134 THE STORY OP THE TRAPPER 



struction of log and drift, to throw a pursuer off the 

 scent. This time the Indian makes two or three cir 

 cuits ; but the snow is so crusted it is impossible to tell 

 whether the scratchings lead out to the open or back 

 to the border of snow-drifted woods. If the animal 

 had followed the line of the traps by running just inside 

 the brush,, the Indian would know. But the midwinter 

 day is short, and he has no time to explore the border 

 of the thicket. 



Perhaps he has a circle of thirty traps. Of that 

 number he hardly expects game in more than a dozen. 

 If six have a prize, he has done well. Each time he 

 stops to examine a trap he must pause to cover all 

 trace of the man-smell, daubing his own tracks with 

 castoreum, or pomatum, or bears grease ; sweeping the 

 snow over every spot touched by his hand; dragging 

 the flesh side of a fresh pelt across his own trail. 



Mid-day comes, the time of the short shadow; and 

 the Indian trapper has found not a thing in his traps. 

 He only knows that some daring enemy has dogged the 

 circle of his snares. That means he must kill the ma 

 rauder, or find new hunting-grounds. If he had doubt 

 about swift vengeance for the loss of a rabbit, he has 

 none when he comes to the next trap. He sees what is 

 too much for words: what entails as great loss to the 

 poor Indian trapper as an exchange crash to the white 

 man. One of his best steel-traps lies a little distance 

 from the pole to which it was attached. It has been 

 jerked up with a great wrench and pulled as far as 

 the chain would go. The snow is trampled and stained 

 and covered with gray fur as soft and silvery as chin 

 chilla. In the trap is a little paw, fresh cut, scarce 

 ly frozen. He had caught a silver fox, the fortune of 



