat she melt an' de heat she
dry de skin too queek, an' she git, w'at you call, grease burnt. Dat why
we nail de bear skin on de outside of de cabin. De skin she got to dry
in de cold. W'en de frost dry um, den we mus' got to scrape all de fat
an' de meat off, an' wash um, and dry um ag'in--den we got de good prime
skin." The Indian fastened a stout piece of line into the nose of each
pelt, and climbing the ladder, secured them to one of the poles of the
_cache_ in such manner that they hung free to the air, and yet out of
reach of any prowling animals. When they returned to the cabin 'Merican
Joe proceeded to cut thick slices from the hams of the two lynx
carcasses.
"Is that good for bait?" asked the boy.
'Merican Joe laughed. "Dat too mooch good for bait!" he exclaimed. "We
goin' have dat meat for de breakfas'."
"For breakfast!" cried Connie. "You don't mean you're going to eat lynx
meat! Why, a lynx is a cat!"
"Mebbe-so cat--mebbe-so ain't. Dat don't mak' no differ' w'at you call
um. You wait, I fry um an' I bet you t'ink dat de bes' meat you ever
eat."
"I don't believe I could tackle a cat," grinned the boy.
"Dat better you forgit dat cat business. If it good, it good. If it ain'
good, it ain' good. W'at you care you call um cat--dog--pig? Plenty
t'ing good to eat w'en you fin' dat out. De owl, she good meat. De
musquash, w'at you call de mushrat--dat don' hurt de meat 'cause you
call um rat! De skunk mak' de fine meat, an' de porkypine, too."
"I guess Injuns ain't so particular what they eat," laughed Connie.
"De Injun know w'at de good meat is," retorted 'Merican Joe. "By golly,
I seen de white mans eat de rotten cheese, an' she stink so bad dat mak'
de Injun sick."
"I guess you win!" laughed the boy. "I've seen 'em too--but you bet I
never ate any of it!"
"You try de _loup cervier_ steak in de mornin'," the Indian urged
earnestly. "If you don' lak him I bet you my dogs to wan chaw tobac'!"
"I don't chew tobacco," Connie grinned, "but seeing you've gone to all
the trouble of slicing the meat up, I'll take a chance."
"How you lak him, eh?" 'Merican Joe grinned across the little table at
Connie next morning, as the boy gingerly mouthed a small piece of lynx
steak. Connie swallowed the morsel, and, without answering, took another
bite. There was nothing gingerly about the action this time, and the
Indian noted that the boy's jaws worked with evident relish.
"Well," answered Connie, when the second morsel had gone the way of the
first, "if the rest of the things you were telling me about are as good
as this, all I've got to say is: Bring 'em along!"
Daylight found them on the trap line with sleeping bags and provisions
in their packs, for it would require at least two days to "fresh up" the
line.
At noon they camped for lunch almost at the end of the line of steel
traps. So far they had been unusually lucky. Only two traps had been
sprung empty, and eight martens and a mink were in the pack sacks. Only
two of the martens, and the mink were alive when found and Connie
quickly learned the Indian method of killing a trapped animal--a method
that is far more humane and very much easier when it comes to skinning
the animal than the white man's method of beating him on the head with
the ax handle. With the latter practice the skull is crushed with the
result that there is a nasty mess which discolours the flesh side of the
pelt and makes very disagreeable work for the skinner.
The first live marten was in one of the "ground set" traps and upon the
approach of the trappers he arched his back and stood at bay, emitting
sharp squalls and growls of anger. 'Merican Joe simply planted his
snowshoe on him, pressing him into the snow, then with one hand he
reached down and secured a firm hold on the animal's neck and gradually
worked the fore part of his body from under the snowshoe, taking care to
keep the hinder part held fast by the web. Snapping the mitten from his
other hand, the Indian felt just behind the lower ribs for the animal's
heart, and grasping it firmly between thumb and fingers he pulled
quickly downward. The heart was thus torn from its position and the
animal died instantly and painlessly. The mink which was suspended by
the tossing pole, and the other marten which had fallen victim to one of
the "tree sets," of course, could not be held by the snowshoe. As both
were caught by the fore leg, a loop of copper wire was slipped about
their hind legs and the animals thus stretched out and dispatched in the
same manner as the first.
As these three animals were not frozen, 'Merican Joe skinned them at the
noon camp, thereby doing away with the weight of the useless carcasses.
"What are we going to do when we finish up this trap line?" asked
Connie. "It won't be time to look at the snares again."
"No. We tak' a day an' res' up, an' skin de martens an' stretch um. Den
we mus' got to git som' dog feed. We put out de fish nets an' hunt de
caribou. Leloo, he be'n killing caribou wit' de wolf pack--he ain'
hongre w'en we feed de dogs."
But the revelation of the next few miles drove all thought of a day of
rest or a caribou hunt from the mind of the Indian, for real trouble
began with the second trap visited in the afternoon. This trap which had
been set upon the trunk of a leaning tree, was found dangling empty by
its chain, and held firmly between its jaws was the frozen leg of a
marten. The keen eyes of 'Merican Joe saw at a glance that the animal
had neither gnawed nor twisted its own way out of the trap but had been
torn from it by violence. The Indian scowled darkly at certain telltale
tracks in the snow, and an exclamation of anger escaped him.
Connie laughed. "Now who's growling about the loss of a skin? One marten
more or less won't make much difference."
'Merican Joe continued to scowl. "No, one marten don't mak' mooch
differ', but we ain' goin' to git no more marten on dis trap line
_s'pose_ we ain' kill dat _carcajo_! He start in here an' he clean out
de whole line. He steal all de marten, an' he bust up de deadfalls. An'
we got to ketch um or we got got to move som' nodder place!" And in all
truth, the Indian's fears were well justified. For of all the animals of
the North, the _carcajo_ is the most hated by the trappers. And he has
fairly earned every bit of hatred he gets because for absolute malicious
fiendishness this thick-bodied brute of many names has no equal.
Scientists, who have no personal quarrel with him, have given him the
dignified Latin name of _gulo luscus_--the last syllable of the last
word being particularly apt. In the dictionaries and encyclopædias he is
listed as the glutton. In the United States he is commonly known as the
wolverine. The lumberjacks call him the Injun devil. While among the
trappers and the Indians themselves he is known as the _carcajo_, or as
bad dog--which is the Indian's idea of absolute cussedness and
degeneracy.
Connie broke the silence that had fallen upon the two as they stared at
the empty trap. "Well, we won't move!" he cried. "There's no measly
_carcajo_ going to run me out of here! We'll get busy, and in two or
three days from now we'll have that scoundrel's hide hanging up on the
_cache_ with the lynx skins!"
The Indian nodded slowly. "Mebbe-so--mebbe-so not. De _carcajo_, she
smart. She hard to ketch."
"So are we smart!" exclaimed the boy. "Come on--let's go!"
"Ain' no good we go 'long de trap line. De trap she all be bust up. We
go back to de cabin an' git som' beaver trap, an' we start out on de
odder end an' back-track 'long de trap line. Mebbe-so de _carcajo_ ain'
had time to git over de whole line yet. Anyhow, we got to set plenty
trap for him."
Hastening back to the cabin, the frozen martens were thawed out and
skinned, and 'Merican Joe made up his pack for the trail. Connie
refrained from asking questions, as the Indian solemnly made up his
queer pack, but the boy resolved to keep his eyes open the following
day, for of all the things the Indian placed in his pack sack, there
was nothing that appeared to be of any use whatever except the six stout
beaver traps.
Daylight next morning found them at the end of the trap line which they
back-trailed for some five or six miles without seeing any signs of the
presence of the _carcajo_. They had four martens in their packs, and
Connie was beginning to believe that the outlook was not so bad after
all, when they suddenly came upon one of the deadfalls literally torn to
pieces. There had been a marten in this trap, but nothing remained of
him except a few hairs that clung to the bark of the fall-log. The bait
was gone, the bait house was broken apart, and the pieces strewn about
in the most savage and wanton manner. The tracks were only a few hours
old, and Connie was for following them and killing the marauder with the
rifle. But 'Merican Joe shook his head: "No, we ain' kin fin' him. He
climb de tree and den git in nodder tree an' keep on goin' an' we lose
time an' don' do no good. He quit here las' night. He start in ag'in
tonight w'ere he leave off. We go back, now, an' set som' trap w'ere he
ain' be'n."
Retracing their steps to the first unmolested deadfall, the Indian set
one of the beaver traps. But instead of baiting it, or setting it at the
opening of the bait house, he carefully scooped a depression in the snow
at the back of the house. Placing the trap in this depression so that it
lay about two inches below the level of the snow, he carefully laid
small clusters of needles from the pan outward so that they rested upon
the jaws. This was to keep the snow from packing or freezing on the trap
which would prevent it from springing. When the trap was completely
covered the Indian took two pieces of crust from the snow and, holding
them above the trap, rubbed them together, thus grinding the snow and
letting it fall upon the needles until the whole was covered with what
looked like a natural fall of snow. "De _carcajo_ he com' to de trap at
de back an' break it up," he explained as he stood up and examined his
handiwork critically.
"I hope he tries it on that one," grinned Connie, as he followed the
Indian who had already started for the next set.
This set was different, in that it was not made at any trap. The Indian
paused beside a fallen log and with the ax cut a half-dozen green
poles. These he cut into three-foot lengths and laid them one on top of
the other in the shape of a three-cornered crib. Then he took from the
pack some of the articles that had excited Connie's curiosity. An old
coat, tightly rolled, was first placed within the enclosure of the crib.
Then several empty tin cans were placed on top of the coat, and covered
with an old scrap of canvas. On top of the canvas were placed the
snowshoes that had been crushed by the bear. Four of the beaver traps
were now set, one on each side of the crib, close to the wall and one on
top of the snowshoes inside the enclosure. The traps on the outside were
covered in exactly the same manner as the trap set at the deadfall, and
the one inside was simply covered with an old worn-out sock.
"Where does the bait go?" asked Connie, as he glanced curiously at the
contrivance.
"De bait she all ready. We ain' want no meat bait. De _carcajo_ com'
'long, she see de leetle log house. She sniff 'roun' an' she say: 'Dis
is wan _cache_. I bust him up an' steal all de t'ings.' An' so he go to
bust up de _cache_ an' de firs' t'ing she know she got de leg in de
trap. Dat mak' him mad an' he jump 'roun' an' by-m-by anodder leg gits
in odder trap, an' by golly, den he ain' kin git away no mor'!"
"Why don't you fasten the chains to the big log, instead of to those
light clogs?" asked the boy.
"Dat ain' no good way to do," replied the Indian. "If she fasten on de
big solid log, de _carcajo_ git chance to mak' de big pull. He git w'at
you call de brace, an' he pull an' pull, an' by-m-by, he pull hees foot
out. But w'en you mak' de trap on de clog he ain' kin git no good pull.
Every tam he pull, de clog com' 'long a leetle, an' all he do is drag de
stick."
The remaining trap was set at another deadfall, and the two trappers
returned home to await results. But while they waited, they were not
idle. The dog food was running low, so armed with ice chisels and axes
they went out on to the snow-covered lake and busied themselves in
setting their whitefish nets through the ice.