THE CARIBOU HUNT
Connie Morgan and his trapping partner, 'Merican Joe, bolted a hurried
breakfast. For both were eager to know the result of their attempt to
trap the _carcajo_ that had worked such havoc with their line of marten
and mink traps.
"Suppose we do catch this one?" asked Connie as he fastened his rackets.
"Won't there be an other one along in a day or two, so we'll have to do
it all over again?"
"No," explained the Indian. "_Carcajo_ no like nodder _carcajo_. In de
winter tam de _carcajo_ got he's own place to hunt. If nodder wan comes
'long dey mak' de big fight, an' wan gits lick an' he got to go off an'
fin' nodder place to hunt. Injun hate _carcajo_. Marten hate um. Mink,
an fox hate um. Deer hate um. All de peoples hate um--de big peoples,
an' de leetle peoples. _Carcajo_ so mean even _carcajo_ hate _carcajo_!"
A yell of triumph escaped Connie as, closely followed by 'Merican Joe,
he pushed aside the thick screen of spruce branches and came suddenly
upon the crib-like _cache_ that the Indian had constructed to entice the
malicious night prowler. For right in the midst of the wreckage of the
_cache_, surrounded by the broken snowshoes, the tin cans, the old coat,
and the sticks that had formed the crib, was the _carcajo_ himself, a
foreleg in one trap and his thick shaggy tail in another! When he caught
sight of the trappers the animal immediately showed fight. And never had
Connie seen such an exhibition of insensate ferocity as the _carcajo_,
every hair erect, teeth bared, and emitting squall-like growls of rage,
tugged at the rattling trap chains in a vain effort to attack. Beside
this animal the rage of even the disturbed barren ground grizzly seemed
a mild thing. But, of course, the grizzly had been too dopey and dazed
from his long sleep, to really put forth his best efforts.
"Shoot um in de ear," advised 'Merican Joe, "an' it ain' no hole in de
hide an' it kill um queek." And, holding the muzzle of the little
twenty-two close, Connie dispatched the animal with one well-placed
shot. The next instant, 'Merican Joe was laughing as Connie held his
nose, for like the skunk, the _carcajo_ has the power to emit a
yellowish fluid with an exceedingly disagreeable odour--and this
particular member of the family used his power lavishly.
"He too mooch smart to git in de trap in de snow," said the Indian,
pointing to the dead _carcajo_. "He climb up on de log an' den he jump
'cross de leetle space an' put de foot in de trap on top of de pile. Den
w'en he git mad an tear up de _cache_ an' try to git loose, he sit down
in wan more trap, an it ketch him on he's tail."
While 'Merican Joe drew the shaggy brownish-black skin from the thick
body, Connie recovered the traps, removed the clogs, and _cached_ them
where they could be picked up later. Neither of the two traps that had
been set at the backs of the marten traphouses had been disturbed, and
as Connie gathered these and placed them with the others, he learned of
the extreme wariness and caution of the _carcajo_. For the snow told the
story of how the prowler had circled the traphouses several times, and
then lumbered on, leaving them untouched.
"It's a wonder you don't cut some steaks out of him," grinned the boy
as he looked at the fat carcass.
The Indian shook his head. "No. De _carcajo_, an' de mink, an' de
marten, an' de fisher, an' de otter ain' no good to eat. W'en you fin'
de Injun w'at eat 'em--look out! Dat one bad Injun, you bet!"
The work of "freshing up" the trap line in the wake of the _carcajo_
took almost as long as the laying of a new line. For the marauder had
done his work thoroughly and well. Hardly a trap was left unmolested. In
some places the snow showed where he had eaten a marten, but in most
instances the traps were simply destroyed apparently from sheer
wantonness. Three or four martens and one lynx were recovered where they
had been taken from the traps, carried off the line for some distance,
and buried in the snow.
By evening of the third day the task was finished and the two trappers
returned to their cabin.
The following day was spent in getting ready a trail outfit for the
caribou hunt. Both of the toboggans and dog teams were to be taken to
haul home the meat, and provisions for a week's trip were loaded. Only
a few caribou tracks had been seen on the trap line and 'Merican Joe
believed that more would be found to the south-eastward.
The first night on the trail they camped at the edge of a wide _brule_,
some twenty miles from the cabin. No caribou had been sighted during the
day, although tracks were much more numerous than they had been in the
vicinity of the cabin. 'Merican Joe had not brought his heavy rifle,
preferring instead the twenty-two, with which he had succeeded in
bringing down four ptarmigan. And as they sat snug and cozy in the
little tent and devoured their supper of stew and tea and pilot bread,
Connie bantered the Indian.
"You must think you're going to sneak up as close to the caribou as I
did to the _carcajo_, to get one with that gun."
'Merican Joe grinned. "You wait. You see I git mor' caribou wit' de
knife den you git wit' de big gun," he answered. "Me an' Leloo, we ain'
need no gun, do we, Leloo?" The great wolf-dog had been secured in the
tent to prevent his slipping off during the night, and at the mention of
his name he pricked up his ears and searched the faces of the two, as
if trying to figure out what all the talk was about. Far away in the
timber a wolf howled, and Leloo's eyes at once assumed an expression of
intense longing and he listened motionless until the sound died away,
then with a glance at the _babiche_ thong that secured him, settled
slowly to the robe and lay with his long pointed muzzle upon his
outstretched forepaws, and his dull yellow eyes blinking lazily.
Early the following morning they skirted the south shore of Lake Ste.
Therese, crossed the river, and headed for a range of hills that could
be seen to the south-eastward. The day was warm, ten to fifteen degrees
above zero, and the gusty south-east wind was freighted with frequent
snow squalls. Toward noon, as they were crossing a frozen muskeg,
Connie, who was in the lead, stopped to examine some fresh caribou
tracks that led toward the timber of the opposite side in a course
nearly parallel with their own. 'Merican Joe halted his team and came
forward. Leloo nosed the tracks and, with no more show of interest than
a slight twitching of the ears, raised his head and eyed first 'Merican
Joe, then Connie. The trail was very fresh and the scent strong so that
the other dogs sniffed the air and whined and whimpered in nervous
eagerness. The trail was no surprise to Leloo. So keen was his sense of
scent that for a quarter of a mile he had known that they were nearing
it. Had he been alone, or running at the head of the hunt-pack, he would
even now have been wolfing down huge mouthfuls of the warm,
blood-dripping meat. But this case was different. At this moment he was
a dog, and not a wolf. His work was the work of the harness. Leloo's
yellow eyes scrutinized the faces of his two masters as they talked, for
he had been quick to recognize Connie as his new master, although he
never quite renounced allegiance to the Indian. He obeyed alike the
command of either, and both were too wise in the way of dogs to try him
out with conflicting commands just to see "which he would mind."
Leloo knew that his masters would do one of two things. Either they
would follow the caribou and kill them, or they would ignore the trail
and hold their own course. He hoped they would decide to follow the
caribou. For two or three days he had been living on fish, and Leloo did
not like fish and only ate them when there was nothing else to eat. He
watched 'Merican Joe return to his dogs, and fairly leaped into the
collar as Connie swung him on to the trail. Two bull caribou had gone
that way scarcely an hour before. There would be a kill, and plenty of
meat.
A quarter of a mile before reaching the timber, Connie, who was in the
lead, swerved sharply from the trail and headed toward a point that
would carry them to the bush well down wind from the place the caribou
had entered. Leloo cheerfully followed for he understood this move, and
approved it. Arriving in the scrub, Connie and 'Merican Joe quickly
unharnessed the dogs and tied all except the wolf-dog to trees. The boy
removed the rifle from the toboggan and threw a shell into the chamber.
"Hadn't we better put a line on Leloo?" he asked as they started in the
direction of the trail.
'Merican Joe laughed; "No, Leloo he know 'bout hunt--you watch. You want
to see de gran' dog work you jes' shoot wan caribou. Leloo he git' de
odder wan, you bet!"
"You don't mean he'll get him unless he's wounded!"
"Sure, he git him--you see! If you shoot wan an' wound him, Leloo git
de good wan first, an' den he go git de wounded wan."
They cut the trail at the edge of the muskeg and immediately circled
down wind. Leloo trotted quietly beside them, and now and then Connie
noted twitching of the delicate nostrils. Suddenly the animal halted,
sniffing the air. The ruff bristled slightly, and turning at a right
angle to the course, the dog headed directly into the wind.
"He ketch um," said 'Merican Joe. "Close by. Dat ain' no trail
scent--dat body scent!"
The spruce gave place to willows, and creeping to the edge of a frozen
marshy stream, they saw the two caribou feeding upon the opposite side.
Connie set for two hundred yards and fired. The larger bull reared high
in front, pitched sidewise, and after several lurching leaps, fell to
the snow. The other headed diagonally across the open at a trot. Beside
him Connie heard a low growl, there was a flash of silver, and Leloo
shot into the open like an arrow. For several seconds the bull trotted
on, unconscious of the great grey shape that was nearly upon him. When
he did discover it and broke into a run it was too late. As if hurled
from a gun the flying wolf-dog rose from the snow and launched himself
at the exposed flank of the fleeing caribou, which was whirled half way
around at the impact. Leloo sprang clear as the stricken animal plunged
and wobbled on his fast weakening legs. The caribou staggered on a few
steps and lay down. And the wolf-dog, after watching him for a moment to
make sure he was really done for, trotted over and sniffed at the bull
Connie had shot.
While 'Merican Joe, with a quick twist of his sheath knife, cut the
stricken animal's throat, Connie examined the wound that had brought him
down. Leloo had returned to his kill, and as the boy glanced up the
great wolf-dog opened his mouth in a prodigious yawn that exposed his
gleaming fangs, and instantly the boy remembered the words of Waseche
Bill, "Keep your eye on him ... if he ever turns wolf when he'd ort to
be dog ... good-night." "It would be 'good-night,' all right," he
muttered, as he turned again to look at the wound--a long slash that had
cut through the thick hide, the underlying muscles, and the inner
abdominal wall and literally disembowelled the animal as cleanly as
though it had been done with a powerful stroke of a sharp knife.
"W'at you t'ink 'bout Leloo, now?" grinned the Indian, as he rose from
his knee and wiped his bloody knife upon his larrigan.
"I think he's some killer!" exclaimed the boy. "No wonder you don't
carry a rifle."
"Don't need no gun w'en we got Leloo," answered 'Merican Joe, proudly.
"De gun too mooch heavy. Injun ain' so good shot lak de w'ite man. Waste
too mooch shell--dat cost too mooch."
The butchering and cutting up of the two caribou took less than an hour,
during which time 'Merican Joe found that no matter how much of a
_chechako_ Connie was in regard to the fur-bearers, he had had plenty of
experience in the handling of meat. When the job was finished, the meat
was covered with the hides, and taking only the livers and hearts with
them, the two started for the toboggans. The low-banked, marshy river
upon which they found themselves made a short turn to the northward a
short distance farther on, and they decided to circle around far enough
to see what lay beyond the wooded point. Rounding the bend, they came
upon what was evidently a sluggish lake, or broadening of the river,
its white surface extending for a distance of two or three miles toward
the north. Far beyond the upper end of the lake they could make out
another ridge of hills, similar to the one to the southward toward which
they were heading. They were about to turn back when Connie pointed to
Leloo who was sniffing the air with evident interest. "He smells
something!" exclaimed the boy, "maybe there are some more caribou in the
willows a little farther on."
The Indian watched the dog narrowly: "Noe he ain' git de body scent--dat
de trail scent. Mus' be de strong scent. He smell um down wind. We go
tak' a look--mebbe-so we git som' mor' meat."
Keeping close to shore they struck northward upon the surface of the
lake and ten minutes later, 'Merican Joe uttered an exclamation and
pointed ahead. Hastening forward they came upon a broad trail. As far as
they could see the surface of the snow was broken and trampled by the
hoofs of hundreds and hundreds of caribou. The animals had crossed the
lake on a long slant, travelling leisurely and heading in a
north-westerly direction for the hills that could be seen in the
distance. The two bulls they had killed were evidently stragglers of the
main herd, for the trail showed that the animals had passed that same
day--probably early in the morning.
"We go back an git de dogs and de outfit, an' follow um up. We git
plenty meat now. Dat good place we camp right here tonight an' in de
mornin' we follow 'long de trail." The short afternoon was well advanced
and after selecting a camping site, the Indian hung the livers and
hearts upon a limb, and the two struck out rapidly for the toboggans.
After hastily swallowing a cold lunch, they harnessed the dogs and
worked the outfit through the timber until they struck the river at the
point where they had slipped upon the two caribou. As they stepped from
the willows Connie pointed toward the opposite shore. "There's something
moving over there!" he exclaimed. "Look--right between the meat piles! A
wolf I guess."
'Merican Joe peered through the gathering dusk. "No, dat _loup cervier_.
De wolf ain' hunt dead meat." Leloo had caught a whiff of the animal and
the hairs of his great ruff stood out like the quills of an enraged
porcupine. Stooping, the Indian slipped him from the harness and the
next instant a silver streak was flashing across the snow. The _loup
cervier_ did not stand upon the order of his going but struck out for
the timber in great twenty-foot bounds. He disappeared in the willows
with the wolf-dog gaining at every jump, and a moment later a young
spruce shivered throughout its length, as the great cat struck its trunk
a good ten feet above the snow. Connie started at a run, but 'Merican
Joe called him back.
"We tak' de outfit long an' load de meat first. We got plenty tam. Leloo
hold um in de tree an' den we go git um." Picking up Leloo's harness the
Indian led the way across the river where it was but the work of a few
minutes to load the meat on to the toboggans.
When the loads were firmly lashed on, the toboggans were tipped over to
prevent the dogs from running away, and taking the light rifle the two
went to the tree beneath which Leloo sat looking up into the glaring
yellow eyes of the lynx. One shot placed squarely in the corner of an
eye brought the big cat down with a thud, and they returned to the
outfit and harnessed Leloo. When they were ready to start, 'Merican Joe
swung the two caribou heads to the top of his load.
"What are you packing those heads for?" asked Connie.
"Mus' got to hang um up," answered the Indian.
"Well, hang them up back there in the woods. There's a couple of handy
limb stubs on that tree we got the lynx out of."
The Indian shook his head. "No, dat ain' no good. De bear head mus' got
to git hang up right where she fall, but de deer an' de moose and de
caribou head mus' got to hang up right long de water where de canoes go
by."
"Why's that?"
The other shrugged. "I ain' know 'bout dat. Mebbe-so w'en _Sah-ha-lee
Tyee_ com' to count de deer, he com' in de canoe. I ain' care I know so
mooch 'bout why. W'en de Injuns hang up de head in de right place, den
de deer, an' de bear, an' all de big peoples ain' git all kill off--an'
w'en de w'ite mans com' in de country an' don't hang up de heads, de big
peoples is all gon' queek. So dat's nuff, an' don't mak' no differ'
'bout why."
[Illustration: "As darkness settled over the North Country, a little
fire twinkled in the bush, and the odour of sizzling bacon and frying
liver permeated the cozy camp."
Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover]
At the bend of the river 'Merican Joe hung up the heads upon a couple
of solid snags, and a short time later they were pitching their little
tent upon the camp site selected beside the caribou trail. As darkness
settled over the north county, a little fire twinkled in the bush, and
the odour of sizzling bacon and frying liver permeated the cozy camp.