THE MAKING OF THE MOCCASINS 207 



line of direct trail and follows in a circling detour. Here, he finds 

 the print fresher, not an hour old. The moose had stopped to 

 browse and the markings are moist on a twig. The trapper leaves 

 the trail, advancing always by a detour to leeward. He is sure, 

 now, that it is a spinster. If it had been any other, the moose 

 would not have been alone. The rest would be tracking into the 

 leader's steps ; and by the fresh trail he knows for a certainty 

 there is only one. But his very nearness increases the risk. The 

 wind may shift. The snowfall is thinning. This time, when he 

 comes back to the trail, it is fresher still. The hunter now gets 

 his rifle ready. He dare not put his foot down without testing 

 the snow, lest a twig snap. He parts a way through the brush 

 with his hand and replaces every branch. And when next he 

 comes back to the line of the moose's travel, there is no trail. This 

 is what he expected. He takes off his coat; his leggings, if they 

 are loose enough to rub with a leathery swish ; his muskrat fur 

 cap, if it has any conspicuous color ; his boots, if they are noisy 

 and given to crunching. If only he aim true, he will have moccasins 

 soon enough. Leaving all impedimenta, he follows back on his 

 own steps to the place where he last saw the trail. Perhaps the 

 saucy jay cries with a shrill, scolding shriek that sends cold shivers 

 down the trapper's spine. He wishes he could get his hands on 

 its wretched little neck; and turning himself to a statue, he stands 

 stone-still till the troublesome bird settles down. Then he goes on. 



Here is the moose trail ! 



He dare not follow direct. That would lead past her hiding- 

 place and she would bolt. He resorts to artifice ; but, for that 

 matter, so has the moose resorted to artifice. The trapper, too, 

 circles forward, cutting the moose's magic guard with transverse 

 zigzags. But he no longer walks. He crouches, or creeps, or glides 

 noiselessly from shelter to shelter, very much the way a cat advances 

 on an unwary mouse. He sinks to his knees and feels forward for 

 snow-pads every pace. Then he is on all-fours, still circling. His 

 detour has narrowed and narrowed till he knows she must be in 



