278 THE FUR TRADE OF AMERICA 



hedge-top, or the saucy jay shriek some scolding impudence. A 

 squirrel may chatter out his noisy protest at some thief for approach- 

 ing the nuts which lie cached under the rotten leaves at the foot 

 of the tree, or the sun-warmth may set the melting snow shower- 

 ing from the swan's-down branches with a patter like rain. But 

 at nightfall the frost has stilled the drip of thaw. Squirrel and 

 bird are wrapped in the utter quiet of a gray darkness. And the 

 marauders that fill midnight with sharp bark, shrill trembling 

 scream, deep baying over the snow, are not yet abroad in the woods. 

 All is shadowless — stillness — a quiet that is audible. 



Koot turned sharply and whistled and called his dog. There 

 wasn't a sound. Later when the frost began to tighten, sap- 

 frozen twigs would snap. The ice of the swamp, frozen like rock, 

 would by-and-by crackle with the loud echo of a pistol-shot — 

 crackle — and strike — and break as if artillery were firing a fusil- 

 lade and infantry shooters answering sharp. By-and-by, moon 

 and stars and Northern Lights would set the shadows dancing; 

 and the wail of the cougar would be echoed by the lifting scream 

 of its mate. But now, was not a sound, not a motion, not a shadow, 

 only the noiseless stillness, the shadowless quiet, and the feel, the 

 feel of something back where the darkness was gathering like a 

 curtain in the bush. 



It might, of course, be only a silly long-ears loping under cover 

 parallel to the man, looking with rabbit curiosity at this strange 

 newcomer to the swamp home of the animal world. Root's sense 

 of feel told him that it wasn't a rabbit ; but he tried to persuade 

 himself that it was, the way a timid listener persuades herself that 

 creaking floors are burglars. Thinking of his many snares, Koot 

 smiled and walked on. Then it came again, that feel of something 

 coursing behind the underbrush in the gloom of the gathering dark- 

 ness. Koot stopped short — and listened — and listened — 

 listened to a snow-muffled silence, to a desolating solitude that 

 pressed in on the lonely hunter like the waves of a limitless sea 

 round a drowning man. 



