SETTING THE FOX TRAPS
After turning over the prisoner to Inspector McKeever, Connie Morgan and
'Merican Joe accompanied the men from Fort Norman back to the Indian
village where they found that the party of hunters had succeeded in
locating the caribou herd and had made a big kill, so that it had been
unnecessary for the men to use any of the _cached_ meat.
Preparation was at once started by the entire population to accompany
McTavish back to the post for the mid-winter trading. In the Indian's
leisurely method of doing things these preparations would take three or
four days, so Pierre Bonnet Rouge, who seemed to be a sort of chief
among them, dispatched some of his young men to haul in all the meat
that the two partners had _cached_. Meanwhile, leaving Mr. Squigg at the
village in the care of McTavish, Connie piloted Inspector McKeever to
the little cabin of the free traders. For McKeever had known Black Moran
over on the Yukon, and had spent much time in trying to run him down in
the days before his reported drowning, and he desired to make absolutely
sure of his ground before turning in his report upon the death of so
notorious a character.
Connie had placed the man's body in the cabin, and as the two pushed
open the door Dan McKeever stepped forward and raised the blanket with
which the boy had covered it. The big officer stooped and peered into
the face of the dead man. Finally, he rose to his feet with a nod: "Yes,
that's Black Moran, all right. But, gosh, son! If I'd know'd it was him
that you was up against over here, I wouldn't have been so easy in my
mind. You sure done a big thing for the North when you got him."
"I didn't get him, Dan. It was Leloo that got him--look there!"
McKeever stooped again and breaking back the blood-soaked clothing
examined the long deep gash that extended from the man's lower ribs to
the point of his hip. Then he turned and eyed Leloo who stood looking on
with blazing eyes, his great silver ruff a-quiver. "Some dog!" he
exclaimed. "Or is he a dog? Look at them eyes--part dog, part wolf, an'
mostly devil, I'd say. Look out, son, if he ever goes wrong. Black Moran
looks like he'd be'n gashed with a butcher's cleaver! But, at that, you
can't lay all the credit on the dog. He done his share all right, but
the head work--figurin' out jest what Black Moran would do, an' jest
what the dog would do, an' throwin' that chunk at jest the right second
to make 'em do it--that's where the brains an' the nerve comes in----"
"It was mostly luck," interrupted Connie.
The big officer grinned. "Uh-huh," he grunted, "but I've noticed that if
there's about two hundred per cent brains kind of mixed in with the
luck, a man's got a better show of winnin' out in the long run--an'
that's what you do."
"What will we do with him?" asked the boy after McKeever had finished
photographing the body, and the wolf-dog, and Connie, and such of the
surroundings as should be of interest in connection with his report.
"Well, believe me," answered the officer, "I ain't goin' to dig no grave
for him in this frozen ground. We'll jest throw a platform together in
that clump of trees, an' stick him up Injun fashion. I'd cremate him,
like he was goin' to do to you, but he was so doggone tough I don't
believe nothin' would burn but his whiskers, an' besides I don't want to
burn the cabin. It's got a stove, an' it might save some poor fellow's
life sometime."
The early winter darkness had fallen when the work was finished, and
Connie and McKeever decided to wait until morning before striking out
for the village.
After supper the big Inspector filled his pipe and glanced about the
little room. "Seems like old times, son--us bein' on trail together.
Don't you never feel a hankerin' to be back in the service? An' how
comes it you're trappin' way over here? Did you an' Waseche Bill go
broke? If you did, you've always got a job in the service, an' it beats
trappin' at that."
Connie laughed. "You bet, Dan, if I ever need a job I'll hit straight
for you. But the fact is Waseche and I have got a big thing over at Ten
Bow--regular outfit, with steam point drills and a million dollars'
worth of flumes and engines and buildings and things----"
"Then, what in time are you doin' over here trappin' with a Siwash?"
"Oh, just wanted to have a look at the country. I'll tell you, Dan,
hanging around town gets on my nerves--even a town like Ten Bow. I like
to be out in the open where a fellow has got room enough to take a good
deep breath without getting it second-handed, and where you don't have
to be bumping into someone every time you turn around. You know what I
mean, Dan--a long trail that you don't know the end of. Northern lights
in the night-sky. Valleys, and mountains, and rivers, and lakes that
maybe no white man has ever seen before, and a good outfit of
dogs--that's playing the game. You never know what's going to
happen--and when it does happen it's always worth while, whether it's
striking a colour, or bringing in _hooch_-runners."
The big Inspector nodded. "Sure, I know. There ain't nothin' that you
know the end of that's worth doin'. It's always what lies jest beyond
the next ridge, or across the next valley that a man wants to see.
Mostly, when you get there you're disappointed--but suppose you are?
There's always another ridge, or another valley, jest beyond. An' if
you keep on goin' you're bound to find somethin' somewheres that's worth
all the rest of the disappointments. And sometime, son, we're goin' to
find the thing that's bigger, or stronger, or smarter than we are--an'
then it'll get us. But that's where the fun comes in."
"That's it, exactly!" cried the boy his eyes shining, "and believe me,
Dan--that's going to be some big adventure--there at the end of the last
trail! It'll be worth all the others--just to _be there_!"
"Down in the cities, they don't think like we do. They'd ruther plug
along--every day jest like the days that's past, an' jest like all the
days that's comin'."
Connie interrupted him: "Down in the cities I don't care what they
think! I've been in cities, and I _hate_ 'em. I'm glad they don't think
like we do, or they'd be up here plastering their houses, and factories,
and stores all over our hills and valleys."
"Wonder who stuck this shack up here," smiled McKeever, glancing
inquisitively around the room. "Looks like it had been here quite a
while. You can see where Black Moran an' Squigg rammed in fresh
chinkin'."
Connie nodded. "Some prospector or trapper, I guess. I wonder what
became of him?"
McKeever shook his head. "Maybe McTavish would know. There's nothin'
here that would tell. If he pulled out he took everything along but the
stove, an' if he didn't the Injuns an' the Eskimos have carried off all
the light truck. There was a fellow name of Dean--James Dean, got lost
in this country along about six or seven years back. I was lookin' over
the records the other day, an' run across the inquiry about him. That
was long before my time in N Division. There was a note or two in the
records where he'd come into the country a couple of years before he'd
disappeared, an' had traded at Fort Norman an' at Wrigley. The last seen
of him he left Fort Norman with some supplies--grub an' powder. He was
prospectin' an' trappin'--an' no one ever seen him since. He was a good
man, too--accordin' to reports. He wasn't no _chechako_."
"There you are!" exclaimed Connie, "just what we were talking about. I'd
give a lot to know what happened at the end of his trail. I've seen the
end of a lot of those trails--and always the signs told the story of the
last big adventure. And always it was worth while. And, good or bad, it
was always a man's game they played--and they came to a man's end."
"Gee, Dan, in cities men die in their beds!"
Upon the evening before the departure of the Indians who were to
accompany McTavish and McKeever back to Fort Norman for the mid-winter
trading, Connie Morgan, the factor, and the big officer sat in the cabin
of Pierre Bonnet Rouge and talked of many things. The owner of the cabin
stoked the fire and listened in silence to the talk, proud that the
white men had honoured his house with their presence.
"You've be'n in this country quite a while, Mac," said Inspector
McKeever, as he filled his pipe from a buckskin pouch. "You must have
know'd something about a party name of James Dean. He's be'n reported
missin' since six or seven years back."'
"Know'd him well," answered McTavish. "He was a good man, too. Except,
maybe a leetle touched in the head about gold. Used to trap some, an'
for a couple of years he come in twice a year for the tradin'. Then,
one time he never come back. The Mounted made some inquiries a couple
years later, but that's all I know'd. He had a cabin down in this
country some place, but they couldn't find it--an' the Injuns didn't
seem to know anything about him. Pierre, here, would know, if anyone
did." He turned to the Indian and addressed him in jargon. "_Kumtux
Boston man nem James Dean?_"
The Indian fidgeted uneasily, and glanced nervously, first toward one
window and then the other. "_S'pose memaloose_," he answered shortly,
and putting on his cap, abruptly left the room.
"Well, what do you think of that?" exclaimed McKeever. "Says he thinks
he's dead, and then up an' beat it. The case might stand a little
investigatin' yet. Looks to me like that Injun knew a whole lot more
than he told."
McTavish shook his head. "No, Dan, I don't think ye're right. Leastways,
not altogether. I've known this band of Indians for years. They're all
right. And Pierre Bonnet Rouge is the best one of the lot. His actions
were peculiar, but they were actions of fear, not of guilt or of a man
trying to cover up guilty knowledge. He believes Dean is dead--and for
some reason, he fears his ghost."
"The factor is right," agreed Connie. "There's some kind of a
_tamahnawus_ that he's afraid of--and somehow he believes it's connected
with Dean."
McKeever nodded. "That's about the size of it. And when you run up
against their superstitions, you might as well save your time as far as
any investigatin' goes. I'd like to know what's on his mind, though."
"Maybe I'll run on to the end of his trail," said Connie. "It's a pretty
cold trail by this time--but I might."
"Maybe you will, son," assented McKeever. "An' if you do, be sure to let
me know. I'd kind of like to clean up the record."
Good-byes were said the following morning, and Connie and 'Merican Joe,
their sleds piled high with caribou meat, pulled out for their little
cabin where for the next three days they were busy freshening up their
trap line, and resetting rabbit and lynx snares.
"Dat 'bout tam we start in to trap de fox, now," observed 'Merican Joe,
as he and Connie finished skinning out the last of the martens that had
been taken from the traps. "Dat de bes' kin' trappin'. De leetle fox she
de smartes' of all de people, an' w'en you set de fox trap you never kin
tell w'at you goin' git."
"Never can tell what you're going to get?" asked Connie. "Why, you're
going to get a fox, if you're lucky, ain't you?"
"Yes--but de fox, she so many kin'. An' every kin' some differ'. De bes'
fox of all, he is de black wan, den com' de black silver, an' de silver
grey. Dem all fine fox, an' git de big price for de skin. Den com' de
cross fox. Lots of kin' of cross fox. Firs' com' de black cross, den de
dark cross, den de common cross, den de light cross. All de cross fox
pret' good fox, too. Den com' de blue fox--dark blue, an' light blue.
Den com' de red fox--bright red, an' light red, an' pale red--de pale
red ain' no mooch good. She de wors' fox dere is. Even de white fox is
better, an' de white fox is mor' differ' as all de fox. She de only fox
w'at is good to eat, an' she de only fox w'at is easy to trap. She ain't
got no sense. She walk right in de trap. But de res' of de fox she
plent' hard to trap--she ain' goin' roun' where she git de man-scent.
Dat why I hang de two pair of moccasins an' de mittens out on de
_cache_, so she don' git no camp-scent on 'em."
The following morning 'Merican Joe took from the _cache_ the dozen steel
traps he had placed there when the platform was first built. Also he
brought down the moccasins and mittens that had lain exposed to the air.
Then, drawing on the mittens, he proceeded to cut into small chunks
portions of the carcass of the bear which he placed in a bag of green
caribou skin.
"Those traps look pretty small for foxes," opined Connie, as he reached
to pick one up from the snow.
'Merican Joe pushed back his hand before it touched the trap. "Don't
pick 'em up!" he cried, "Dey git de man-scent on 'em. W'at you t'ink I'm
keep 'em out on de _cache_ for? W'en you touch dem trap you got to put
on de mitten lak I got--de mitten dat ain' be'n in de cabin. An' dem
trap ain' too leetle. If you set de beeg trap for de fox, dat ain' no
good. She git caught high up on de leg, an' de beeg spring bre'k de leg
an den de leg freeze an' in wan hour de fox giv' de pull an' de leg
twist off, an' de fox run away--an' nex' tam you bet you ain' ketch dat
fox no mor'. Any fox she hard to ketch, but de t'ree legged fox she de
hardes' t'ing in de worl' to trap--she too mooch smart. You got to git
de trap jes right for de fox. You got to ketch 'em right in de pads
where de foot is thick an' strong an' don' bust an' freeze. Den you hol'
'em good."
Slipping on the outside moccasins over their others, the two trappers
struck out for a small lake they had passed on the caribou hunt--a lake
that lay between the foot of a high ridge and the open tundra upon which
they had struck the trail of the two caribou bulls. Connie carried the
light rifle, and Leloo accompanied them, running free.
That night they camped comfortably upon the shore of the lake, with
their blankets spread beneath a light fly. They slept late and it was
long after sunrise the following morning when they started out with
their traps. Fox tracks were numerous along the shore, some of them
leading back onto the ridge, and others heading across the lake in the
direction of the open tundra. Connie was beginning to wonder why
'Merican Joe did not set his traps, when the Indian paused and carefully
scrutinized a long narrow point that jutted out into the lake. The
irregularity of the surface of the snow showed that the point was rocky,
and here and there along its edge a small clump of stunted willows
rattled their dry branches in the breeze. The Indian seemed satisfied
and, walking to the ridge, cut a stick some five or six feet long which
he slipped through the ring of a trap, securing the ring to the middle
of the stick. A few feet beyond one of the willow clumps, nearly at the
end of the point, the Indian stooped, and with his ax cut a trench in
the snow the length of the stick, and about eight or ten inches in
depth. In this trench he placed the stick, and packed the snow over it.
He now made a smaller trench the length of the trap chain, at the end of
which he pressed the snow down with the back of his mitten until he had
made a depression into which he could place the trap with its jaws set
flat, so that the pan would lie some two inches below the level of the
snow. From his bag he drew some needles which he carefully arranged so
that they radiated from the pan to the jaws in such manner as would
prevent snow from packing down and interfering with the springing of the
trap. Then he broke out two pieces of snow-crust and, holding them over
the depression which held the trap, rubbed them together until the trap
was completely covered and the snow mounded slightly higher than the
surrounding level. He then rubbed other pieces of crust over the
trenches which held the clog, and the trap-chain. When that was finished
he took from the bag a brush-broom, which he had made of light twigs as
he walked along, and dusted the mounded snow lightly until the whole
presented an unbroken surface, which would defy the sharpest-eyed fox to
discover it had been tampered with. All this the Indian had done without
moving from his tracks, and now from the bag he drew many pieces of bear
meat which he tossed on to the snow close about the trap. Slowly, he
backed away, being careful to set each snowshoe in its own track, and as
he moved backward, he dusted the tracks full of snow with the
brush-broom. For fifty or sixty feet he repeated this laborious
operation, pausing now and then to toss a piece of meat upon the snow.
Connie surveyed the job with admiration. "No wonder you said foxes are
hard to trap if you have to go to all that trouble to get 'em," smiled
the boy.
"It ain' hard to do. It is, w'at you call careful. You mak' de trouble
to be careful, you git de fox--you ain' mak' de trouble you ain' git no
fox. Odder peoples you kin git mebbe-so, if you ain' so careful, but de
fox, an' de wolf, you ain' git."
Leloo circled in from the ridge, and Connie called to him sharply. "Wish
we hadn't brought him along," he said. "I'm afraid he'll get to smelling
around the bait and get caught."
'Merican Joe shook his head. "No. Leloo, he ain' git caught. He too
smart. He know w'at de bait for. He ain' goin' for smell dat bait. If de
meat is 'live, an' run or fly, Leloo he grab him if he kin. If de meat
dead Leloo he ain' goin' fool wit' dat meat. You feed him dead meat--me
feed him dead meat--he eat it. But, if he fin' dead meat, he ain' eat
it. He too mooch smart. He smart lak de wolf, an' he smart lak de dog,
too."