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 moût’. 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 moût’ 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.

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 encyclopaedias 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.