or made beaver. We offer an Indian so many skins for his pack of furs.
He has little idea of what we mean when we tell him he has five hundred
skins' worth of fur, so we count out five hundred of these made
beaver--he can see them, can feel them--the value of his catch is
immediately reduced to something concrete--something he can
understand--then we take away the amount of his debt, and if there are
still some made beaver remaining, he knows he has something left over to
spend for finery and frippery. Rarely does he use these extra skins for
the purchase of food or necessary clothing--he contracts a new debt for
that. But, wait till spring when the Indians come in, and you will
witness the trading for yourself. It is then you will see why it is that
the free trader has small chance of doing business at a profit north of
sixty."

"But, why wouldn't it be just as easy to figure it in dollars?" asked
the boy.

McTavish laughed. "There were several reasons, although, with the
government paying treaty in cash nowadays, the Indians are beginning to
know something of money. But the main reason is that when the made
beaver was first invented, no one seems to know just when or where or by
whom, there was no money in the country--everything was traded or
bartered for some other thing. And because the skin, and particularly
the beaver skin, was the thing most bartered by Indians, the unit of
value came to be known as a 'skin' or 'made beaver.' Another reason why
money has never been popular with us is because of its destructibility.
Take this post, for instance. Suppose we were compelled to ship silver
dollars back and forth between here and Edmonton? Ten thousand of them
would weigh close to six hundred pounds! Six hundred pounds would mean,
on scows, six pieces--and mighty valuable pieces too, to be loaded and
unloaded a dozen times, carried over portages, shot through dangerous
rapids, carried up and down slippery river banks and across slippery
planks to the scows. Suppose one of these pieces were dropped overboard
by one of the none too careful half-breed rivermen? The Company would
lose just so many dollars. Or, suppose the riverman very conveniently
dropped the piece into the water where he could recover it again? A
dollar is a dollar--it can be spent anywhere. But suppose that the piece
contained only a supply of these brass 'made beaver'--the whole ten
thousand would only make one piece--and if it dropped into the river the
Company would lose only so much brass. Then if the riverman afterward
recovered it, instead of finding himself possessed of dollars which he
could spend anywhere, he would only have a hundred pounds or so of brass
tokens whose value had been cancelled. And, again, the expense of
transportation, even granted the consignment arrived safely at its
destination, would be against the dollar. One hundred pounds, where
freight costs sixteen cents a pound to move, is much cheaper to move
than six hundred pounds."

"Yes," agreed Connie, "but how about using paper money?"

"Worse, and more of it!" exclaimed McTavish. "In the first place the
piece, or package, would be lighter and of greater value--therefore
much easier to make away with. Some lone bandit, or gang of bandits,
might find it well worth their while to hold up the scow brigade and
make off with that little piece. And, besides, until very recently, the
Indians have had no sense of the value of paper money. An Indian cannot
see why one piece of paper should be worth five dollars, and another
exactly like it in size and colour should be worth ten, or twenty, or
fifty--and another piece of paper be worth nothing at all. I am sure no
one at the posts would welcome the carrying on of business upon a cash
basis--I know I should not. The Canadian North is the cleanest land in
the world, in so far as robbery is concerned, thanks to the Mounted. But
with its vast wilderness for hiding places and its lack of quick
transportation and facility for spreading news, I am afraid it would not
long remain so, if it became known that every trading post possessed its
cash vault. As it is, the goods of the North, in a great measure,
protect themselves from theft by their very bulk. A man could hardly
expect to get out of this country, for instance, with even a very few
packs of stolen fur. The Mounted would have him before he could get
half way to the railroad."

"It seems funny," grinned Connie, "to find an outfit that doesn't like
to do business for cash!"

"Funny enough, till you know the reason--then, the most natural thing in
the world. And, there is yet one more reason--take the treaty money. The
Indians bring the treaty money to us and buy goods with it. We make the
profit on the goods--but if they had bought those same goods for fur--we
would have made the profit on the fur, also--and primarily, we are a fur
company--although every year we are becoming more and more of a trading
company and a land company. I am glad I shall not live to see the last
of the fur trade--I love the fur--it speaks a language I know."

A short time later the company broke up, Berl Hansen returned to his own
quarters, and Connie and 'Merican Joe were given the spare room in the
factor's house where for the first time since leaving Dawson they slept
under a roof.

CHAPTER VIII

BAIT--AND A BEAR

The business of outfitting for the balance of the winter occupied two
whole days and when it was finished down to the last item Connie viewed
the result with a frown. "It's going to take two trips to pack all that
stuff. And by the time we make two trips and build a cabin besides, we
won't have much time left for trapping."

"Where you headin' for?" queried McTavish.

"Somewhere over on the Coppermine," answered the boy. "I don't know just
where--and I guess it don't make much difference."

The big Scotchman laughed. "No, lad, it won't make no great difference.
What put it in your head to trap on the Coppermine?"

"Why, the truth is, it isn't so much the trapping I'm interested in. I
want to try my hand at prospecting over there."

"Gold?"

"Yes--mainly."

McTavish shook his head forebodingly.

Connie smiled. "You don't believe there's any gold there?" he asked.
"'Gold's where you find it,' you know."

"There must be lots of it there, then. Nobody's ever found it. But, it's
a bad time of year to be hittin' for the Coppermine country. It's bleak,
an' barren, an' storm ridden. An' as for trappin' you'll find nothin'
there to trap but foxes this time of year, an' you won't be able to do
any prospectin' till summer. You might better trap in closer to the post
this winter, an' when the lake opens you can take a York boat an' a
canoe an' cover most of the distance by water."

Connie frowned. "I started out for the Coppermine," he began, but the
factor interrupted him with a gesture.

"Sure you did--an' you'll get there, too. It's this way, lad. You're a
sourdough, all right, I knew that the minute I saw you. An' bein' a
sourdough, that way, you ain't goin' to do nothin' that it ain't in
reason to do. There's a deal of difference between a determination to
stick to a thing an' see it through in the face of all odds when the
thing you're stickin' to is worth doin'; an' stickin' to a thing that
ain't worth doin' out of sheer stubbornness. The first is a fine thing
an' the second is a foolish thing to do."

"I guess that's right," agreed Connie, after a moment of silence.

"Of course it's right!" interrupted McTavish. "You ought to find a good
trappin' ground down along the south shore, somewheres between the
Blackwater and Lake Ste. Therese. Ought to be plenty of caribou in there
too, an' what with droppin' a few nets through the ice, an' what you can
bring in with your rifles you won't need to draw in your belts none."

"How far is it from here?" asked the boy.

"Not over a hundred an' fifty miles at the outside, an' if you'll wait
around a couple of days, there'll be some of the Bear Lake Indians in
with some fish from the Fisheries. They're due now. You can hire them
for guides. They'll be bringin' down a couple of tons of fish, so
they'll have plenty sled room so you can make it in one trip."

And so it was decided that Connie and 'Merican Joe should winter
somewhere on the south shore of Great Bear Lake, and for a certain band
of Indians that had established their camp upon the river that flows
from Lake Ste. Therese into the extreme point of McVicker Bay, it was
well they did.

The Bear Lake Indians appeared the following day, delivered their fish
at the post, and Connie employed two of them with their dog teams to
make the trip. The journey was uneventful enough, with only one storm to
break the monotony of steady trailing with the thermometer at forty and
even fifty below--for the strong cold had settled upon the Northland in
earnest.

Upon the sixth day 'Merican Joe halted the outfit upon the shore of a
little lake which lay some five miles from the south shore of Keith Bay.
"Build camp here," he said, indicating a low knoll covered with a dense
growth of spruce. Connie paid off the guides with an order on the
Hudson's Bay Company, and hardly had they disappeared before he and
'Merican Joe were busy clearing away the snow and setting up the tent
that was to serve as temporary quarters until the tiny cabin that would
be their winter home could be completed.

The extra sled provided by the Indians, and the fact that they were to
go only a comparatively short distance from the post, had induced Connie
to add to his outfit a few conveniences that would have been entirely
out of the question had he insisted in pushing on to the Coppermine.
There was a real sheet iron stove with several lengths of pipe, a double
window--small to be sure, but provided with panes of glass--and enough
planking for a small sized door and door frame. Although the snow all
about them showed innumerable tracks of the fur bearers, the two paid no
attention to them until the cabin stood finished in its tiny clearing.
And a snug little cabin it was, with its walls banked high with snow,
its chinks all sealed with water-soaked snow that froze hard the moment
it was in place, and its roof of small logs completely covered with a
thick layer of the same wind-proof covering.

On the morning following the completion of the cabin Connie and 'Merican
Joe ate their breakfast by candlelight. Connie glanced toward the pile
of steel traps of assorted sizes that lay in the corner. "We'll be
setting them today, Joe. The fox tracks are thick all along the lake,
and yesterday I saw where a big lynx had prowled along the edge of that
windfall across the coulee."

'Merican Joe smiled. "Firs' we got to git de bait. Dat ain' no good we
set de trap wit'out no bait."

"What kind of bait? And where do we get it?" asked the boy.

"Mos' any kin'--rabbit, bird, caribou, moose. Today we set 'bout wan
hondre snare for de rabbit. We tak' de leetle gun 'long, mebbe-so we git
de shot at de ptarmigan."

"Why can't we take a few fox traps with us? We could bait 'em with
bacon, or a piece of fish."

"No, dat ain' no good for ketch de fox. Dat leetle fox she too mooch
smart. She hard to trap. She ain' goin' fool wit' bacon an' fish. She
stick out de nose an' smell de man-smell on de bacon an' she laugh an'
run away. Same lak de fish--she say: 'De fish b'long in de wataire. How
he git t'rough de ice an' sit on de snow, eh?' An' den she run 'way an'
laugh som' mor'. We ain' goin' trap no fox yet annyhow. Novembaire, she
mos' gon'. Decembaire we trap de marten an' de _loup cervier_. In
Janueer de marten curl up in de stump an' sleep. Den we trap de fox. She
ain' so smart den--she too mooch hongre."

At daylight the two started, 'Merican Joe leading the way to a dense
swamp that stretched from the lake shore far inland. Once in the thicket
the Indian showed Connie how to set snares along the innumerable
runways, or well-beaten paths of the rabbits, and how to secure each
snare to the end of a bent sapling, or tossing pole, which, when
released by the struggles of the rabbit from the notch that held it
down, would spring upright and jerk the little animal high out of reach
of the forest prowlers. During the forenoon Connie succeeded in shooting
four of the big white snowshoe rabbits, and at the noon camp 'Merican
Joe skinned these, being careful to leave the head attached to the skin.

"I didn't know rabbit skins were worth saving," said Connie, as the
Indian placed them together with the carcasses in the pack.

"You wait--by-m-by I show you somet'ing," answered the Indian. And it
was not long after the snare setting had been resumed that Connie
learned the value of the rabbit skins. As they worked deeper into the
swamp, lynx, or _loup cervier_ tracks became more numerous. Near one of
the runways 'Merican Joe paused, drew a skin from his pack, and
proceeded to stuff it with brush. When it had gained something the shape
of the rabbit, he placed it in a natural position beneath the
low-hanging branches of a young spruce and proceeded to set a heavier
snare with a larger loop. The setting of this snare was slightly
different from the setting of the rabbit snares, for instead of a
tossing pole the snare was secured to the middle of a clog, or stout
stick about two inches in diameter and four feet long. The ends of this
clog were then supported upon two forked sticks in such manner that the
snare hung downward where it was secured in position by tying the loop
to a light switch thrust into the snow at either side. The snare was set
only a foot or two from the stuffed rabbit skin and sticks and brush so
arranged that in order to reach the rabbit the lynx must leap straight
into the snare. The remaining rabbit skins were similarly used during
the afternoon, as were the skins of two ptarmigan that Connie managed to
bring down.

"Use de skin for bait de _loup cervier_, an' de meat for bait de
marten--dat de bes' way," explained 'Merican Joe, as they worked their
way toward the edge of the swamp after the last snare had been set.

[Illustration: "The snare was set only a foot or two from the stuffed
rabbit skin and sticks and brush so arranged that in order to reach the
rabbit the lynx must leap straight into the snare."

Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover]

The early darkness was already beginning to fall when Connie stopped
suddenly and stared down at the snow at the base of a huge mass of earth
and moss that had been thrown upward by the roots of a fallen tree. The
thing that caught the boy's attention was a round hole in the snow--a
hole hardly larger in diameter than a silver quarter, and edged with a
lacy filigree of frost spicules. The boy called to 'Merican Joe who had
paused to refasten the thongs of his rackets. At the first glance the
Indian's eyes lighted:

"Bear in dere!" he exclaimed. "We dig um out. We git plenty meat--plenty
bait--an' de good skin besides."

"Hadn't we better wait till tomorrow and bring the heavy rifle?" Connie
asked. "We can't kill a bear with this dinky little twenty-two."

"We ain' need no gun. Me--I cut de good stout club, an' you tak' de ax.
De bear she too mooch sleepy to do no fightin'. Den we git de toboggan
an' haul um in. We only 'bout wan half-mile from camp. Tomor' we got
plenty bait, we set de marten trap. We skin de bear tonight we save wan
whole day." As he talked, the Indian felled a small birch and trimmed
about five feet of its trunk which measured about two inches and a half
in thickness. "Dat fix um good, an' den we cut de t'roat," he explained,
brandishing the club in the air.

"I don't know," replied Connie, dubiously. "Waseche and I have killed
several bears, and there was a time or two when a couple of good
thirty-forty's came near not being big enough."

'Merican Joe grinned. "Dat was grizzlies. I ain' t'ink de grizzly com'
so far from de montaine. Dis leetle black bear, she ain' lak to fight
mooch."

"I hope you're right," grinned the boy, as he fell to work helping the
Indian to trample the snow into good solid footing for a space of ten
feet or more about the airhole. This done, they removed snowshoes and
coats and with ax and pole attacked the snow that covered their quarry.

"I feel um!" cried the Indian, as he thrust his pole deep into the snow
after five minutes of hard work. "We wake um up firs', an' when he stick
out de head we bang um good." 'Merican Joe continued to ram his pole
into the snow where he had felt the yielding mass of the bear's body,
all the time haranguing the bear in jargon, addressing him as "cousin,"
and inviting him to come out and be killed, and in the same breath
apologizing for the necessity of taking his life.

Then--very suddenly--"cousin" came out! There was a mighty upheaval of
snow, a whistling snort, and a mountain of brown fur projected itself
into the rapidly gathering dusk. 'Merican Joe struck valiantly with his
club at the monstrous head that in the half-light seemed to Connie to
measure two feet between the ears. The boy heard the sharp crack of the
weapon as it struck the skull, and the next instant he heard the club
crashing through the limbs of a small spruce. The infuriated bear had
caught it fairly with a sweep of his giant paw. Then Connie struck with
his ax, just as 'Merican Joe, with the bear almost upon him, scrambled
into the branches of a tree. The boy's blow fell upon the bear's hip,
and with a roar the great brute whirled to meet the new attack as Connie
gathered himself to strike again.

Then, a very fortunate thing happened. When 'Merican Joe had removed his
snowshoes he had stuck them upright in the snow and hung his coat over
them. The figure thus formed caught the bear's attention, and with a
lurch he was upon it. There was a crackling of ash bows as the
snowshoes were crushed in the ponderous embrace. And, seeing his chance,
Connie darted forward, for the momentum of the bear's lurch had carried
him on to all fours in the soft snow at the edge of the trampled space.
As the huge animal struggled, belly deep, the boy brought the bit of his
ax down with all his force upon the middle of the brute's spine. The
feel of the blow was good as the keen blade sank to the helve. The next
instant the ax was jerked from his hands and the boy turned to collide
with 'Merican Joe, who had recovered his club and was rushing in to
renew the attack. Both went sprawling upon the trodden snow, and before
they could recover their feet the bear was almost upon them. They sprang
clear, the Indian waiting with upraised club, but the bear advanced
slowly, ripping and tearing at the snow with his huge forepaws with
their claws as long as a man's fingers. Down came the Indian's club upon
the broad skull, but there was no rearing upward to ward off the blow,
and then it was that both saw that the animal was dragging its useless
hinder part. Connie's ax had severed the animal's backbone, and so long
as they kept out of reach of those terrible forepaws they were safe.
While the Indian continued to belabour the bear's head, Connie managed
to slip around behind the animal and recover his ax, after which it was
but the work of a few moments to dispatch the huge bear with a few
well-directed blows.

It was almost dark when the two stood looking down upon the carcass of
the great barren ground grizzly.

"So that's your little black bear that don't like to fight much!"
grinned Connie.

'Merican Joe returned the grin. "All de tam kin learn somet'ing new.
Nex' tam we dig out de den bear we bring de big gun 'long. Annyhow, we
git mor' bait an' dog feed, an' de good meat, an' de bigger skin, an' we
git mor', w'at you call, excite!" He placed his foot upon the head of
the dead bear. "Dat too bad we got to kill you, cousin. But Injun an'
white boy got to git de meat to eat, an' de bait to ketch de leetle
marten. We mooch oblig' you ain' kill us."

'Merican Joe's crushed snowshoes and his coat were dug out of the snow,
and together the two managed to work the carcass on to its back. The
Indian proceeded to build a fire by the light of which he could skin
the bear while Connie fastened on his own rackets and hit out for the
cabin to procure the toboggan and dogs, and an extra pair of snowshoes.
An hour later he returned, just as 'Merican Joe was stripping the hide
from the hind legs. While Connie folded it into a convenient pack, the
Indian took the ax and chopped off the bear's head which he proceeded to
tie to the branches of a small spruce at the foot of which the animal
had been killed.

"What in thunder are you doing?" asked the boy.

'Merican Joe regarded him gravely. "Mus' hang up de skull right where he
git kill," he answered.

"Why?"

"Cause _Sah-ha-lee Tyee_, w'at you call, de Great Spirit, he com' 'long
an' count de bears in de springtime. He count de Injun, too, an' de
moose, an' de beaver' an' all de big people. _S'pose_ he ain' fin' dat
bear. He ain' know dat bear git kill. He t'ink dat bear ain' wake up
yet, or else he hide in de den. If de skull ain' hang up she git cover
up wit' leaves, or sink in de swamp, an' _Sah-ha-lee Tyee_ no kin fin'.
But, w'en he see skull hang up, he say: 'De Injun kill de bear an' git
meat. Dat good. I sen' um nodder bear.' So de bear always plenty in de
Injun country. De white men com' 'long an' kill de bear. Dey ain' hang
up de skull--an' by-m-by, w'ere de white man live de bears is all gon'."

The duty performed to 'Merican Joe's satisfaction, the carcass and skin
were loaded on to the toboggan and by the thin light of the little stars
they started the dogs and wended their way across the narrow lake to the
little cabin in the spruce grove, well satisfied with their first day of
trapping.

CHAPTER IX

OUT ON THE TRAP LINE

Connie Morgan was anxious to be off on the trap line early in the
morning following the adventure with the bear. But 'Merican Joe shook
his head and pointed to the carcass of the bear that for want of a
better place had been deposited upon the floor of the cabin. "First we
got to build de _cache_. We ain' got no room in de cabin--an' besides,
she too warm for keep de meat good. De dog, an' de wolf, an' de _loup
cervier_, an' de _carcajo_, w'at you call 'Injun devil,' dey all hongre
an' hunt de meat. We got to build de _cache_ high up."

The first thing, of course, was to locate the site. This was quickly
done by selecting four spruce trees about three inches in diameter and
ten feet apart, and so situated as to form the corner posts of a rude
square. Taking his ax, the Indian ascended one of these trees, lopping
off the limbs as he went, but leaving the stubs for foot and hand
holds. About twelve feet from the ground he cut off the trunk just above
the place where a good stout limb stub formed a convenient crotch. The
other three trees were similarly treated. Four strong poles were cut and
placed from one crotch to another to form the frame of the _cache_.
These poles were cut long enough to extend about four feet beyond the
corner posts. Upon this frame-work lighter poles were laid side by side
to form the platform of the _cache_--a platform that protruded beyond
the corner posts so far that no animal which might succeed in climbing
one of the posts could possibly manage to scramble over the edge. The
corner posts were trimmed smooth, and a rude ladder, which consisted
simply of a young spruce with the limb stubs left on for the rungs was
made. The last step in the completion of the _cache_ was to cut down all
trees whose limbs over-hung in such manner that a _carcajo_ could crawl
out and drop down upon the platform, and also those trees whose
proximity might tempt a lynx to try a flying leap to the _cache_.

When the carcass of the bear had been quartered and deposited upon the
platform, the brush and limbs cleared away, and the ladder removed, the
two trappers gazed in satisfaction at their handiwork. The stout
_cache_, capable of protecting several tons of meat from the inroads of
the forest prowlers, had been constructed without the use of a single
nail, or bit of rope, or thong, and with no tool except an ax!

It was noon when the task was completed, and after a hasty lunch of tea,
bear's liver, and bannock, 'Merican Joe selected fifteen small steel
traps which he placed in his pack sack. He also carried a light belt ax,
while Connie shouldered the larger ax and reached for the 30-40 rifle.
'Merican Joe shook his head.

"Dat ain' no good to tak' de big gun. Tak' de leetle wan an' mebbe-so
you git som' mor' bait."

"Yes, and what if we run on to another one of your little black bears
that don't like to fight? And what if we should see a caribou? And
suppose we found a lynx in one of those snares?"

"We ain' goin' hunt no caribou. We goin' set marten traps, an' if we
com' on de bear den we wait an' com' back som' odder time."

"But suppose there is a lynx in one of those snares?" persisted the boy.

"Let um be in de snare. We ain' goin' to de swamp. Dat ain' no good to
go 'long de trap line too mooch. Let um be for week--mebbe-so ten day.
We go runnin' t'rough de woods every day same place, we scare everyt'ing
off. Anyhow, we ain' need de big gun for de _loup cervier_. De leetle
gun better, he don' mak' so big hole in de skin. An' if de _loup
cervier_ is in de snare, we ain' need no gun at all. She choke dead."

A half mile from camp, 'Merican Joe set his first trap. The place
selected for the set was the trunk of a large spruce that had been
uprooted by the wind, and leaned against another tree at an angle of
forty-five degrees. Two blows of the light belt ax made a notch into
which the small steel trap fitted perfectly. The bait was placed upon
the tree trunk just above the trap and a small barrier of bark was
constructed close below the trap in such a manner that the marten in
clambering over the barrier must almost to a certainty plant at least
one fore foot upon the pan of the trap. The trap chain was secured to
the tree so that when the marten was caught he would leap from the trunk
and hang suspended in the air, which would give him no chance to free
himself by gnawing his leg off above the jaws of the trap. This leaning
tree set was 'Merican Joe's favourite with the steel traps.

A particularly ingenious set was made upon the trunk of a standing tree
whose bark showed tiny scars and scratches that indicated to the
practised eyes of the Indian that it was frequently ascended by martens.
In this case two short sticks were sharpened and driven into the tree
trunk to form a tiny platform for the trap. Some slabs were then cut
from a nearby dead spruce and these also were sharpened and driven into
the trunk on either side of the trap. Then a piece of bark was laid over
the top for a roof, and the bait placed in the back of the little house
thus formed. The marten must enter from the bottom and in order to reach
the bait, the only possible spot for him to place his feet would be upon
the pan of the trap.

Several sets were also made on the ground in places where the sign
showed right. These ground sets were made generally at the base of a
tree or a stump and consisted of little houses made of bark, with the
bait in the back and the trap placed between the door and the bait. In
the case of these sets, instead of securing the chain to the tree or
stump, it was made fast to a clog, care being taken to fasten the chain
to the middle of the stick.

Three or four sets were made for mink, also. These sets were very
simple, and yet the Indian made them with elaborate care. They consisted
in placing the trap just within the mouth of a hole that showed evidence
of occupation, after first scooping out a depression in the snow. The
trap was placed in the bottom of the depression and carefully covered
with light, dry leaves that had been previously collected. 'Merican Joe
took great care to so arrange these leaves that while the jaws, pan, and
spring were covered, no leaves would be caught in the angle of the jaws
and thus prevent their closing about the leg of the mink. The leaves
were now covered with snow, and the chain carried outward, buried in the
snow, and secured to a tossing pole.

The short sub-arctic day had drawn to a close even before the last set
was made, and in the darkness the two swung wide of their trap line, and
headed for the cabin.

"Fifteen sets isn't so bad for an afternoon's work," opined Connie,
"especially when you had to do all the work. Tomorrow I can help, and we
ought to be able to get out all the rest of the marten traps. There are
only fifty all told."

"Fifty steel traps--we git dem set first. We gon 'bout t'ree, four mile
today. We use up de steel trap in 'bout fifteen mile. Dat good--dey too
mooch heavy to carry. Den we begin to set de deadfall."

"Deadfalls!" cried Connie. "How many traps are we going to put out?"

"Oh, couple hondre marten an' mink trap. We git de trap line 'bout fifty
mile long. Den we set lot more _loup cervier_ snare."

They swung out on to their little lake about a mile above the camp and
as they mushed along near shore Connie stopped suddenly and pointed to a
great grey shape that was running swiftly across the mouth of a small
bay. The huge animal ran in a smooth, easy lope and in the starlight his
hair gleamed like silver.

"Look!" he whispered to the Indian. "There goes Leloo!" Even as he spoke
there came floating down the wind from the direction of the timber at
the head of the lake, the long-drawn howl of a wolf. Leloo halted in
his tracks and stood ears erect, motionless as a carved statue, until
the sound trailed away into silence. A fox trotted out of the timber
within ten yards of where the two stood watching and, catching sight of
Connie as the boy shifted his twenty-two, turned and dashed along a thin
sand point and straight across the lake, passing in his blind haste so
close to Leloo that his thick brush almost touched the motionless
animal's nose. But the big ruffed wolf-dog never gave so much as a
passing glance.

"That's funny," whispered Connie "Why didn't he grab that fox?"

"Leloo, he ain' fool wit' no fox tonight," answered 'Merican Joe. "He
goin' far off an' run de ridges wit' de big people." And even as the
Indian spoke, Leloo resumed his long, silent lope.

"I sure would like to follow him tonight," breathed the boy, as he
watched the great dog until he disappeared upon the smooth, white
surface of the lake where the aurora borealis was casting its weird,
shifting lights upon the snow.

The weather had moderated to about the zero mark and by the middle of
the following afternoon 'Merican Joe set the last of the remaining
marten traps. Connie proved an apt pupil and not only did he set
fourteen of the thirty-five traps, but each set was minutely examined
and approved by the critical eye of 'Merican Joe. When the last trap was
set, the Indian commenced the construction of deadfalls, and again
Connie became a mere spectator. And a very interested spectator he was
as he watched every movement of 'Merican Joe who, with only such
material as came to hand on the spot, and no tools except his belt ax
and knife, constructed and baited his cunningly devised deadfalls. These
traps were built upon stumps and logs and were of the common
figure-of-four type familiar to every schoolboy. The weight, or fall
log, was of sufficient size to break the back of a marten.

"De steel trap she bes'," explained the Indian. "She easy to set, an'
she ketch mor' marten. Wit' de steel trap if de marten com' 'long an'
smell de bait he mus' got to put de foot in de trap--but in de deadfall
she got to grab de bait an' give de pull to spring de trap. But, de
deadfall don't cost nuttin', an' if you go far de steel trap too mooch
heavy to carry. Dat why I set de steel trap in close, an' de deadfall
far out."

For four days the two continued to set deadfalls. The last two days
they packed their sleeping bags, camping where night overtook them, and
the evening of the fourth day found them with an even two hundred traps
and thirty lynx snares set, and a trap line that was approximately fifty
miles long and so arranged that either end was within a half mile of the
cabin.

"We go over de snare line in de swamp tomor'," said 'Merican Joe, as
they sat that night at their little table beside the roaring sheet-iron
stove, "an' next day we start over de trap line."

"About how many marten do you think we ought to catch?" asked Connie.

The Indian shrugged: "Can't tell 'bout de luck--sometam lot of
um--sometam mebbe-so not none."

"What do you mean by a lot?" persisted the boy.

"Oh, mebbe-so, twenty--twenty five."

"About one marten for every eight or ten traps," figured the boy.

The Indian nodded. "You set seven steel trap an' catch wan marten, dat
good. You set ten deadfall an' ketch wan marten, dat good, too."

"We've got six lynx snares down in the swamp to look at tomorrow. How
many lynx are we going to get?"

'Merican Joe grinned. "Mebbe-so not none--mebbe-so one, two. Dat all tam
bes' we count de skin w'en we git hom'."

"Don't count your chickens before they're hatched, eh?" laughed Connie.

The Indian looked puzzled. "W'at you mean--chicken hatch?" And when the
boy explained to the best of his ability the old saw, 'Merican Joe, who
had never seen a chicken in his life, nodded sagely. "Dat right--an' you
ain' kin count de fur hatch first, nieder."

CHAPTER X

THE TRAIL OF THE _CARCAJO_

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 mout'. 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 mout' 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.

[Illustration: "'Merican Joe climbed the tree and a few minutes later
Connie heard the blows of his belt ax as he hacked at the limb that held
the clog."

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 encyclopædias 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.

CHAPTER XI

THE CARIBOU HUNT

Connie Morgan and his trapping partner, 'Merican Joe, bolted a hurried
breakfast. For both were eager to know the result of their attempt to
trap the _carcajo_ that had worked such havoc with their line of marten
and mink traps.

"Suppose we do catch this one?" asked Connie as he fastened his rackets.
"Won't there be an other one along in a day or two, so we'll have to do
it all over again?"

"No," explained the Indian. "_Carcajo_ no like nodder _carcajo_. In de
winter tam de _carcajo_ got he's own place to hunt. If nodder wan comes
'long dey mak' de big fight, an' wan gits lick an' he got to go off an'
fin' nodder place to hunt. Injun hate _carcajo_. Marten hate um. Mink,
an fox hate um. Deer hate um. All de peoples hate um--de big peoples,
an' de leetle peoples. _Carcajo_ so mean even _carcajo_ hate _carcajo_!"

A yell of triumph escaped Connie as, closely followed by 'Merican Joe,
he pushed aside the thick screen of spruce branches and came suddenly
upon the crib-like _cache_ that the Indian had constructed to entice the
malicious night prowler. For right in the midst of the wreckage of the
_cache_, surrounded by the broken snowshoes, the tin cans, the old coat,
and the sticks that had formed the crib, was the _carcajo_ himself, a
foreleg in one trap and his thick shaggy tail in another! When he caught
sight of the trappers the animal immediately showed fight. And never had
Connie seen such an exhibition of insensate ferocity as the _carcajo_,
every hair erect, teeth bared, and emitting squall-like growls of rage,
tugged at the rattling trap chains in a vain effort to attack. Beside
this animal the rage of even the disturbed barren ground grizzly seemed
a mild thing. But, of course, the grizzly had been too dopey and dazed
from his long sleep, to really put forth his best efforts.

"Shoot um in de ear," advised 'Merican Joe, "an' it ain' no hole in de
hide an' it kill um queek." And, holding the muzzle of the little
twenty-two close, Connie dispatched the animal with one well-placed
shot. The next instant, 'Merican Joe was laughing as Connie held his
nose, for like the skunk, the _carcajo_ has the power to emit a
yellowish fluid with an exceedingly disagreeable odour--and this
particular member of the family used his power lavishly.

"He too mooch smart to git in de trap in de snow," said the Indian,
pointing to the dead _carcajo_. "He climb up on de log an' den he jump
'cross de leetle space an' put de foot in de trap on top of de pile. Den
w'en he git mad an tear up de _cache_ an' try to git loose, he sit down
in wan more trap, an it ketch him on he's tail."

While 'Merican Joe drew the shaggy brownish-black skin from the thick
body, Connie recovered the traps, removed the clogs, and _cached_ them
where they could be picked up later. Neither of the two traps that had
been set at the backs of the marten traphouses had been disturbed, and
as Connie gathered these and placed them with the others, he learned of
the extreme wariness and caution of the _carcajo_. For the snow told the
story of how the prowler had circled the traphouses several times, and
then lumbered on, leaving them untouched.

"It's a wonder you don't cut some steaks out of him," grinned the boy
as he looked at the fat carcass.

The Indian shook his head. "No. De _carcajo_, an' de mink, an' de
marten, an' de fisher, an' de otter ain' no good to eat. W'en you fin'
de Injun w'at eat 'em--look out! Dat one bad Injun, you bet!"

The work of "freshing up" the trap line in the wake of the _carcajo_
took almost as long as the laying of a new line. For the marauder had
done his work thoroughly and well. Hardly a trap was left unmolested. In
some places the snow showed where he had eaten a marten, but in most
instances the traps were simply destroyed apparently from sheer
wantonness. Three or four martens and one lynx were recovered where they
had been taken from the traps, carried off the line for some distance,
and buried in the snow.

By evening of the third day the task was finished and the two trappers
returned to their cabin.

The following day was spent in getting ready a trail outfit for the
caribou hunt. Both of the toboggans and dog teams were to be taken to
haul home the meat, and provisions for a week's trip were loaded. Only
a few caribou tracks had been seen on the trap line and 'Merican Joe
believed that more would be found to the south-eastward.

The first night on the trail they camped at the edge of a wide _brule_,
some twenty miles from the cabin. No caribou had been sighted during the
day, although tracks were much more numerous than they had been in the
vicinity of the cabin. 'Merican Joe had not brought his heavy rifle,
preferring instead the twenty-two, with which he had succeeded in
bringing down four ptarmigan. And as they sat snug and cozy in the
little tent and devoured their supper of stew and tea and pilot bread,
Connie bantered the Indian.

"You must think you're going to sneak up as close to the caribou as I
did to the _carcajo_, to get one with that gun."

'Merican Joe grinned. "You wait. You see I git mor' caribou wit' de
knife den you git wit' de big gun," he answered. "Me an' Leloo, we ain'
need no gun, do we, Leloo?" The great wolf-dog had been secured in the
tent to prevent his slipping off during the night, and at the mention of
his name he pricked up his ears and searched the faces of the two, as
if trying to figure out what all the talk was about. Far away in the
timber a wolf howled, and Leloo's eyes at once assumed an expression of
intense longing and he listened motionless until the sound died away,
then with a glance at the _babiche_ thong that secured him, settled
slowly to the robe and lay with his long pointed muzzle upon his
outstretched forepaws, and his dull yellow eyes blinking lazily.

Early the following morning they skirted the south shore of Lake Ste.
Therese, crossed the river, and headed for a range of hills that could
be seen to the south-eastward. The day was warm, ten to fifteen degrees
above zero, and the gusty south-east wind was freighted with frequent
snow squalls. Toward noon, as they were crossing a frozen muskeg,
Connie, who was in the lead, stopped to examine some fresh caribou
tracks that led toward the timber of the opposite side in a course
nearly parallel with their own. 'Merican Joe halted his team and came
forward. Leloo nosed the tracks and, with no more show of interest than
a slight twitching of the ears, raised his head and eyed first 'Merican
Joe, then Connie. The trail was very fresh and the scent strong so that
the other dogs sniffed the air and whined and whimpered in nervous
eagerness. The trail was no surprise to Leloo. So keen was his sense of
scent that for a quarter of a mile he had known that they were nearing
it. Had he been alone, or running at the head of the hunt-pack, he would
even now have been wolfing down huge mouthfuls of the warm,
blood-dripping meat. But this case was different. At this moment he was
a dog, and not a wolf. His work was the work of the harness. Leloo's
yellow eyes scrutinized the faces of his two masters as they talked, for
he had been quick to recognize Connie as his new master, although he
never quite renounced allegiance to the Indian. He obeyed alike the
command of either, and both were too wise in the way of dogs to try him
out with conflicting commands just to see "which he would mind."

Leloo knew that his masters would do one of two things. Either they
would follow the caribou and kill them, or they would ignore the trail
and hold their own course. He hoped they would decide to follow the
caribou. For two or three days he had been living on fish, and Leloo did
not like fish and only ate them when there was nothing else to eat. He
watched 'Merican Joe return to his dogs, and fairly leaped into the
collar as Connie swung him on to the trail. Two bull caribou had gone
that way scarcely an hour before. There would be a kill, and plenty of
meat.

A quarter of a mile before reaching the timber, Connie, who was in the
lead, swerved sharply from the trail and headed toward a point that
would carry them to the bush well down wind from the place the caribou
had entered. Leloo cheerfully followed for he understood this move, and
approved it. Arriving in the scrub, Connie and 'Merican Joe quickly
unharnessed the dogs and tied all except the wolf-dog to trees. The boy
removed the rifle from the toboggan and threw a shell into the chamber.

"Hadn't we better put a line on Leloo?" he asked as they started in the
direction of the trail.

'Merican Joe laughed; "No, Leloo he know 'bout hunt--you watch. You want
to see de gran' dog work you jes' shoot wan caribou. Leloo he git' de
odder wan, you bet!"

"You don't mean he'll get him unless he's wounded!"

"Sure, he git him--you see! If you shoot wan an' wound him, Leloo git
de good wan first, an' den he go git de wounded wan."

They cut the trail at the edge of the muskeg and immediately circled
down wind. Leloo trotted quietly beside them, and now and then Connie
noted twitching of the delicate nostrils. Suddenly the animal halted,
sniffing the air. The ruff bristled slightly, and turning at a right
angle to the course, the dog headed directly into the wind.

"He ketch um," said 'Merican Joe. "Close by. Dat ain' no trail
scent--dat body scent!"

The spruce gave place to willows, and creeping to the edge of a frozen
marshy stream, they saw the two caribou feeding upon the opposite side.

Connie set for two hundred yards and fired. The larger bull reared high
in front, pitched sidewise, and after several lurching leaps, fell to
the snow. The other headed diagonally across the open at a trot. Beside
him Connie heard a low growl, there was a flash of silver, and Leloo
shot into the open like an arrow. For several seconds the bull trotted
on, unconscious of the great grey shape that was nearly upon him. When
he did discover it and broke into a run it was too late. As if hurled
from a gun the flying wolf-dog rose from the snow and launched himself
at the exposed flank of the fleeing caribou, which was whirled half way
around at the impact. Leloo sprang clear as the stricken animal plunged
and wobbled on his fast weakening legs. The caribou staggered on a few
steps and lay down. And the wolf-dog, after watching him for a moment to
make sure he was really done for, trotted over and sniffed at the bull
Connie had shot.

While 'Merican Joe, with a quick twist of his sheath knife, cut the
stricken animal's throat, Connie examined the wound that had brought him
down. Leloo had returned to his kill, and as the boy glanced up the
great wolf-dog opened his mouth in a prodigious yawn that exposed his
gleaming fangs, and instantly the boy remembered the words of Waseche
Bill, "Keep your eye on him ... if he ever turns wolf when he'd ort to
be dog ... good-night." "It would be 'good-night,' all right," he
muttered, as he turned again to look at the wound--a long slash that had
cut through the thick hide, the underlying muscles, and the inner
abdominal wall and literally disembowelled the animal as cleanly as
though it had been done with a powerful stroke of a sharp knife.

"W'at you t'ink 'bout Leloo, now?" grinned the Indian, as he rose from
his knee and wiped his bloody knife upon his larrigan.

"I think he's some killer!" exclaimed the boy. "No wonder you don't
carry a rifle."

"Don't need no gun w'en we got Leloo," answered 'Merican Joe, proudly.
"De gun too mooch heavy. Injun ain' so good shot lak de w'ite man. Waste
too mooch shell--dat cost too mooch."

The butchering and cutting up of the two caribou took less than an hour,
during which time 'Merican Joe found that no matter how much of a
_chechako_ Connie was in regard to the fur-bearers, he had had plenty of
experience in the handling of meat. When the job was finished, the meat
was covered with the hides, and taking only the livers and hearts with
them, the two started for the toboggans. The low-banked, marshy river
upon which they found themselves made a short turn to the northward a
short distance farther on, and they decided to circle around far enough
to see what lay beyond the wooded point. Rounding the bend, they came
upon what was evidently a sluggish lake, or broadening of the river,
its white surface extending for a distance of two or three miles toward
the north. Far beyond the upper end of the lake they could make out
another ridge of hills, similar to the one to the southward toward which
they were heading. They were about to turn back when Connie pointed to
Leloo who was sniffing the air with evident interest. "He smells
something!" exclaimed the boy, "maybe there are some more caribou in the
willows a little farther on."

The Indian watched the dog narrowly: "Noe he ain' git de body scent--dat
de trail scent. Mus' be de strong scent. He smell um down wind. We go
tak' a look--mebbe-so we git som' mor' meat."

Keeping close to shore they struck northward upon the surface of the
lake and ten minutes later, 'Merican Joe uttered an exclamation and
pointed ahead. Hastening forward they came upon a broad trail. As far as
they could see the surface of the snow was broken and trampled by the
hoofs of hundreds and hundreds of caribou. The animals had crossed the
lake on a long slant, travelling leisurely and heading in a
north-westerly direction for the hills that could be seen in the
distance. The two bulls they had killed were evidently stragglers of the
main herd, for the trail showed that the animals had passed that same
day--probably early in the morning.

"We go back an git de dogs and de outfit, an' follow um up. We git
plenty meat now. Dat good place we camp right here tonight an' in de
mornin' we follow 'long de trail." The short afternoon was well advanced
and after selecting a camping site, the Indian hung the livers and
hearts upon a limb, and the two struck out rapidly for the toboggans.

After hastily swallowing a cold lunch, they harnessed the dogs and
worked the outfit through the timber until they struck the river at the
point where they had slipped upon the two caribou. As they stepped from
the willows Connie pointed toward the opposite shore. "There's something
moving over there!" he exclaimed. "Look--right between the meat piles! A
wolf I guess."

'Merican Joe peered through the gathering dusk. "No, dat _loup cervier_.
De wolf ain' hunt dead meat." Leloo had caught a whiff of the animal and
the hairs of his great ruff stood out like the quills of an enraged
porcupine. Stooping, the Indian slipped him from the harness and the
next instant a silver streak was flashing across the snow. The _loup
cervier_ did not stand upon the order of his going but struck out for
the timber in great twenty-foot bounds. He disappeared in the willows
with the wolf-dog gaining at every jump, and a moment later a young
spruce shivered throughout its length, as the great cat struck its trunk
a good ten feet above the snow. Connie started at a run, but 'Merican
Joe called him back.

"We tak' de outfit long an' load de meat first. We got plenty tam. Leloo
hold um in de tree an' den we go git um." Picking up Leloo's harness the
Indian led the way across the river where it was but the work of a few
minutes to load the meat on to the toboggans.

When the loads were firmly lashed on, the toboggans were tipped over to
prevent the dogs from running away, and taking the light rifle the two
went to the tree beneath which Leloo sat looking up into the glaring
yellow eyes of the lynx. One shot placed squarely in the corner of an
eye brought the big cat down with a thud, and they returned to the
outfit and harnessed Leloo. When they were ready to start, 'Merican Joe
swung the two caribou heads to the top of his load.

"What are you packing those heads for?" asked Connie.

"Mus' got to hang um up," answered the Indian.

"Well, hang them up back there in the woods. There's a couple of handy
limb stubs on that tree we got the lynx out of."

The Indian shook his head. "No, dat ain' no good. De bear head mus' got
to git hang up right where she fall, but de deer an' de moose and de
caribou head mus' got to hang up right long de water where de canoes go
by."

"Why's that?"

The other shrugged. "I ain' know 'bout dat. Mebbe-so w'en _Sah-ha-lee
Tyee_ com' to count de deer, he com' in de canoe. I ain' care I know so
mooch 'bout why. W'en de Injuns hang up de head in de right place, den
de deer, an' de bear, an' all de big peoples ain' git all kill off--an'
w'en de w'ite mans com' in de country an' don't hang up de heads, de big
peoples is all gon' queek. So dat's nuff, an' don't mak' no differ'
'bout why."

[Illustration: "As darkness settled over the North Country, a little
fire twinkled in the bush, and the odour of sizzling bacon and frying
liver permeated the cozy camp."

Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover]

At the bend of the river 'Merican Joe hung up the heads upon a couple
of solid snags, and a short time later they were pitching their little
tent upon the camp site selected beside the caribou trail. As darkness
settled over the north county, a little fire twinkled in the bush, and
the odour of sizzling bacon and frying liver permeated the cozy camp.

CHAPTER XII

THE TRAIL IN THE SNOW

It was noon the following day when they overtook the caribou herd, half
way between the northern extremity of the lake and the range of hills. A
halt was called upon the margin of a small lake along the shores of
which the stragglers could be seen feeding slowly along.

"Dat bes' we ain' kill only 'bout six--seven today. Dat mak' us work
pretty good to git um cut up before de night com' long an' freeze um.
Tomorrow we kill eight--nine mor' an' dat be nuff."

The dogs were unhitched and tied to trees, and Connie started to loosen
the rifle from its place on top of one of the packs. But the Indian
stayed him: "No, dat ain' no good we mak' de shoot. We scare de herd an'
dey travel fast. We let Leloo kill um, an' dat don't chase um off. Dey
t'ink Leloo wan big wolf, an' dey all de tam git kill by de wolf, an'
dey don't care."

So armed only with their belt axes and knives, they struck out for the
herd accompanied by Leloo who fairly slavered in anticipation of the
coming slaughter. And a slaughter it was, as one by one the stricken
brutes went down before the deadly onslaught. What impressed Connie more
even than the unerring accuracy of the death stroke was the ominous
silence with which the great wolf-dog worked. No whimper--no growl, nor
whine, nor bark--simply a noiseless slipping upon the selected animal,
and then the short silent rush and a caribou staggered weakly to its
knees never to rise again. One or two bawled out as the flashing fangs
struck home, but the sound caused no excitement among the others which
went on feeding as if nothing had happened. This was due to the cunning
of Leloo--partly no doubt a native cunning inherited from his father,
the great white wolf from the frozen land beyond the frozen sea--partly,
too, this cunning was the result of the careful training of 'Merican
Joe, who had taught the wolf-dog to strike only those animals that were
separated from their fellows. For had the killer rushed blindly in,
slashing right and left the herd would have bunched for defence, and
later have travelled far into the hills, or struck out for the open
tundra.

When six animals were down, Leloo was called off, and Connie and the
Indian set about skinning and cutting up the carcasses.

"I see where we're going to make about two more trips for this meat,"
said Connie. "We've got more than we can pack now, and with what we kill
tomorrow, it will take at least three trips."

'Merican Joe nodded. "Yes, we build de _cache_, an' we pack all we kin
haul, an' com' back w'en we git time. Anyhow, dat ain' so far lak we
gon' on dem odder hills. We strike mos' straight wes' from here we com'
on de cabin."

The killing and cutting up was finished by noon next day, and when
darkness fell the two gorged an enormous meal of bannocks and liver, and
retired to their sleeping bags for a well-earned rest. For the two
toboggans stood loaded with meat covered tightly with green hides that
had already frozen into place, and formed an effective protection
against the pilfering of the dogs, three or four of which were amazingly
clever sneak-thieves--while at least two were out-and-out robbers from
whose depredations even the liver sizzling in the frying pan was not
safe. The same precaution of covering was taken with the meat on the
platform of the pole _cache_, for while its height from the ground
protected it from the prowlers, the frozen hides also protected it from
the inroads of the "whiskey jacks," as the voracious and pestiferous
Canada jays are called in the Northland. For they are the boldest
robbers of all, not even hesitating to fly into a tent and grab some
morsel from the plate of the camper while he is eating his meal. These
birds scorn the cold, remaining in the far North all winter, and woe
betide the unprotected piece of meat they happen to light upon, for
though it be frozen to the hardness of iron, the sharp bills of these
industrious marauders will pick it to the bone.

The pace was slow next day owing to the heavy loads, each toboggan
carrying more than one hundred pounds to the dog. But the trail to the
cabin was not a long one and the trappers were anxious to carry with
them as much meat as possible, to avoid making another trip until well
into fox trapping time. It was late in the afternoon when Connie who was
travelling ahead breaking trail, paused at the edge of a clump of
spruce and examined some tracks in the snow. The tracks were made by a
pair of snowshoes, and the man who wore them had been heading
north-east. 'Merican Joe glanced casually at the tracks. "Som' Injun
trappin'," he opined.

"White man," corrected Connie, "and I don't believe he was a trapper."

The Indian glanced again at the trail. "Mebbe-so p'lice," he hazarded.

"Not by a long shot! If there was any patrol in here there'd be sled
tracks--or at least he'd be carrying a pack, and this fellow was
travelling light. Besides you wouldn't catch any men in the Mounted
fooling with snowshoes like that!" The boy pointed to the pattern of a
track. "Those are bought rackets from the outside. I saw some like 'em
in the window of a store last winter down in Minneapolis. They look nice
and pretty, but they're strung too light. Guess we'll just back track
him for a while. His back trail don't dip much south, and we won't swing
far out of the way."

'Merican Joe expressed indifference. "W'at you care 'bout de man? We
ain' los' nuttin'. An' we ain' got to run way from de p'lice."

Connie grinned. "No, and believe me, I'm glad we haven't got to!
They're a hard bunch to run away from. Anyway, this fellow is no
policeman, and I've just got a hunch I'd like to know something about
him. I can't tell why--just a hunch, I guess. But somehow I don't like
the looks of that trail. It don't seem to _fit_. The tracks are pretty
fresh. We ought to strike the remains of his noon camp before long."

The Indian nodded. "All right, we follow um. You know all 'bout de man
trail. Som' tam you know all 'bout de fur trail, too--you be de gran'
trapper."

The back trail held its course for a few miles and then swung from the
westward so that it coincided with their own direction. At the point
where it bent from the westward, they came upon the man's noon-time
camp.

"Here's where he set his pack while he built his fire," pointed the boy.
"He didn't have much of a pack, just a sleeping bag and a couple of
day's grub rolled up in it. Here's where he set his rifle down--it was a
high power--little shorter and thinner butt than mine--a thirty-thirty,
I guess. He ain't a _chechako_ though, for all he's got bought
snowshoes. He tramped out his fire when he went, and he didn't throw
away his tea-grounds. Whoever he is, he's got a camp not farther than
two days from here, or he'd never be travelling that light in this
country."

A few miles farther on Connie again halted and pointed to another trail
that converged with the one they were following. They had been
travelling upon the ice of a small river and this new trail dipped into
the river bed from the north-eastward.

"It's the same fellow!" cried the boy. "This trail was made yesterday.
He camped somewhere ahead of us last night and went back where he came
from today. Left his own back trail here--thought it was easier to
follow on up the river, I guess. Or, maybe he wanted to dodge some bad
going. Where he came from isn't so far away, either," continued the boy,
"he was travelling light yesterday, too."

They had proceeded but a short distance when 'Merican Joe called a halt.
He came forward, and looked intently at Leloo who was the leader of
Connie's team. Connie saw the great wolf-dog was sniffing the air
uneasily.

"What is it?" he asked of 'Merican Joe.

"Injuns. Big camp. Me--I kin smell de smoke."

Connie sniffed the air, but could smell nothing. "How far?" he asked.

"She straight ahead on de wind--mebbe-so two, t'ree mile."

The banks of the small river they were following became lower as they
advanced and finally disappeared altogether as the stream wound its way
through a frozen swamp. In the swamp they encountered innumerable trails
of snowshoes that crossed each other at every conceivable angle.

"Squaw tracks," grunted 'Merican Joe. "De squaw got to ten' de rabbit
snare. Dat mak' um work pretty good. Injun don't buy so mooch grub lak
de wi'te mans, an' every day de squaw got to ketch 'bout ten rabbit. If
dey got mooch--w'at you call _tenas-man_?"

"Children--kids," supplied Connie.

"If dey got mooch kids dey mus' got to ketch 'bout twenty rabbit every
day."

"Why don't they go after caribou?"

"Yes, dey hunt de caribou w'en de caribou com' roun'. But dey can't go
mebbe-so hondre mile to hunt de caribou. Dey live on de rabbit, an
ptarmigan, an' fish in de winter tam, an' w'en de bad rabbit year com'
'long den de Injun he's belly git empty an' de ribs stick out an' he too
mooch die from de big hongre."

They were nearing the village. Sounds of a dog fight reached their ears,
the savage growls of the combatants, and the yapping and barking of the
pack that crowded about them. Then the hoarse call of an Indian, and a
yelping of dogs as the man evidently worked on them industriously with a
club.

They emerged suddenly from the thick growth of the swamp on to the ice
of the broader stream which connects Lake Ste. Therese with McVicker Bay
of Great Bear Lake. The village was located upon the opposite bank which
rose some twelve or fifteen feet above the river ice. Through the
gathering darkness Connie made out some five or six log cabins, and many
makeshift dwellings of poles, skins and snow blocks.

Their appearance upon the river was the occasion for a pandemonium of
noise as the Indian dogs swept out upon the ice to greet them with
barks, yaps, growls, whines, and howls. Never had the boy seen such a
motley collection of dogs. Big dogs and little dogs, long tailed, short
tailed, and bob tailed--white dogs and black dogs, and dogs of every
colour and all colours between. In only two particulars was there any
uniformity--they all made some sort of a noise, and they were all
skin-poor.

Heads appeared at the doors of various dwellings, and a little knot of
Indians gathered at the top of the bank, where they waited, staring
stolidly until two heavily loaded toboggans came to a halt at the foot
of the steep bank.

Greetings were exchanged and several invitations were extended to the
travellers to spend the night--one Indian in particular, who spoke a few
words of English and appeared to be rather better dressed than the
others, was very insistent, pointing with evident pride toward the
largest of the log houses. But they declined with thanks, and indicated
that they would camp a short distance below the village where a more
gently sloping bank gave promise of ascent for the heavily loaded
toboggans. As they proceeded along the foot of the bank, an Indian
lurched from one of the skin dwellings, and leered foolishly at them
from the top of the bank. Sounds issued from the shack as of voices
raised in quarrel, and Connie and 'Merican Joe exchanged glances as they
passed on to their camping place.

An hour later as they were finishing their supper, an Indian stepped
abruptly out of the darkness, and stood blinking at them just within the
circle of light from the little fire. He was the Indian they had seen
lurch from the dwelling.

"Hello," said Connie, "what do you want?" The Indian continued to stare,
and Connie tried jargon. "_Iktah mika tika?_" But still the man did not
answer so the boy turned him over to 'Merican Joe who tried out several
dialects and gave it up. The Indian disappeared as abruptly as he had
come, and a few moments later stepped again into the firelight. This
time he carried a large beaver skin which he extended for inspection.
Connie passed it over to 'Merican Joe.

"Is it a good skin?" he asked.

"Good skin," assented 'Merican Joe, "Wan' ver' big beaver ..."

"How much?" asked Connie, making signs to indicate a trade.

The Indian grunted a single word. "_Hooch!_"

"Oh--ho, so that's it!" cried the boy. "I knew it when I saw him the
first time. And I knew that trail we've been following this afternoon
didn't look right. I had a hunch!"

He handed the Indian his skin and shook his head. "No got _hooch_." It
took the man several minutes to realize that there was no liquor
forthcoming, and when he did, he turned and left the fire with every
evidence of anger. Not long after he had gone, another Indian appeared
with the same demand. In vain Connie tried to question him, but
apparently he knew no more English or jargon than the first.

"We've got to figure out some scheme to gum that dirty pup's game!"
cried the boy. "I just wish I was back in the Mounted for about a week!
I'd sure make that bird live hard! But in the Mounted or out of it, I'm
going to make him quit his whiskey peddling, or some one is going to get
hurt!"

'Merican Joe looked puzzled. "W'at you care 'bout dat? W'at dat mak' you
mad som' wan sell Injun de _hooch_?"

"What do _I_ care! I care because it's a dirty, low-lived piece of work!
These Injuns need every bit of fur they can trap to buy grub and
clothes with. When they get _hooch_, they pay a big price--and they pay
it in grub and clothes that their women and children need!"

'Merican Joe shrugged philosophically, and at that moment another Indian
stepped into the firelight. It was the man who had insisted upon their
staying with him, and who Connie remembered had spoken a few words of
English.

"You looking for _hooch_, too?" asked the boy.

The Indian shook his head vigorously. "No. _Hooch_ bad. Mak' Injun bad.
No good!"

Connie shoved the teapot into the coals and motioned the man to be
seated, and there beside the little fire, over many cups of strong tea,
the boy and 'Merican Joe, by dint of much questioning and much sign talk
to help out the little English and the few words of jargon the man knew,
succeeded finally in learning the meaning of the white man's trail in
the snow. They learned that the Indians were Dog Ribs who had drifted
from the Blackwater country and settled in their present location last
fall because two of their number had wintered there the previous year
and had found the trapping good, and the supply of fish and rabbits
inexhaustible. They had done well with their traps, but they had killed
very few caribou during the winter, and the current of the river had
taken many of their nets and swept them away under the ice. The rabbits
were not as plentiful as they had been earlier in the fall, and there
was much hunger in the camp.

They traded as usual, and had gotten "debt" at Fort Norman last summer
before they moved their camp. Later in the summer two men had come along
in a canoe and told them that they would come back before the mid-winter
trading. They said they would sell goods much cheaper than the Hudson's
Bay Company, or the Northern Trading Company, and that they would also
have some _hooch_--which cannot be obtained from the big companies.

Yesterday one of these men came into the camp. He had a few bottles of
_hooch_ which he traded for some very good fox skins, and promised to
return in six days with the other man and two sled loads of goods. He
told them that they did not have to pay their debt to the companies at
Fort Norman because everything at the fort had burned down--all the
stores and all the houses and the men had gone away down the river and
that they would not return. The Indians had been making ready to go to
the fort to trade, but when they heard that the fort was burned they
decided to wait for the free traders. Also many of the young men wanted
to trade with the free traders because they could get the _hooch_.

The Indian said he was very sorry that the fort had burned, because he
did not like the free traders, and he wanted to pay his debt to the
company, but if there was nobody there it would be no use to make the
long trip for nothing.

When he finished Connie sat for some time thinking. Then, producing a
worn notebook and the stub of a pencil from his pocket he wrote upon a
leaf and tore it from the book. When he spoke it was to 'Merican Joe.
"How long will it take you to make Fort Norman travelling light?" he
asked.

"'Bout fi', six, day."

"That will be ten or twelve days there and back," figured the boy, as he
handed him the note.

"All right. You start in the morning, and you go with him," he added,
turning to the Indian.

"That white man lied! There has been no fire at the fort. He wants to
get your skins, and so he lied. You go and see for yourself. The rest
of them here won't believe me if I tell them he lied--especially as the
young men want the _hooch_. I have written McTavish to send someone,
back with you who has the authority to arrest these free traders. I'm
going to stay to get the evidence. In the meantime you send your hunters
on our back trail and they will find many caribou. Divide the meat we
have on the sleds among the people--the women and the children. It will
last till the men return with the meat. I am going to follow the free
traders to their camp."

It took time and patience to explain all this to the Indian but once he
got the idea into his head he was anxious to put the plan into effect.
He slipped away and returned with two other Indians, and the whole
matter had to be gone over again. At the conclusion, one of them agreed
to accompany Connie, and the other to distribute the meat, and to lead
the caribou hunt, so after unloading the sleds and making up the light
trail outfits, they all retired to get a few hours' sleep for the
strenuous work ahead. How well they succeeded and how the free
traders--but, as Mr. Kipling has said, that is another story.

CHAPTER XIII

AT THE CAMP OF THE _HOOCH_-RUNNERS

The late winter dawn had not yet broken when the little camp on the
outskirts of the Indian village was struck and two dog teams drawing
lightly loaded toboggans slipped silently into the timber. When out of
sight and sound of the village the two outfits parted.

Connie Morgan, accompanied by an Indian named Ton-Kan, swung his great
lead-dog, Leloo, to the eastward, crossed the river, and struck out on
the trail of the free trader; while 'Merican Joe with Pierre Bonnet
Rouge, the Indian who had told them of the free trader's plans, headed
north-west in the direction of Fort Norman.

It was nearly noon six days later that they shoved open the door of the
trading post and greeted McTavish, the big bewhiskered Scotchman who was
the Hudson's Bay Company's factor.

"What are ye doin' back here--you? An' where is the lad that was with
ye? An' you, Pierre Bonnet Rouge, where is the rest of your band? An'
don't ye ken ye're two weeks ahead of time for the tradin'?"

"_Oui, M's'u,_" answered the Indian. "But man say----"

He was interrupted by 'Merican Joe who had been fumbling through his
pockets and now produced the note Connie had hastily scribbled upon a
leaf of his notebook.

McTavish carried the scrap of paper to the heavily frosted window and
read it through slowly. Then he read it again, as he combed at his beard
with his fingers. Finally, he laid the paper upon the counter and
glanced toward a man who sat with his chair tilted back against the
bales of goods beyond the roaring stove.

"Here's something for ye, Dan," he rumbled. "Ye was growlin' about
fightin' them ice _bourdillons_, here's a job t'will take ye well off
the river."

"What's that?" asked Dan McKeever--_Inspector_ Dan McKeever, _now_, of N
Division, Royal Northwest Mounted Police. "It better be somethin'
important if it takes me off the river, 'cause I'm due back at Fort
Fitzgerald in a month."

"It's important, all right," answered McTavish, "an lucky it is ye're
here. That's one good thing the rough ice done, anyhow. For, if it
hadn't wore out your dogs you'd be'n gone this three days. D'ye mind I
told ye I'd heard they was a free trader over in the Coppermine country?
Well, there's two of 'em, an' they're workin' south. They're right now
somewheres south of the big lake. They've run onto the Dog Ribs over
near Ste. Therese, an' they're tradin' em _hooch_!"

"Who says so?" asked the Inspector, eying the two Indians doubtfully.

"These two. Pierre Bonnet Rouge I have known for a good many years. He's
a good Indian. An' this other--he come in a while back with his pardner
from over on the Yukon side. His pardner is a white man, an' about as
likely a lookin' lad as I've seen. He's over there now on the trail of
the free traders an' aimin' to stand between them 'an the Indians till
someone comes with authority to arrest them."

"Who is this party, an' what's he doin' over in that country himself?"

"He's just a lad. An' him an' his pardner, here, are trappin'. Name's
Morgan, an----"

Big Dan McKeever's two feet hit the floor with a bang, and he strode
rapidly forward. "_Morgan_, did you say? _Connie Morgan?_"

'Merican Joe nodded vehemently. "Yes, him Connie Mo'gan! Him wan
_skookum tillicum_."

The big inspector's fist smote the counter and he grinned happily. "I'll
say he's _skookum tillicum_!" he cried. "But what in the name of Pat
Feeney is he doin' over here? I heard he'd gone outside."

"D'ye know him?" asked McTavish, in surprise.

"_Know him!_ Know him, did you say? I do know him, an' love him! An' I'd
rather see him than the Angel Gabriel, this minute!"

"Me, too," laughed McTavish, "I ain't ready for the angels, yet!"

"Angels, or no angels, there's a kid that's a _man_! An' his daddy, Sam
Morgan, before him was a man! Didn't the kid serve a year with me over
in B Division? Sure, Mac, I've told you about the time he arrested
Inspector Cartwright for a whiskey runner, an'----"

McTavish interrupted. "Yes, yes, I mind! An' didn't he fetch in
Notorious Bishop, whilst all the rest of you was tearin' out the bone
out in the hills a-huntin' him?"

"That's the kid that done it! An' there's a whole lot more he done, too.
You don't need to worry none about yer Injuns as long as that kid's on
the job."

"But, ye're goin' to hurry over there, ain't you? I hate to think of the
lad there alone. There's two of them traders, an' if they're peddlin'
_hooch_, they ain't goin' to care much what they do to keep from gittin'
caught."

Dan McKeever grinned. "You don't need to worry about him. That kid will
out-guess any free trader, or any other crook that ever was born. He's
handled 'em red hot--one at a time, an' in bunches. The more they is of
'em, the better he likes 'em! Didn't he round up Bill Cosgrieve an' his
Cameron Creek gang? An' didn't he bring in four of the orneriest cusses
that ever lived when they busted the Hart River _cache_? An' he done it
alone! Everyone's got brains, Mac, an' most of us learns to use 'em--in
a way. But, that kid--he starts in figurin' where fellers like us leaves
off!"

"But this case is different, Dan," objected the factor. "He was in the
Mounted then. But what can he do now? He ain't got the authority!"

McKeever regarded the Scotchman with an almost pitying glance. "Mac, you
don't know that kid. But don't you go losin' no sleep over how much
authority he ain't got. 'Cause, when the time comes to use it, he'll
have the authority, all right--if he has to appoint himself
Commissioner! An' when it comes right down to cases, man to man, there's
times when a six-gun has got more authority to it than all the
commissions in the world."

"But they're two to one against him----"

"Yes, an' the kid could shoot patterns in the both of 'em while they was
fumblin' to draw, if he had to. But the chances is there won't be a shot
fired one way or another. He'll jest naturally out-guess 'em an' ease
'em along, painless an' onsuspectin' until he turns 'em over to me, with
the evidence all done up in a package, you might say, ready to hand to
the judge."

McTavish smote his thigh with his open palm. "By the great horn spoon,
I'll go along an' see it done!" he cried. "We'll take my dogs an' by the
time we get back yours will be in shape again. My trader can run the
post, an' I'll bring in them Dog Ribs with me to do their tradin'."

The Indian, Ton-Kan, who accompanied Connie proved to be a good man on
the trail. In fact, the boy wondered, as he followed with the dog team,
if the Indian did not show just a little too much eagerness. Connie knew
something of Indians, and he knew that very few of them possessed the
zeal to exert themselves for the good of the tribe. Their attitude in
regard to the troubles of others was the attitude of 'Merican Joe when
he had shrugged and asked, "W'at you care?" Pierre Bonnet Rouge, Connie
knew to be an exception, and this man might be too, but as he understood
no word of either English or jargon, and Connie knew nothing of the Dog
Rib dialect, the boy decided to take no chances, but to keep close watch
on the Indian's movements when the time for action came.

In the afternoon of the second day Connie exchanged places with the
Indian, he himself taking the lead and letting Ton-Kan follow with the
dogs. The boy figured that if the trader had expected to be back at the
village in six days, his camp could not be more than two days away,
travelling light. That would allow him one day to pack his outfit for
the trail, and three days to reach the Indian village travelling heavy.
Therefore, he slowed the pace and proceeded cautiously.

Connie's experience as an officer of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police
had taught him something of the law, and of the value of securing
evidence. He knew that if he himself could succeed in buying liquor from
the free traders he would have evidence against them under the Northwest
Territories Act upon two counts: having liquor in possession in
prohibited territory, and selling liquor in prohibited territory. But
what he wanted most was to get them under the Indian Act for supplying
liquor to Indians, and it was for this purpose he had brought Ton-Kan
along. The boy had formulated no plan beyond the first step, which was
to have the Indian slip into the traders' camp and purchase some liquor
in payment for which he would give a beautiful fox skin, which skin had
been carefully and cunningly marked the night before by himself and
Pierre Bonnet Rouge. With the liquor as evidence in his possession his
course would be determined entirely by circumstances.

The early darkness was just beginning to fall when, topping a ridge,
Connie caught the faint glimmer of a light at the edge of a spruce
thicket beyond a strip of open tundra. Drawing back behind the ridge
Connie motioned to the Indian to swing the dogs into a thick clump of
stunted trees where they were soon unharnessed and tied. Loosening the
pack Connie produced the fox skin while the Indian lighted a fire. A few
moments later the boy held out the skin, pointed toward the camp of the
free traders, and uttered the single word "_hooch_."

Notwithstanding the Indian's evident eagerness to reach the trader's
camp, he hesitated and made signs indicating that he desired to eat
supper first--and Connie's suspicion of him immediately strengthened.
The boy shook his head, and reluctantly Ton-Kan obeyed, but not without
a longing look toward the grub pack.

When he had disappeared over the ridge Connie hastily bolted some
bannocks and a cold leg of rabbit. Then he fed the dogs, looked to his
service revolver which he carried carefully concealed beneath his
mackinaw, slipped Leloo's leash, and moved silently out on to the trail
of the Indian. Skirting the tundra, he kept in the scrub, and as he
worked his way cautiously toward the light he noted with satisfaction
that his own trail would excite no suspicion among the network of
snowshoe tracks that the free traders had made in visiting their rabbit
snares. In the fast gathering darkness the boy concealed himself in a
bunch of willows which commanded a view of the door and window of the
tiny cabin that lay half-buried in the snow. It was an old cabin
evidently, rechinked by the free traders. The light shone dully through
the little square window pane of greased paper. The Indian had already
been admitted and Connie could see dim shadows move across the pane. The
great wolf-dog crept close and, throwing his arm about the animal's
neck, the boy cuddled close against the warm shaggy coat. A few minutes
later the door opened and Ton-Kan reappeared. Immediately it slammed
shut, and Connie could dimly make out that the Indian was fastening on
his snowshoes. Presently he stood erect and, as the boy had expected,
instead of striking out for camp across the open tundra, he gave a
hurried glance about him and plunged into the timber.

Instantly the boy was on his feet. "I thought so, Leloo," he grinned.
"I thought he was awfully anxious to get that _hooch_. And when he
wanted to wait and eat supper first, I knew that he figured on pulling
out and wanted a full belly to travel on."

"He won't travel very far nor very fast," muttered the boy, as he
circled the little clearing. "Because it's a cinch he didn't get
anything to eat out of those birds--they'd take the fox skin for the
_hooch_, and they're not giving away grub." Leloo walked beside him,
ears erect, and every now and then as they glanced into the boy's face,
the smouldering yellow eyes seemed to flash understanding.

Darkness had settled in earnest, and it was no easy task to pick up the
trail in the scrub among the crisscrossed trails of the free traders,
especially as the boy did not dare to strike a light. He had carefully
studied the Indian's tracks as he had mushed along behind the dogs until
he knew every detail of their impression, but in the darkness all trails
looked alike. Time and again he stooped and with his face close to the
snow, examined the tracks. Time and again he picked up the trail only to
lose it a moment later. Then Leloo took a hand in the game. Connie's
attention was drawn to the dog by a low whine, and stopping he found the
great animal sniffing the fresh trail. "Good old dog!" whispered the
boy, patting the great head. Understanding what was wanted the wolf-dog
bounded off on the trail, but Connie called him back. "If I only dared!"
he exclaimed under his breath. "You'd run him down in five minutes--but
when you did--what then?" The boy shuddered at the recollection of the
stricken caribou and the swift silent rush with which the great silvered
brute had launched himself upon them. "I'm afraid you wouldn't savvy the
difference," he grinned, "and I don't want old Ton-Kan cut plumb in two.
If you'd only throw him down and hold him, or tree him like you did the
_loup cervier_, we'd have him in a hurry--and some time I'm going to
train you to do it." A sudden thought struck the boy as he met the
glance of the glowing yellow eyes. "If I had something to tie you with,
I'd start the training right now," he exclaimed. A hasty search of his
pockets produced a length of the heavy line that he and 'Merican Joe
used for fishing through the ice.

It was but the work of a moment to secure the line about the neck of
the wolf-dog and lead him to the spot where he had nosed out the
Indian's trail. With a low whine of understanding the great beast struck
straight into the timber, the confusion of tracks that had thrown Connie
completely off in the darkness, offering no obstacle whatever to the
keen-scented dog. As Connie had anticipated, Ton-Kan did not travel far
before stopping to sample the contents of the bottle. A half-hour after
the boy took the trail he pulled the straining Leloo to a stand and
peered through the scrub toward a spot at the edge of a thick windfall
where the Indian squatted beside a tiny fire. Holding Leloo close in,
Connie silently worked his way to within twenty feet of where the Indian
sat, bottle in hand, beside his little fire. The man drank from the
bottle, replaced the cork, rose to his feet, and with a grunt of
satisfaction, rubbed his stomach with his mittened hand. Then he
carefully placed the bottle in the snow, and moved toward a small dead
spruce to procure firewood. It was but the work of a moment for Connie
to secure the bottle, and at the sound Ton-Kan whirled to find himself
confronted by the smiling boy. With an exclamation of rage the Indian
sprang to recover his bottle, and the next instant drew back in terror
at sight of Leloo who had stepped in front of the boy, the hair of his
huge ruff a-quiver, the delicately pointed nose wrinkled to expose the
gleaming white fangs, and the yellow eyes glowing like live coals.

"Thought you'd kind of slip one over on me, did you?" smiled the boy as
he made signs for the Indian to follow, and headed for the sled. "You
did drink part of the evidence, but we've got enough left to hold those
birds for a while--and I'm going to get more."

The boy led the way back to the sled with Ton-Kan following dejectedly,
and while the Indian ate his supper, Connie did some rapid thinking. The
meal over he took the Indian's blankets from the sled and, together with
a two days' supply of grub, made them into a pack, which he handed to
Ton-Kan and motioned for him to hit the back trail. At first the Indian
feigned not to understand, then he protested that he was tired, but the
boy was unmoved. When Ton-Kan flatly refused to leave camp Connie drew
his watch from his pocket, held up three fingers, meaningly, and called
Leloo to his side. One glance at the great white wolf-dog with his
bristling ruff settled the argument, and with a grunt of fear, the
Indian snatched up his pack and struck out on the back trail with an
alacrity that belied any thought of weariness. Alone in the camp the boy
grinned into the embers of the little fire. "The next question," he
muttered to himself, "is where do I go from here? Getting rid of Ton-Kan
gets the odds down to two to one against me, but what will I do? I
haven't got any right to arrest 'em. I can't stay here, because they'll
be hitting the back trail for the Indian camp in the morning, and the
first thing they'll do will be to run on to my trail. Then they'll
figure the Mounted is on to them and they'll beat it, and make a clean
get-away. That would keep the _hooch_ away from this bunch of Indians,
but they'd trade it to the next bunch they came to. I ain't going to let
'em get away! I started out to get 'em and I will get 'em, somehow.
Guess the best way would be to go straight to the shack and figure out
what to do when I get there." Suiting the action to the word, the boy
carefully cached the bottle of liquor and packed his outfit. Then he
harnessed his dogs. When it came the turn of the leader, he whistled
for Leloo, but the great wolf-dog was not to be found. With a sudden
fear in his heart, the boy glanced toward the back trail. Had the great
brute understood that Connie and the Indian were at outs and had he
struck out on the trail to settle the matter in his own way? Swiftly the
boy fastened on his snowshoes, and overturning the sled to hold the
other dogs, he headed back along the trail. He had gone but a few steps,
however, before he halted and pushing the cap from his ears, listened.
From a high ridge to the northward, in the opposite direction from that
taken by the Indian, came the long howl of a great grey caribou-wolf,
and a moment later came an answering call--the weird blood-chilling,
terrible cry of the big white wolf-dog. And then Connie returned to his
outfit, for he knew that that night Leloo would run with the hunt-pack.

CHAPTER XIV

THE PASSING OF BLACK MORAN

A string of curses that consigned all Indians to regions
_infra-mundane_, greeted Connie's knock upon the door of the cabin of
the free traders.

"I'm not an Indian!" answered the boy. "Open the door and let a fellow
in! What's the matter with you?"

Connie could hear muttered conversation, as one of the occupants
stumbled about the room. Presently a light was struck and the door flew
open. "Who be you, an' what d'ye want? An' what you doin' trailin' this
time o' night, anyway?"

The man who stood framed in the doorway was of huge build, and scowling
countenance, masked for the most part by a heavy black beard.

Connie smiled. "My partner and I are trapping over beyond the Injun
village, about forty miles southwest of here, and the Injuns told us
that there were some free traders up here some place. We're short of
grub and we thought that if we could get supplies from you it would save
us a trip clear to Fort Norman."

"Turn yer dogs loose an' come in," growled the man, as he withdrew into
the cabin and closed the door against the cold. If Connie could have
seen, as he unharnessed his dogs, the swift glances that passed between
the two occupants of the cabin, and heard their muttered words, he would
have hesitated a long time before entering that cabin alone. But he did
not see the glances, nor did he hear the muttered words.

As he stepped through the doorway, he was seized violently from behind.
For a moment he struggled furiously, but it was child's play for the big
man to hold him, while a small, wizened man sat in his underclothing
upon the edge of his bunk and laughed.

"Frisk him!" commanded the big man, and the other rose from the bunk and
removed the service revolver from its holster. Then, with a vicious
shove, the big man sent Connie crashing into a chair that stood against
the opposite wall. "Sit there, you sneakin' little pup! Thought you
could fool us, did you, with yer lies about trappin'? Thought we
wouldn't know Constable Morgan, of the Mounted, did you? You was some
big noise on the Yukon, couple years back, wasn't you? Most always goin'
it alone an' makin' grandstand plays. Thought you was some stuff, didn't
you?" The man paused for breath, and Connie scrutinized his face, but
could not remember to have seen him before. He shifted his glance to the
other, who had returned to the edge of the bunk, and was regarding him
with a sneering smirk.

"Hello, Mr. Squigg," he said, in a voice under perfect control. "Still
up to your old crookedness, are you? It's a wonder to me they've let you
live this long."

The big man interrupted. "Know him, do you? But you don't know me. Well,
I'll tell you who I be, and I guess you'll know what yer up against. I'm
Black Moran!"

"Black Moran!" cried the boy. "Why, Black Moran was----"

[Illustration: "As he stepped through the doorway he was seized
violently from behind."

Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover]

"Was drounded when he tried to shoot them Pelly Rapids about three
jumps ahead of the police boat, was he? Well, that's what they said but
he wasn't, by a long sight. When the canoe smashed I went under all
right but the current throw'd me into a eddy, an' when the police boat
went down through the chute I was hangin' by my fingers to a rock. The
floater they found later in the lower river an' said was me, was someone
else--but I didn't take the trouble to set 'em right--not by a jug full,
I didn't. It suited me to a T."

"So you're the specimen that murdered old man Kinney for his dust
and----"

"Yup, I'm the party. An' they's a heft of other stuff they've got
charged up agin me--over on the Yukon side. But they ain't huntin' me,
'cause they think I'm dead." There was a cold glitter in the man's eye
and his voice took on a taunting note. "Still playin' a lone hand, eh?
Well, it got you at last, didn't it? Guess you've saw the handwritin' on
the wall by this time. You ain't a-goin' no place from here. You've
played yer string out. This here country ain't the Yukon. They ain't
nobody, nor nothin' here to prevent a man's doin' just what he wants to.
The barrens don't tell no tales. Yer smart, all right--an' you've got
the guts--that's why we ain't a-goin' to take no chances. By tomorrow
night it'll be snowin'. An' when the storm lets up, they won't be no
cabin here--just a heap of ashes in under the snow--an' you'll be part
of the ashes."

Connie had been in many tight places in his life, but he realized as he
sat in his chair and listened to the words of Black Moran that he was at
that moment facing the most dangerous situation of his career. He knew
that unless the man had fully made up his mind to kill him he would
never have disclosed his identity. And he knew that he would not
hesitate at the killing--for Black Moran, up to the time of his supposed
drowning, had been reckoned the very worst man in the North. Escape
seemed impossible, yet the boy showed not the slightest trace of fear.
He even smiled into the face of Black Moran. "So you think I'm still
with the Mounted do you?" he asked.

"Oh, no, we don't think nothin' like that," sneered the man. "Sure, we
don't. That there ain't no service revolver we tuk offen you. That
there's a marten trap, I s'pose. 'Course you're trappin', an' don't know
nothin' 'bout us tradin' _hooch_. What we'd ort to do is to sell you
some flour an' beans, an' let you go back to yer traps."

"Dangerous business bumping off an officer of the Mounted," reminded
the boy.

"Not over in here, it ain't. Special, when it's comin' on to snow. No.
They ain't no chanct in the world to git caught fer it--or even to git
blamed fer it, 'cause if they ever find what's left of you in the ashes
of the cabin, they'll think it got afire while you was asleep. Tomorrow
mornin' yo git yourn. In the meantime, Squigg, you roll in an' git some
sleep. You've got to take the outfit an' pull out early in the mornin'
an' unload that _hooch_ on to them Injuns. I'll ketch up with you 'fore
you git there, though. What I've got to do here won't take me no longer
than noon," he glanced meaningly at Connie, "an' then, we'll pull out of
this neck of the woods."

"Might's well take the kid's dogs an' harness, they might come in
handy," ventured Mr. Squigg.

"Take nothin!" roared Black Moran, angrily. "Not a blame thing that he's
got do we take. That's the trouble with you cheap crooks--grabbin' off
everything you kin lay yer hands on--and that's what gits you caught.
Sometime, someone would see something that they know'd had belonged to
him in our possession. Then, where'd we be? No, sir! Everything, dogs,
gun, sled, harness an' all goes into this cabin when she burns--so, shut
up, an' git to bed!" The man turned to Connie, "An' now, you kin roll up
on the floor in yer blankets an' pertend to sleep while you try to
figger a way out of this mess, or you kin set there in the chair an'
figger, whichever you want. Me--I'm a-goin' to set right here an' see
that yer figgerin' don't 'mount to nothin'--see?" The evil eyes of Black
Moran leered, and looking straight into them, Connie deliberately raised
his arms above his head and yawned.

"Guess I'll just crawl into my blankets and sleep," he said. "I won't
bother to try and figure a way out tonight--there'll be plenty of time
in the morning."

The boy spread his blankets and was soon fast asleep on the floor, and
Black Moran, watching him from his chair, knew that it was no feigned
sleep. "Well, of all the doggone nerve I ever seen, that beats it a
mile! Is he fool enough to think I ain't a-goin' to bump him off? That
ain't his reputashion on the Yukon--bein' a fool! It ain't noways
natural he should take it that easy. Is he workin' with a pardner, that
he expects'll git here 'fore mornin', or what? Mebbe that Injun comin'
here after _hooch_ a while back was a plant." The more the man thought,
the more uneasy he became. He got up and placed the two rifles upon the
table close beside him, and returned to his chair where he sat,
straining his ears to catch the faintest night sounds. He started
violently at the report of a frost-riven tree, and the persistent
rubbing of a branch against the edge of the roof set his nerves
a-jangle. And so it was that while the captive slept, the captor worried
and fretted the long night through.

Long before daylight, Black Moran awoke Squigg and made him hit the
trail. "If they's another policeman along the back trail, he'll run on
to Squigg, an' I'll have time fer a git-away," he thought, but he kept
the thought to himself.

When the man was gone, Black Moran turned to Connie who was again seated
in his chair against the wall. "Want anything to eat?" he asked.

"Why, sure, I want my breakfast. Kind of a habit I've got--eating
breakfast."

"Say!" exploded the man, "what ails you anyway? D'you think I'm
bluffin'? Don't you know that you ain't only got a few hours to
live--mebbe only a few minutes?"

"So I heard you say;" answered the boy, dryly. "But, how about
breakfast?"

"Cook it, confound you! There it is. If you figger to pot me while _I'm_
gittin' it, you lose. I'm a-goin' to set right here with this gun in my
hand, an' the first move you make that don't look right--out goes yer
light."

Connie prepared breakfast, while the other eyed him closely. And, as he
worked, he kept up his air of bravado--but it was an air he was far from
feeling. He knew Black Moran by reputation, and he knew that unless a
miracle happened his own life was not a worth a gun-wad. All during the
meal which they ate with Black Moran's eyes upon him, and a gun in his
hand, Connie's wits were busy. But no feasible plan of escape presented
itself, and the boy knew that his only chance was to play for time in
hope that something might turn up.

"You needn't mind to clean up them dishes," grinned the man. "They'll
burn dirty as well as clean. Git yer hat, now, an' we'll git this
business over with. First, git them dogs in the cabin, an' the sled an'
harness. Move lively, 'cause I got to git a-goin'. Every scrap of stuff
you've got goes in there. I don't want nothin' left that could ever be
used as evidence. It's clouded up already an' the snow'll take care of
the tracks." As he talked, the two had stepped out the door, and Connie
stood beside his sled about which were grouped his dogs. The boy saw
that Leloo was missing, and glanced about, but no sign of the great
wolf-dog was visible. "Stand back from that sled!" ordered the man, as
he strode to its side. "Guess I'll jest look it over to see if you've
got another gun." The man jerked the tarp from the pack, and seizing the
rifle tossed it into the cabin. Then he slipped his revolver into its
holster and picked up Connie's heavy dog-whip. As he did so Connie
caught just a glimpse of a great silver-white form gliding noiselessly
toward him from among the tree trunks. The boy noted in a flash that the
cabin cut off the man's view of the wolf-dog. And instantly a ray of
hope flashed into his brain. Leloo was close beside the cabin, when with
a loud cry, Connie darted forward and, seizing a stick of firewood from
a pile close at hand, hurled it straight at Black Moran. The chunk
caught the man square in the chest. It was a light chunk, and could not
have possibly harmed him, but it did exactly what Connie figured it
would do--it drove him into a sudden rage--_with the dog-whip in his
hand._ With a curse the man struck out with the whip, and as its lash
bit into Connie's back, the boy gave a loud yell of pain.

At the corner of the cabin, Leloo saw the boy throw the stick. He saw it
strike the man. And he saw the man lash out with the whip. Also, he
heard the boy's cry of pain. As the man's arm drew back to strike again,
there was a swift, silent rush of padded feet, and Black Moran turned
just in time to see a great silvery-white shape leave the snow and
launch itself straight at him. He saw, in a flash, the red tongue and
the gleaming white fangs, and the huge white ruff, each hair of which
stuck straight out from the great body.

A single shrill shriek of mortal terror resounded through the forest,
followed by a dull thud, as man and wolf-dog struck the snow together.
And then--the silence of the barrens.

It was long past noon. The storm predicted by Black Moran had been
raging for hours, and for hours the little wizened man who had left the
cabin before dawn had been plodding at the head of his dogs. At
intervals of an hour or so he would stop and strain his eyes to pierce
the boiling white smother of snow that curtained the back-trail. Then he
would plod on, glancing to the right and to the left.

The over-burden of snow slipping from a spruce limb brushed his parka
and he shrieked aloud, for the feel of it was a feel of a heavy hand
upon his shoulder. Farther on he brought up trembling in every limb at
the fall of a wind-broken tree. The snapping of dead twigs as the spruce
wallowed to earth through the limbs of the surrounding trees sounded in
his ears like--the crackling of flames--flames that licked at the dry
logs of a--burning cabin. A dead limb cracked loudly and the man
crouched in fear. The sound was the sound of a pistol shot from
behind--from the direction of Black Moran.

"Why don't he come?" whispered the wizened man. "What did he send me
alone for? Thought I didn't have the nerve fer--fer--what he was goin'
to do. An' I ain't, neither. I wisht I had--but, I ain't." The man
shuddered: "It's done by this time, an'--why don't he come? What did I
throw in with him fer? I'm afraid of him. If he thought I stood in his
way he'd bump me off like he'd squ'sh a fly that was bitin' him. If I
thought I could git away with it, I'd hit out right now--but I'm afraid.
If he caught me--" The wizened man shuddered and babbled on, "An' if he
didn't, the Mounted would. An' if they didn't--" again he paused, and
glanced furtively into the bush. "They _is_ things in the woods that men
don't know! I've heered 'em--an' seen 'em, too. They _is_ ghosts! And
they _do_ ha'nt men down. They're white, an--it's beginnin' to git dark!
Why don't Moran come? I'd ruther have him, than _them_--an' now there's
another one of 'em--to raise out of the ashes of a fire! I'd ort to
camp, but if I keep a pluggin' along mebbe I kin git to the Injun
village. 'Taint fur, now--acrost this flat an' then dip down onto the
river--What's that!" The man halted abruptly and stared. "It's one of
'em now!" he faltered, with tongue and lips that felt stiff. "An' it's
covered with fine white ashes!" He knew that he was trembling in every
limb, as he stared at the snow-covered object that stood stiffly beside
the trail only a few yards ahead. "Nuthin' but a stump," he said, and
laughed, quaveringly. "Sure--it's a stump--with snow on it. I remember
that stump. No--it wasn't here where the stump was. Yes, it was. It
looks different with the snow on it. Gosh, a'mighty, it's a ghost! No
'taint--'taint moved. That's the stump. I remember it. I says to Moran,
'There's a stump.' An' Moran says, 'Yup, that's a stump.'" He cut
viciously at his dogs with the whip. "Hi yu there! Mush-u!"

At the door of the little cabin Connie Morgan stared wide-eyed at the
thing that lay in the snow. Schooled as he was to playing a man's part
in the drama of the last great frontier, the boy stood horror-stricken
at the savage suddenness of the tragedy that had been enacted before his
eyes. A few seconds before, he had been in the power of Black Moran,
known far and wide as the hardest man in the North. And, now, there was
no Black Moran--only a grotesquely sprawled _thing_--and a slush of
crimson snow. The boy was conscious of no sense of regret--no thought of
self-condemnation--for he knew too well the man's record. This man who
had lived in open defiance of the laws of God and of man had met swift
death at the hand of the savage law of the North. The law that the men
of the outlands do not seek to explain, but believe in
implicitly--because they have seen the workings of that law. It is an
inexorable law, cruel, and cold, and hard--as hard as the land it
governs with its implacable justice. It is the law of retribution--and
its sentence is PAY.

Black Moran had paid. He had played his string out--had come to the end
of his trail. And Connie knew that justice had been done. Nevertheless,
as the boy stood there in the silence of the barrens and stared down at
the sprawling form, he felt strangely impressed--horrified. For, after
all, Black Moran had been a human being, and one--the boy shuddered at
the thought--who, with murder in his heart, had been ill equipped for
passing suddenly into the presence of his God.

With tight-pressed lips the boy dragged the body into the cabin and
covered it with a blanket, and then, swiftly, he recovered his rifle and
revolver, harnessed his dogs, and struck out on the trail of Squigg. An
hour after the storm struck, the trail was obliterated. Here and there,
where it cut through thick spruce copses, he could make it out but by
noon he knew he was following only its general direction. He knew also
that by bearing slightly to the southward he would strike the river that
led to the village of the Indians.

It was nearly dark when he came out upon a flat that even in the gloom
and the whirling snow he recognized as the beaver meadow from which the
trail dipped to the river. Upon the edge of it he halted to examine the
spruce thickets along its western side, for signs of the trail of
Squigg, and it was while so engaged that he looked up to see dimly in
the white smother the form of the man and his dog-team. The man halted
suddenly and seemed to be staring at him. Connie stood motionless in his
tracks, waiting. For a long time the man stood peering through the
flying snow, then the boy saw his arm raise, heard the crack of his
whiplash, and then the sound of his voice--high-pitched and unnatural it
sounded coming out of the whirling gloom: "Hi yu, there! Mush-u!"

Not until Squigg was within ten feet of him did the boy move, then he
stepped directly into the trail. A low, mewling sound quavered from the
man's lips, and he collapsed like an empty bag.

"Stand up!" ordered the boy, in disgust. But instead of obeying, the
man grovelled and weltered about in the snow, all the while emitting an
incoherent, whimpering wail. Connie reached down to snatch the man to
his feet, when suddenly he started back in horror. For the wailing
suddenly ceased, and in his ears, high and shrill, sounded a peal of
maniacal laughter. The eyes of the man met his own in a wild glare,
while peal after peal of the horrible laughter hurtled from between the
parchment-like lips that writhed back to expose the snaggy, gum-shrunken
teeth.

Horrible as had been the sight of Black Moran lying in the
blood-reddened snow, the sight of Squigg wallowing in the trail and the
sound of his weird laughter, were far more horrible. The laughter
ceased, the man struggled to his feet and fixed Connie with his
wild-eyed stare, as he advanced toward him with a peculiar loose-limbed
waddle: "I know you! I know you!" he shrilled. "I heard the flames
cracklin', an' snappin'! An' now you've got me, an' Moran's comin' an'
you'll git him, an' we'll all be ghosts together--all of us--an' we'll
stand like stumps by the trail! I'm a stump! I'm a stump! Ha, ha, ha.
He, he, he! I'm a stump! I'm a stump!"

"Shut up!" cried Connie in desperation, as he strove to master an
almost overwhelming impulse to turn and fly from the spot. "Crazy as a
loon," thought the boy, with a shudder, "and I've got to take him clear
to Fort Norman, alone!" "I'm a stump, I'm a stump," chanted the man,
shrilly, and the boy saw that he had come to a rigid stand close beside
the trail.

With a final effort Connie pulled himself together. "I've got it to do,
and I'll do it," he muttered between clenched teeth. "But, gee whiz! It
will take a week to get to Fort Norman!"

"I'm a stump, I'm a stump," came the monotonous chant, from the rigid
figure beside the trail.

"Sure, you're a stump," the boy encouraged, "and if you'll only stick to
it till I get the tent up and a fire going, you'll help like the
dickens."

Hurrying to his dogs the boy swung them in, and in the fast gathering
darkness and whirling snow he worked swiftly and skillfully in pitching
the little tent and building a fire. When the task was finished and the
little flames licked about his blackened teapot, he sliced some fat
pork, threw a piece of caribou steak in the frying pan, and set it on
the fire. Then he walked over to where Squigg stood repeating his
monotonous formula.

"Grub's ready," announced the boy.

"I'm a stump. I'm a stump."

"Sure you are. But it's time to eat."

"I'm a stump, I'm a stump," reiterated the man.

Connie took hold of him and essayed to lead him to the fire, but the man
refused to budge.