Dec. 7, 1895.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



487 



aa he could go. A fox is about the hardest animal we 

 have to catch, though we do catch them right along. 



"Now, a lynx is not a very hard animal to trap. Some- 

 times a lynx is the biggest sort of a fool. He won't try 

 to spring a trap, or to run away from it, but will go right 

 into it. He will follow along a trail for half a mile or so 

 perhaps, and as we always want an animal to do that we 

 sometimes use a drop or two of scent now and then, and 

 we put scent on the bait. Fish oil is a good scent, or fish 

 oil and beaver castor, or fish oil and parts of female ani- 

 mals. We don't rely on the scent altogether and have 

 no secrets about it, but we use it sometimes. A lynx 

 will follow a long way on the trail of scent, and it seems to 

 be full of curiosity. Now, if you wanted to put out a 

 sign over a trap to frighten away a fox, you would hang 

 a red rag over it, wouldn't you? Yet I have often caught 

 lynx by hanging a piece of red flannel over the trap. If 

 a lynx sees a red rag hanging up that way he is about 

 sure to go and see what it is. 



"We bait all our traps with just whatever we happen 

 to have handy, mostly pieces of rabbit. We caught some 

 beaver not long ago, and we have used a good deal of 

 chopped beaver for bait. 



"When a man is running a line he has to have a good 

 many pounds of bait in his pack if be is going far. I 

 carry my bait in a rubber bag, made by sewing up one 

 end of a rubber boot leg. This keeps it away from your 

 other stuff, in case the warmth of your back thaws it out 

 on the march. 



"In 'trappers' guide' books you see pretty pictures about 



mouth. It was the chance of a lifetime for a photograph, 

 and it would have been worth a good deal to FuEEST ani> 

 Stream to print the picture of the beast as it lay there, 

 fairly buffi trig with rage. 



But alas! The same faking fraud of a camera which 

 three times broke down with me out in the Yellowstone 

 Park, and whicLi only by a miracle did the work asked of 

 it, chose this very moment to go wrong again. I got 

 square in front of my lynx, at a distance of about 8ft., 

 set the instrument, got Brandis to poke up the subject 

 until he looked a very demon of wrath, and touched 

 the button ! The camera did the rest. (I will say this was 

 not an Eastman machine.) There was a faint, slow, half- 

 way click. I knew, from former experience, what was 

 the matter. The shutter doors, instead of passing free 

 and letting in the light, only threw half way. They 

 paused at just such a point that by no way possible could 

 a ray of light get into the lens! My heart sunk, fori 

 knew it was all over. It was no time to fix a camera, in 

 front of a live lynx, in a dim forest, with the evening 

 light already waning. Later the miserable fraud of a 

 camera closed its career by tearing the film across, twenty 

 miles from the railroad and in the middle of the trip. At 

 great trouble and delay I sent back to Chicago for an- 

 other camera, and thus in the last half of my trip got some 

 pictures after all. 



But I got no picture of my lynx, and I presume I shall 

 never have such another opportunity. Unwilling to ad- 

 mit the truth, I tried several times to get an exposure, 

 and once nearly lost a trouser leg by it. I was only about 



hold — and then we persuaded him along into camp, which 

 we reached at dusk. 



The Main Camp. 



We found the central camp of our trapper friends a 

 very comfortable affair, thanks to the transportation 

 facilities afforded by water in the summer season. The 

 camp was located in the heavy timber at the narrows of 

 the Turtle Lakes. It was composed of one big wall tent 

 with a smaller one ended on to it at the rear, the latter 

 being used as a sleeping place. In the big tent there was 

 a table, a good cook stove and a few rough stools. A rope 

 was stretched over the stove for a drying line. There 

 was a good pile of stove wood back of the stove. In the 

 sleeping tent there was a perfect stack of good blankets. 

 Everything was eminently comfortable. When we went 

 in Fay had supper nearly ready. Fay is a fine cook and 

 not a trapper of the shiftless kind. He baked as nice a 

 pan of biscuit as one ever saw. And there was some of 

 that same sausage that we emelled frying when we first 

 found Mrs. Buck getting breakfast. And there were pork 

 and beans, and tea and sugar. By the time we had our 

 wet outer socks drying on the line everything was ready, 

 and we ate as only such folk can. Surely the day had 

 been a busy one, and not one of child's play, but work 

 for men. My first day in trapperdom did not bear out in 

 the least the old tradition of the easy, lazy and shiftless 

 ways of the trapper. If those were ever successful 

 methods they would not do to-day. 



But we were almost too comfortable for my notion of 



STARTING FOR THE WINTER CAMP. 



TRAPPERS' EXPRESS, STAR LAKE, WIS. 



how to build bark or slab houses for the bait, so that an 

 animal is sure to get caught if he goes in, We don't do 

 anything like that, for it's a bad plan. All our sets are 

 just natural sets. We take advantage of natural objects 

 only in laying our traps." 



My young giant now pressed ahead over the fallen tim- 

 ber, up and down and around hummocks, over and under 

 prone tree trunks and masses of uptorn roots, walking 

 with ease and swiftness, now and then striking a playful 

 blow with the axe he carried in one hand. His pack of 

 60lbs. seemed not to distress or encumber him, and he 

 talked to me of the ways of the woods creatures as we 

 went along. We saw plenty of sign as we got into this 

 rough country, most of it marten sign; but at length Fay 

 stopped, and called out: 



Hello! Here's that old lynx again." (Of course he 

 called it "link.") "He's been through here two or 'three 

 times before, and I believe there's more than one of them 

 in this windfall." 



He pointed to the tracks, near the trail where it passed 

 through a section of massed and matted down timber, a 

 "windfall" such as the lynx likes for a home. The big, 

 furry paws had left holes in the snow the size of a horse's 

 track. We followed the sign for a way, and I was fol- 

 lowing along this while Fay went ahead to look at some 

 traps along a side trail. Soon after this Brandis and Nor- 

 ris overtook me, and we three started on down the trail 

 together. 



The Lynx in the Trap. 



Fay, who was a rapid walker and a hustler on a trail, 

 was nearly a quarter of a mile ahead, when we heard him 

 halloo to us, his voice at first sounding very faint and far 

 away. Knowing that something had turned up, we all 

 crowded ahead as fast as we could, and at last I could dis- 

 tinguish his words. 



"Here's your chance for your picture!" he sang out. 



It was a chance, sure enough. From under the root of 

 a fallen tree, where a few drooping boughs had aided in 

 making a little den free from the snow, there sprang an 

 animal as large as a setter dog, but with aflat head, close- 

 laid ears aud great thick legs and feet. In the dim light 

 in which we first saw it in the deep woods, it looked quite 

 black, but when we came closer, we saw the gray coat of 

 the full furred Canada lynx — a lynx with the. steel trap 

 hanging to his forefoot, a lynx full grown and viciously 

 angry all the way through. Our trip was not an empty 

 one! 



The lynx tried once more to loosen the dog pole, which 

 was about 8ft. long and which was thrust into the roots 

 of the tree, the ring of the trap chain being driven down 

 tight on its larger end. Failing in this, he swung and 

 whirled over the pole, spat, sniffed and clawed about, 

 and then went back into Lis hole. He was a migthy mad 

 lynx, if the usual cat signs of anger were any good. 



"You get your photograph machine ready, "said Bran- 

 dis, after I had let the lynx chew the end of my snow- 

 shoe pole awhile (the deep marks of his teeth are on the 

 pole yet.) "I'm going to pull him out." 



The lynx didn't want to come out at first, when Brandis 

 pulled on the clog pole, but all at once he let loose and 

 came clear out into the trail at one motion, clearing a 

 swath around with a spread foot that looked as big and 

 ugly as a buzz saw. Then, failing to reach any of us, as 

 Brandis crowded the end of the pole down into the deep 

 snow, he lay flat with his ears down, his teeth showing 

 and a roost tremendous deep bass growl coming out of his 



6ft. from the lynx, and with my back against a cedar tree, 

 when he made a sudden spring, tore the end of the pole 

 out of the snow, and came at me with a circular sweep of 

 his good foot which didn't miss my leg 6in. We surely 

 had lively times there for a while. 



The Lynx is Easily Killed. 



This lynx was finally killed by a blow over the back of 

 the head from a snowshoe pole, and I was surprised to 

 see how light a blow sufficed to kill it. "They all talk 

 about the toughness of lynx and wildcat," said Fay, "but 

 they ain't hard to kill at all, if you hit 'em over the head 

 right. But they'll fight all right. If a tr?pped hnx 

 breaks loose, it's more'n likely he'll come for you. Once 

 last winter I was out on the line, and I had a rifle along. 

 I only had two or three cartridges along, and shot away 

 all but one load. Then I came to one of my traps that 

 had a live lynx in it. I thought I'd just shoot him, so I 

 cut away, but somehow he moved, and I hit him in the 

 foot and cut it loose from the trap. You can b-t he didn't 

 run. He just came for me a-jumping. It happened that 

 there was a club sticking up in the snow, such as we 

 nearly always leave near a lynx trap, and I just grabbed 

 it and swatted the lynx over the head with it when he 

 jumped at me." 



Such was Fay's brief version of an affair that would 

 have been good for two columns in a New York daily, or 

 which would have served many men for a life-long story 

 of their own heroism. I confess that the prowess of 

 these big cats deteriorated in my esteem from that 

 time on. 



The Well and the Weary. 



Fay now went on ahead to camp, which was still four 

 or five miles away, while we repacked our worthless 

 camera and again took up the march. To my surprise, 

 Brandis did not stop to skin the lynx, but strapped the 

 body on top of his pack, which must already have weighed 

 501bs, It seemed to give him not the least trouble, and 

 again I marveled at what custom and habit will do for a 

 a man. It would be impossible for one unused to it to 

 carry such a pack even on the best of roads. 



When we emerged from the cedar swamp we came to 

 the shore of Turtle Lake, which lay before us a great 

 white plain, perhaps five miles across. Even then, in the 

 distance, the figure of Fay Buck waB growing shorter and 

 dimmer in the distance, as he kept up the clipping gait 

 which he had struck. After this distant guide we fol- 

 lowed, the trail lying perfectly straight' to the point of an 

 island. At the edge of the lake I put on my skis, and 

 from there on in it was like flying for me, as the snow 

 was good. The others plodded along, clumpety-clump, 

 Brandis silent, mechanical, tireless, long-haired, blue- 

 eyed and picturesque. At the last two miles Norris, who 

 had been sick not long before, began to weaken and tire 

 very fast. We took his pack, but still he did not freshen, 

 for the step of the web shoe is much harder than the slide 

 of the slei, and requires more muscular effort. It was 

 now growing bitterly cold and we felt the wind keenly 

 out on the lake. Three-quarters of a mile from camp 

 Norris walked to a stump on the shore of the lake, which 

 we were skirting, and sat down. This was bad, and I 

 knew he was about played out, so we dug down deep in 

 Brandis's pack and got out the brandy flask, which was 

 kept as a last resort in a case of this kind. I gave him a 

 Billy Hof er drink— what the screw-top of the flask would 



the correct thing. The blankets were too abundant and 

 thick and warm, even though in the morning when we 

 awoke th9y were covered with a thick frosty rime from 

 the congealed breath (the thermometer was 6° below 

 zero). I signified my wish to tackle something tougher. 



"You'll get it tough enough if you g.> the round," said 

 Fay, grinning as he looked at Frank Brandis; and Brandis 

 replied with his slow smile. E. Hough. 



909 Security Building, Chicago. 



A SPOT ON THE SPECTRUM. 



There are occasional dark spots on the spectrum of a 

 sporting life — that is, incidents which take all the sport 

 out of a trip and leave only memories that call up un- 

 pleasant things. Such a memory haunts my mind to- 

 night. There is a child in this story, and anything that 

 touches children touches all our hearts alike. 



In western Nebraska there is a broad strip of country 

 that is only partially settled and -the towns are far apart, 

 only little more than trading points for the few people 

 who manage to make some kind of a living out of the 

 soil they cultivate. This country, between the Platte 

 and Republican rivers, is famous for goose hunting; and 

 that was the game we were after when we got off the 

 train one cold night late in the fall of '86. 



We had had supper and were sitting around the hotel 

 stove discussing the goose question, when some one rode 

 up to the door and hallooed. We opened the door, and 

 there sat a man on a steaming pony in the full glare of 

 the lamplight. While the white flakes of snow, fore- 

 runners of what soon developed into a blizzard, sifted to 

 the ground he addressed us with words about like these: 

 "Say, you fellers, Blodgett's little kid has strayed away 

 from home this afternoon and we're going to organize to 

 hunt it. All that can g o better get some kind of a rig 

 and get out there as soon as you can, for we want all we 

 can get and we're going to have a nasty night too. I'm 

 going down and get the boys at Hank's and I'll meet you 

 later at Blodgett's." 



That was enough. There was a helpless child, 5 years 

 old, lost on those open prairies in the darkness and 

 storm. Some of us had little ones of our own, and those 

 who didn't were ready to go anywhere on demand. 



In ten minutes there was not a man left in the hotel 

 office; and two spring wagons were whirling away 

 through the storm as fast as the sturdy broncho teams 

 could take them. 



Men grim and determined, with blanched faces, 

 breathed a silent prayer for that little wanderer as they 

 rode into the storm, that increased and grew colder as 

 they faced it on a mission of help. 



Some of us had been lost on those dreary uplands and 

 fear for the child tugged at our hearts as we thought how 

 small was the chance of finding that little form alone 

 there in the darkness, wandering God only knew where. 



We were not long in reaching the Blodgett home and 

 soon learned that the child had been playing with others 

 just before dark in a canon, as they call the draws and 

 gullies in that region, and when called had failed to 

 appear. They had found the track and followed it far 

 enough to know that the child had started out down the 

 canon, or directly away from the house. 



We were Boon on the trail with lanterns and followed 

 the sturdy little fellow's footprints until the snow com- 

 pletely covered all traces; then we went on searching 



