Mohican was a large timber wolf, grown wise through years of bitter
experience in the Canadian North.
During the winter he probably roamed through the wilderness as the head
of his own pack seeking the caribou. But each spring he would come back
to the country of small lakes near the eastern shores of Hudson Bay,
where he ranged until fall in complete solitude.
Mohican was known to many Indians who recognized his enormous tracks on
all the little sandy beaches of the lakes. But no one bothered him
until, one day, he developed a keen taste for white fish and started
breaking all rules by interfering with the red men.
In some way or other, the lone wolf had discovered that nets were made
to catch fish. After that, for many weeks, each time he felt like it, he
would search along the banks until he found the stake of a net. Then he
would take to the water and swim to the net itself. Poking his head
under the water he would choose the best looking white fish, leaving
severely alone suckers, pickerel and such small fry, tear his prey out
of the mesh, bring it back to shore and eat it at his leisure. So far,
so good. Little harm was done.
[Illustration: Mohican, the wolf]
But Mohican was intensely practical and like all wild animals, believed
in simplifying matters as much as he could. One day he hit on the plan
of dragging the net to the bank instead of swimming out to it. He
therefore caught in his jaw the stout rope where it was tied to the
stake. Then, proceeding backwards slowly but surely, pulled the whole
net clean out of the water to the shore where he ate what he liked,
leaving the rest of the catch to die and spoil in the sun.
From that day on, he pulled at all the nets which he found and his
strength was enormous. Few stakes, however deeply they were driven in
the mud, could resist the strain and prevent him doing all the mischief
he wished.
Poor old Mohican! His cunning and intelligence were great, but he had
committed the unpardonable sin of robbing the red man of his food.
One day at dawn he was seen by an Indian. The lone, old wolf was sitting
on his haunches, tugging hard at the net’s rope.
The rifle cracked from behind a spruce tree, but Mohican never knew what
hit him. It was a long shot, a pretty shot so far as that goes—four
hundred yards—right across a small bay of the lake. He had to pay the
price of his sin. Such is the law of the wilderness.