THE TRAPPER 145 



The trapper dropped her with a well-placed bullet 

 in the chest, which, raking through, despatched her 

 at once. She stopped all movement almost with 

 a click, like a clockwork toy, and fell at the entrance 

 to her winter home. 



I wish I could record that the lives of the little 

 ones were spared. I wish I could ! But — well, 

 a trapper is not out for his health. He quests for 

 pelts for a livelihood, not because he likes it, and 

 what furs he gets he works hard for. We must all 

 live, even though a certain philosopher said he saw 

 no reason for it. 



Such an idea as keeping the cubs alive never 

 occurred to the hunter. He had no way of main- 

 taining them for even half a day. His own com- 

 missariat arrangements were of the roughest, and 

 tinned milk a luxury unknown. The idea never 

 came to him, and he slew the little creatures re- 

 morselessly. Those that are without a muff among 

 you cast the first stone. 



The dismemberment was rendered difficult owing 

 to the acute cold, but the carcass was much too 

 heavy for one man to tow across the snow to the 

 distant log shack. It had to be accomplished 

 somehow, and with that resource which marks out 



19 



