The winter might have been considered eventful, had not so many of the
events been repetitions of former experience. But there were several
that by their newness deserve a place on these pages, as they did in
Rolf's memory.
One of them happened soon after the first sharp frost. It had been an
autumn of little rain, so that many ponds had dried up, with the
result that hundreds of muskrats were forced out to seek more habitable
quarters. The first time Rolf saw one of these stranded mariners on its
overland journey, he gave heedless chase. At first it made awkward haste
to escape; then a second muskrat was discovered just ahead, and a third.
This added to Rolf's interest. In a few bounds he was among them, but it
was to get a surprise. Finding themselves overtaken, the muskrats turned
in desperation and attacked the common enemy with courage and fury. Rolf
leaped over the first, but the second sprang, caught him by the slack
of the trouser leg, and hung on. The third flung itself on his foot and
drove its sharp teeth through the moccasin. Quickly the first rallied
and sprang on his other leg with all the force of its puny paws, and
powerful jaws.
Meanwhile Quonab was laughing aloud and holding back Skookum, who,
breathing fire and slaughter, was mad to be in the fight.
“Ho! a good fight! good musquas! Ho, Skookum, you must not always take
care of him, or he will not learn to go alone.
“Ugh, good!” as the third muskrat gripped Rolf by the calf.
There could be but one finish, and that not long delayed. A well-placed
kick on one, the second swung by the tail, the third crushed under
his heel, and the affair ended. Rolf had three muskrats and five cuts.
Quonab had much joy and Skookum a sense of lost opportunity.
“This we should paint on the wigwam,” said Quonab. “Three great warriors
attacked one Sagamore. They were very brave, but he was Nibowaka and
very strong; he struck them down as the Thunderbird, Hurakan, strikes
the dead pines the fire has left on the hilltop against the sky. Now
shall you eat their hearts, for they were brave. My father told me a
fighting muskrat's heart is great medicine; for he seeks peace while it
is possible, then he turns and fights without fear.”
A few days later, they sighted a fox. In order to have a joke on
Skookum, they put him on its track, and away he went, letting off his
joy-whoops at every jump. The men sat down to wait, knowing full well
that after an hour Skookum would come back with a long tongue and an
air of depression. But they were favoured with an unexpected view of
the chase. It showed a fox bounding over the snow, and not twenty yards
behind was their energetic four-legged colleague.
And, still more unexpected, the fox was overtaken in the next thicket,
shaken to limpness, and dragged to be dropped at Quonab's feet.
This glorious victory by Skookum was less surprising, when a closer
examination showed that the fox had been in a bad way. Through some sad,
sudden indiscretion, he had tackled a porcupine and paid the penalty.
His mouth, jaws and face, neck and legs, were bristling with quills. He
was sick and emaciated. He could not have lasted many days longer, and
Skookum's summary lynching was a blessing in disguise.
The trappers' usual routine was varied by a more important happening.
One day of deep snow in January, when they were running the northern
line on Racquet River, they camped for the night at their shelter
cabin, and were somewhat surprised at dusk to hear a loud challenge from
Skookum replied to by a human voice, and a short man with black whiskers
appeared. He raised one hand in token of friendliness and was invited to
come in.
He was a French Canadian from La Colle Mills. He had trapped here for
some years. The almost certainty of war between Canada and the States
had kept his usual companions away. So he had trapped alone, always a
dangerous business, and had gathered a lot of good fur, but had fallen
on the ice and hurt himself inwardly, so that he had no strength. He
could tramp out on snowshoes, but could not carry his pack of furs. He
had long known that he had neighbours on the south; the camp fire smoke
proved that, and he had come now to offer all his furs for sale.
Quonab shook his head, but Rolf said, “We'll come over and see them.”
A two-hours' tramp in the morning brought them to the Frenchman's cabin.
He opened out his furs; several otter, many sable, some lynx, over
thirty beaver--the whole lot for two hundred dollars. At Lyons Falls
they were worth double that.
Rolf saw a chance for a bargain. He whispered, “We can double our money
on it, Quonab. What do ye say?”
The reply was simply, “Ugh! you are Nibowaka.”
“We'll take your offer, if we can fix it up about payment, for I have no
money with me and barely two hundred dollars at the cabin.”
“You half tabac and grosairs?”
“Yes, plenty.”
“You can go 'get 'em? Si?”
Rolf paused, looked down, then straight at the Frenchman.
“Will you trust me to take half the fur now; when I come back with the
pay I can get the rest.”
The Frenchman looked puzzled, then, “By Gar you look de good look. I let
um go. I tink you pretty good fellow, parbleu!”
So Rolf marched away with half the furs and four days later he was back
and paid the pale-faced but happy Frenchman the one hundred and fifty
dollars he had received from Van Cortlandt, with other bills making one
hundred and ninety-five dollars and with groceries and tobacco enough to
satisfy the trapper. The Frenchman proved a most amiable character.
He and Rolf took to each other greatly, and when they shook hands at
parting, it was in the hope of an early and happier meeting.
Francois la Colle turned bravely for the ninety-mile tramp over the snow
to his home, while Rolf went south with the furs that were to prove
a most profitable investment, shaping his life in several ways, and
indirectly indeed of saving it on one occasion.