140 THE STORY OF THE TRAPPER 



silence is of stone. Only the snap of the blaze, the 

 crackling of the frosted air, the break of a twig back 

 among the brush, where something has moved, and the 

 little, low, smothered barkings of the dog on guard. 



By-and-bye the rustling through the brush ceases ; 

 and the dog at last lowers his ears and lies quiet. The 

 trapper throws a stick into the woods and sends the 

 dog after it. The dog comes back without any bark 

 ings of alarm. The man knows that the wolves have 

 drawn off. Will he wait out that long Northern night ? 

 He has had nothing to eat but the piece of pemmican. 

 The heavy frost drowsiness will come presently; and 

 if he falls asleep the fire will go out. An hour s run 

 will carry him home ; but to make speed with the snow- 

 shoes he must run in the open, exposed to all watchers. 



When an Indian balances motives, the motive of 

 hunger invariably prevails. Pulling up his hood, belting 

 in the caribou coat and kicking up the dog, the trapper 

 strikes out for the open way leading back to the line 

 of his traps, and the hollow where the lodges have been 

 built for shelter against wind. There is another rea 

 son for building lodges in a hollow. Sound of the 

 hunter will not carry to the game; but neither will 

 sound of the game carry to the hunter. 



And if the game should turn hunter and the man 

 turn hunted ! The trapper speeds down the snowy 

 slope, striding, sliding, coasting, vaulting over hum 

 mocks of snow, glissading down the drifts, leaping 

 rather than running. The frosty air acts as a con 

 ductor to sound, and the frost films come in stings 

 against the face of the man whose eye, ear, and touch 

 are strained for danger. It is the dog that catches the 



