THE INDIAN TRAPPER 137 



him to think. And the man, too, dissembles; for as 

 he looks the form fades into the gloom, and he decides 

 to run on parallel to the brushwood, with his gun ready. 

 Just ahead is a break in the shrubbery. At the clear 

 ing he can see how many wolves there are, and as he 

 is heading home there is little danger. 



But at the clearing nothing crosses. The dog dashes 

 off to the woods with wild barking, and the trapper 

 scans the long, white stretch leading back between the 

 bushes to a horizon that is already dim in the steel 

 grays of twilight. 



Half a mile down this openway, off the homeward 

 route of his traps, a wolfish figure looms black against 

 the snow and stands ! The dog prances round and 

 round as if he would hold the creature for his master s 

 shot ; and the Indian calculates &quot; After all, there is 

 only one.&quot; 



What a chance to approach it under cover, as it has 

 approached his traps ! The stars are already prick 

 ing the blue darkness in cold, steel points ; and the 

 Northern Lights are swinging through the gloom like 

 mystic censers to an invisible Spirit, the Spirit of the 

 still, white, wide, northern wastes. It is as clear as day. 



One thought of his loss at the fox trap sends the 

 Indian flitting through the underwoods like a hunted 

 partridge. The sharp barkings of the dog increase in 

 fury, and when the trapper emerges in the open, he 

 finds the wolf has straggled a hundred yards farther. 

 That was the meaning of the dog s alarm. Going back 

 to cover, the hunter again advances. But the wolf 

 keeps moving leisurely, and each time the man sights 

 his game it is still out of range for the old-fashioned 

 musket. The man runs faster now, determined to get 



