Part 11

“Say, suppose he doesn’t come until to-morrow; you know he said he sometimes stayed overnight at a lean-to.”

“Gee whiz, I never thought of that!” cried Ed, in alarm. “We can’t spend the night out here without freezing, and we can’t go inside without killing the lynx! We’re in a bad fix anyway you look at it.”

As darkness gradually settled over the silent white forest the hearts of the boys became heavy. With the fading of daylight the imprisoned lynx became more active, and once more wild riot raged within the dark room. The temperature dropped steadily, and the shivering young guards were at a loss to know what to do. Even if they decided to take possession of the cabin by killing its dangerous occupant, their chances of doing so were now poor.

“We’ve got to do something--I’m actually freezing to death; and, besides, it seems ridiculous to be turned out of our own home by a great big bully of a cat,” said Ed, through chattering teeth.

“It is pretty tough; but what are we going to do?” asked George. “We haven’t even a lantern, and it’s no place in there to go poking around with a flickering little match.”

Just then they heard the crunch of footsteps on the dry snow, and a moment later Bill stood beside them, a big bundle of furs strapped to his back.

“What’s the matter?” he inquired, anxiously. “I missed the light, and was afraid something must be wrong. Thought maybe you were lost again. Come in. What on earth are you shivering out here for?” And he started to open the door.

“Wait!” cried Ed, excitedly grasping him by the arm.

“Hold on!” warned George, barring his way.

“What in blazes--” began the bewildered trapper; but the boys interrupted him with a hurried recital of facts.

A council of war was immediately held, and Bill was forced to admit that things looked bad. He said he had little hope of retaking the lynx alive, and he seemed much cast down at the idea of killing it.

Then he unslung his pack and drew a keen-bladed ax from it. He made known his intention of entering the cabin, and told the boys, who were eager to accompany him, that they would be in the way and might get hurt. Bill eased their minds by promising to call them if he got into serious trouble.

They opened the door just wide enough for the trapper to squeeze through. When he had entered, they slammed it shut and waited nervously for sounds of the fierce battle they felt sure would immediately begin. They heard Bill strike a match, and for a second a bright flicker of light showed through the cracks in the door. Then it passed, and all was dark. The lynx began growling fiercely as Bill moved about the room in search of the lantern. At last a steady, bright glare lighted up the interior of the cabin, and they knew he had found it.

Instantly the battle started, and, judging by the noise of combat, the listeners believed it was a deadly one. They heard the lynx spring times without number, and each time they heard Bill jump out of its way. He was no doubt trying to stun it with the ax, so that he could again take it alive.

Unable to restrain their impatient curiosity longer, the lads made their way to the window. Cautiously they rose on tiptoe and peeped into the cabin. They saw Bill partly crouched, with the ax in his hands. One sleeve of his hunting-shirt was ripped and torn, where the sharp claws of the lynx had fastened in it. Following the fierce, steady gaze of the trapper, the boys saw the lynx squatting behind an overturned stool.

It had made a sad wreck of the place. All about lay the results of its vengeance. Pots and pans were scattered in wild disorder over the floor, the table had been overturned on top of its contents, and even the personal belongings of the rightful occupants had been ripped from their places and strewn about promiscuously.

Bill slowly approached the crouching lynx, and the boys heard it growl like a big, angry cat. Cautiously the trapper advanced, and they saw him turn the ax in his hand, as though to strike with the blunt end.

Suddenly the lynx sprang at him, and he stepped aside and swung his weapon, but missed. Landing in the center of the room with all four feet beneath it, the snarling creature instantly rebounded, and Bill had barely time to whirl and face the attack. He knocked the determined animal from him with a powerful blow of his ax. It slunk back into a corner, apparently unhurt, and again crouched, with fangs exposed and eyes blazing.

Then something unexpected happened, as a new combatant took a hand in the fray. The door suddenly swung in, and Moze rushed into the room and jumped for the throat of the lynx. He had arrived home from his long chase, and had heard the savage snarls inside the cabin, and, entering, had bounded joyously into the fight.

As the surprised trapper ran to close the door the hound and its adversary came together; Bill, unable to use his ax for fear of killing Moze, hopped out of the way of the fighters.

The boys, proud of the courage displayed by Moze, cheered him on.

The two powerful animals were well matched, and the battle was a hard one. They fought all over the room, first one gaining the advantage, then the other. Gouging, snapping, clawing, and snarling, they kept on mauling each other. Once the lynx got Moze beneath it, and would no doubt have speedily ended his career had not Bill aimed a savage kick at its ribs. His action diverted the animal’s attention for an instant and gave the hound a chance to regain his feet. Both combatants were torn and bleeding. Again and again the trapper sought to deal the lynx a fatal blow with the sharp edge of the ax, but Moze was always directly in the way.

At last they drew apart for a moment, and Bill seized the opportunity and rushed upon the great snarling cat with his ax raised. He was unwilling to see Moze further punished in the terrific fighting, and he determined to end it and save his faithful old hound.

When he came within a few feet of it, the lynx jumped directly at his throat. This time, however, Bill did not miss, and his powerful blow buried the blade of the ax deep in the brain of the savage cat, which crashed to the floor in a lifeless heap.

Then the shaking, half-frozen boys rushed in and ran to Moze as he stretched out close to the stove to lick a score of painful wounds.

“Well, old boy, he came near doing you,” said Bill, tenderly, as he knelt to examine the injuries of the brave old fighter.

“Wouldn’t there have been fun if we had gone in before you arrived,” laughed Ed, as he huddled over the stove, trying to thaw out.

“Fun and scratches, likely,” laughed Bill. “These big lynxes are just about as mean a proposition as roams the woods--that is, when you get them cornered for a fight.”

“It’s too bad you were obliged to kill him after all the work of taking him alive,” said Ed, as he stooped down and ran his fingers through the long, soft fur.

“Well, it couldn’t be helped. You see, there are many more lynxes to be had, but there is only one Moze. One or the other had to go, and I guess we know whose side to fight on. Don’t we, ‘old spit-fire’?” and Bill patted Moze affectionately.

By the thumping of his tail on the floor, the boys knew the hound understood this compliment to his valor, and was well content with the way things had turned out.

XV BILL CAPTURES A PRIZE

The boys had been with Bill for some weeks when George took out his diary. He was obliged to count back to learn the exact date; and when he had done so, he uttered a long whistle of astonishment.

“What is the matter?” inquired Ed.

“Why, we are due at Ben’s the day after to-morrow, and, by ginger, the day after that will be Christmas!”

“Good gracious, how the time has flown!” said Ed.

Bill was strangely silent, and the boys watched him as he sat playfully tickling Moze.

“Of course, if you can’t take us back then, why, I guess we could stay here another day; only we promised Ben,” explained Ed, thinking that perhaps their sudden decision had interfered with the plans of the old trapper.

“No; no, that’s all right. I’ve got to go out with these furs, anyway. I’ll get around to-morrow and spring my traps, and we can pull out early the next morning,” he said.

“And you and Moze must spend Christmas with us!” cried George, enthusiastically.

Again a strange silence came over the trapper, and he walked slowly away toward the door.

“Maybe you have other plans; and, of course--” began Ed; but Bill interrupted him.

“No, I’ve no plans, son; I never make them any more, ’cause, you see--” he paused and looked at them out of misty, troubled eyes, and they instantly understood. “But we’ll do it this time! Won’t we, Moze?” he laughed, suddenly, and the hound rose and wagged his tail.

The next day was to be a busy one, and with the first gray streak of dawn they were away on the trap line. About an inch of snow had fallen during the night, and the trapper pointed out many new tracks as he hurried along.

“Do you see that trail there, the little footprints, two by two?” he inquired.

The boys said they did.

“Well, that was made by a mink. See, here he’s stepped into one of his front tracks, and left only three footprints on the snow. That’s a great trail of his, always looks like he’d suddenly lost a leg.”

It was a glorious winter day, and Bill was in high spirits. Nothing escaped his wonderful eyes, and everything seemed to contain a message, which he gladly read to the boys. He showed them the delicate, lace-like trails of the little wood-mice, and pointed to where one had tunneled its way beneath the snow in search of hidden seeds.

Then he drew their attention to what looked like grains of pepper shaken over the snow. The boys were astounded when told that these minute black specks were tiny insects which woodsmen called “snow-fleas.” Bill said they lived in the moss, and could be seen with the naked eye only when they hopped about over a white background.

Farther along they came upon the tracks of a moose which, Bill declared, had gone by that very morning. George proposed that they follow after it, but the trapper refused for two reasons; first, because the law was on, and secondly, because it was a cow moose. The boys asked him how he knew it was a cow, and he proceeded to explain the difference between the track of the cow and that of the bull. Bill said that, like the buck deer, the bull moose usually left a larger, less pointed track than his mate. And he explained further that the “dew-claws” of the bull were set wider apart, and so registered in the snow.

The trapper declared that when the marks showed close together, as they did in the present instance, it was safe to presume that the tracks were those of a cow. Not wishing to break any game laws, the boys turned willingly from the tracks and continued on the trail to the traps.

They came at length to the spring-hole where Bill had been trying for so long to catch the mink. Once more he was doomed to disappointment, and, springing the trap, he hung it on a near-by sapling, until he might return, and started on.

Several times they crossed fox trails, which the lads had learned to distinguish at sight. Then they came upon a track that was entirely new to them. Bill laughed when they asked him to name it, and said it had been made by a skunk. The trail consisted of two continuous rows of footprints, one beside the other, and each print close up to the one before it. The trapper explained that this animal did not often venture forth in winter, except on warm, balmy days.

At one of the sets Bill captured another lynx; but, as it was not a particularly large one, he despatched it with his hickory club.

While they were eating their midday lunch a flock of sociable little chickadees gathered in the branches above, and, cocking their black-capped heads sideways, peered inquisitively down at them. The diners threw some crumbs and shreds of meat on the snow. Instantly the fearless chickadees accepted the invitation and dropped down to the feast. After a time, as the birds became bolder, the boys offered scraps of meat held between their fingers. They thrilled with pleasure when the confiding chickadees alighted trustfully on the outstretched hands and pecked energetically at the morsels offered them.

Having finished their meal, the three trappers rose and continued the circuit of their traps. Everywhere the forest shone forth resplendent in its mantle of glistening white, where, on the telltale surface, was scrawled and dotted a complete record of woodland happenings. Helped and encouraged by Bill, the lads were soon able to read and decipher these code-writings of nature. The tread of a cautious paw, the sweep of a fluttering wing, or the mark of the passing wind was instantly noted and recognized.

Thus the day wore on, and, though their toll of fur was not heavy, they had a goodly number of pelts by the time the shadows commenced to gather. There were still a number of traps to be examined, and in one of them Bill had hopes of finding the highest prize in the trapper’s lottery--a silver fox!

He had seen one in the vicinity several times during the summer, and again early in the autumn before he set his traps. As the fur of the beautiful creature was comparatively valueless at such times, Bill had wisely refrained from destroying it. With the coming of cold weather and the trapping season, however, he had set skilfully concealed traps about the locality of its wanderings. Several of them had been deftly sprung and robbed of their bait. Bill, of course, blamed the silver fox, and each time he reset them with greater care, hopeful that he would eventually capture the idol of his dreams.

Now, as they drew near the spot, the boys noticed that the old trapper unconsciously quickened his stride. He acknowledged that the fur of this fox would bring him in “quite a roll of money,” and the lads were most anxious for his success.

“Wouldn’t it be fine if you got him for a Christmas present?” laughed George, as they hustled along.

Bill smiled, but made no reply. Then he halted and, parting a fringe of bushes, stooped over and sprung an empty trap.

“Number one, and nothing,” he said, a bit disappointedly. “Well, I’ve four more set for that black rascal, and we can’t tell what we’ll find,” he added, hopefully.

“Black rascal? I thought you said it was a silver fox?” said Ed, somewhat puzzled.

“So it is,” responded Bill; “but it’s black just the same. You see, the fur is tipped with silver-gray at the end of each guard hair, though the pelt itself is rich, glossy black. Looks like a black fox that has been caught out in a heavy frost,” he explained.

Soon they came to the second trap, and their hearts beat hard with excitement when they heard some animal tumbling about in the bushes.

Bill ran eagerly forward, club in hand, and the boys saw him deliver the fatal blow. Then, in response to their inquiry, he reached down, and, when he straightened, held up a long, reddish-brown body, somewhat smaller and slimmer than that of a fox.

“What is it?” inquired the lads, though, of course, they knew it was not the hoped-for prize.

“Fisher,” replied Bill, a satisfied smile on his face, “and a nice one.”

While he proceeded to skin it the trapper explained the habits of the animal he had just caught. He said it was a skilled hunter, and that it was seemingly without fear, having been known to find and kill bear cubs larger and more powerful than itself. Bill pronounced it a great destroyer of game birds, rabbits, and small creatures in general.

“Looks almost like a cross between a fox and a mink, don’t it?” he inquired, shaking out the freshly skinned pelt.

The boys at once noted a certain resemblance to each of the creatures mentioned.

“Yes, and he’s got both dispositions, too,” he declared. “All the tricks of the fox, and all the fight of the mink. I’ve known one of these fellows to follow a line of traps all season and destroy hundreds of dollars’ worth of pelts, just out of pure cussedness.”

Then he told how the fisher would sometimes follow the trail of the trapper, until it had learned the round of his traps. Then it would make the circuit daily and destroy whatever it happened to find imprisoned in them.

“Well, we have two more chances for that Christmas present you were talking about, George,” said Bill, as they came near the third trap set for the silver fox.

“Yes, and I feel that you’ll get him,” replied George.

Twilight had fallen, and it was growing dark beneath the towering evergreens. Bill had thoughtfully brought a lantern, but as yet had not lighted it. Silently the three comrades trudged along in the gathering gloom. Each hoped with all his heart that somewhere ahead of them waited the prize which was to reward the veteran trapper for his long, hard work on the trap line.

The boys almost held their breath when he finally halted and then made his way, alone, to the last trap but one. Several moments went by while they waited anxiously for a shout that would proclaim the capture of the prize. None came, and their hearts sank.

“Nothing,” said Bill, at last, and he hung the sprung trap in the crotch of a sapling.

There was one more chance to catch the silver fox, and the trapper led them silently away in the direction of his last trap.

“This one is set where he usually crossed,” he observed, rather hopefully. “Don’t suppose there’s much chance, though,” he added, after a pause.

Not a word was spoken as they cautiously approached the last chance. The afterglow had long since faded from the western sky, and it was now dark in the woods. Bill stopped to light the lantern. Then he turned abruptly down into a dry brook-bed at his right.

“There’s something here!” he shouted.

The boys fairly trembled with excitement. With all their souls they hoped the trapper had won the prize he so justly deserved. Eager and anxious, they hurried down to him.

Suddenly they began to whoop like Indians, for Bill held up the smooth, black body of his silver fox.

“Got him at last,” he chuckled, delightedly, “and he’s sure a beauty.”

By the aid of the lantern they stretched the fox out to be admired. The lads stroked the valuable fur, and congratulated Bill warmly on his success.

“Guess we’ll carry him home as he is and skin him where we have better light,” he said. “We can’t afford to make a miss on this fellow.” And he shouldered the fox and led the way toward the cabin.

“How did you fool him?” inquired Ed, later, when the costly pelt had been removed and pulled on a stretching-board to dry.

“I fooled him with a mouse,” laughed the trapper.

“A mouse?” queried George, incredulously. “How?”

“Well, I smoked the trap over balsam boughs for several days. You see, the nose of a fox is powerful keen, and he can smell iron rust or man-scent every time. Of course, unless you can cover up such odors, there’s not much use making a set. Once a fox knows the trap is there, he’ll dig carefully around it till it’s all exposed to view. Then, like as not, he’ll put his paw underneath, turn the trap over, spring it, and walk off with the bait.

“There are several ways to fool him by destroying the scent. The two most used are smoking the trap thoroughly and setting it an inch or so under water. That’s what we call a ‘wet-set,’ and it usually fools the wisest of them. To make it, we place the trap just beneath the surface, at some still place of the lake, or stream, and float a piece of moss, or mass of leaves, directly over the pan, arranged in such a way as to protrude slightly out of water and give the impression of a dry foothold. You see, a fox doesn’t like to wet his feet if he can avoid it. Well, he comes to the edge of the water, sees that he must cross it to reach the bait, and, spying the dry footing above the trap, steps on it and is caught.

“But to get back to the mouse. You’ll remember that there was no water near where this fellow crossed, so I was obliged to make a ‘dry-set.’ As I’ve said, I smoked the trap thoroughly over balsam. Then I hunted around until I found a wood-mouse. Next I poured anise-seed oil over the soles of my moccasins, and also on the gloves I intended to wear. This destroyed the human scent about the trap and set. I carefully concealed the trap, sprinkled some weed seeds over the center of it, and placed my mouse, all huddled up in a heap, directly over the pan, as though he had squatted there to eat the seeds.

“Now then, what happened? Why, the fox came sneaking along on the scent of the anise, which he likes, saw the mouse crouching plumb before him, and, without waiting to ask any questions, pounced on it with his front paws and landed in the trap.”

XVI A VISITOR

The next day the boys started early on the return trail to Ben, accompanied by Bill and Moze. They had long since learned to love the great silent forest, and as they went on they constantly called attention to some one of its manifold beauties.

Moze, now quite recovered from his honorable wounds, dashed on ahead as usual. His short, snappy bark echoed through the woods as he sped away on each fresh trail that crossed his path.

Realizing that they had a long trip before them, and anxious to reach the cabin in daylight, they paid no attention to his urgent appeals, but kept steadily to their course. Although quite deep in some places, the snow was dry and powdery, and the walking was easy.

Coming to an open spot in the woods where the snow had been piled into drifts by the wind, the boys saw something which greatly surprised them. A covey of grouse were flushed at the edge of the timber, and thundered away into the clearing. Like a meteor a feathered form dropped from the sky, and the grouse dove beneath the soft snow. The baffled hawk made a vicious sweep over the spot where they had disappeared, and then, rising, flew off above the tree-tops.

Bill led the lads to the place and pointed out the individual dents in the snow, beneath which the birds were buried. Stooping down, he spread his hands apart and, plunging them suddenly beneath the white surface, brought up a fine, plump grouse. He released it immediately, and said that none but a “pot-hunter” would take so noble a bird in that despicable manner. The boys had much sport grabbing beneath the snow for the balance of the covey, and refused to move on until they had each caught and released several of the struggling birds. Bill assured them this is a trick of the grouse when pursued by winged enemies where cover is scarce.

At another place they saw many moose tracks, some old, others quite fresh. Numerous young birch trees in the near vicinity were bowed to earth, and a few were broken off at greater or lesser distances from the ground. All of them had been stripped of their smaller branches and shoots. The boys were at a loss to account for it, until Bill said that the animals had been “riding down” the trees to browse on the tender branches and tops. He explained how a moose straddles such a tree with his fore legs and then proceeds to bend it earthward by walking along with the supple trunk beneath his heavy body.

When the sun was directly overhead they halted by the side of a woodland spring to eat their lunch. It was a warm spot, sheltered from the wind by tall trees. The sunlight found its way down between the branches and warmed a broad, flat rock on which they sat and ate. The brisk walk in the sharp air had put a keen edge to their appetites, and Bill laughed at the way the luncheon disappeared.

Moze came in panting and hot from an exhausting chase. He was speedily provided with his share of the food, which he gulped down with little attention to table manners.