stared curiously at them; then another and another until nearly a dozen were in sight; still farther many others appeared; to the left were more, and movements told of yet others to the right. Then their white flags went up and all loped gently away on the slope that rose to the north. There may have been twenty or thirty deer in sight, but the general effect of all their white tails, bobbing away, was that the woods were full of deer. They seemed to be there by the hundreds and the joy of seeing so many beautiful live things was helped in the hunters by the feeling that this was their own hunting-ground. They had, indeed, reached the land of plenty.
The stream increased as they marched; many springs and some important rivulets joined on. They found some old beaver signs but none new; and they left their deadfalls every quarter mile or less.
The stream began to descend more quickly until it was in a long, narrow valley with steep clay sides and many pools. Here they saw again and again the tracks and signs of otter and coming quietly round a turn that opened a new reach they heard a deep splash, then another and another.
The hunters’ first thought was to tie up Skookum, but a glance showed that this was unnecessary. They softly dropped the packs and the sick dog lay meekly down beside them. Then they crept forward with hunter caution, favoured by an easterly breeze. Their first thought was of beaver, but they had seen no recent sign, nor was there anything that looked like a beaver pond. The measured splash, splash, splash — was not so far ahead. It might be a bear snatching fish, or — no, that was too unpleasant — a man baling out a canoe. Still the slow splash, splash, went on at intervals, not quite regular.
Now it seemed but thirty yards ahead and in the creek.
With the utmost care they crawled to the edge of the clay and opposite they saw a sight but rarely glimpsed by man. Here were six otters; two evidently full-grown, and four seeming young of the pair, engaged in a most hilarious and human game of tobogganing down a steep clay hill to plump into a deep part at its foot.
Plump went the largest, presumably the father; down he went, to reappear at the edge, scramble out and up an easy slope to the top of the twenty-foot bank. Splash, splash, splash, came three of the young ones; splash, splash, the mother and one of the cubs almost together.
“Scoot” went the big male again, and the wet furslopping and rubbing on the long clay chute made it greasier and slipperier every time.
Splash, plump, splash — splash, plump, splash, went the otter family gleefully, running up the bank again, eager each to be first, it seemed, and to do the chute the oftenest.
The gambolling grace, the obvious good humour, the animal hilarity of it all, was absorbingly amusing. The trappers gazed with pleasure that showed how near akin are naturalist and hunter. Of course, they had some covetous thought connected with those glossy hides, but this was September still, and even otter were not yet prime. Shoot, plump, splash, went the happy crew with apparently unabated joy and hilarity. The slide improved with use and the otters seemed tireless; when all at once a loud but muffled yelp was heard and Skookum, forgetting all caution, came leaping down the bank to take a hand.
With a succession of shrill, birdy chirps the old otters warned their young. Plump, plump, plump, all shot into the pool, but to reappear, swimming with heads out, for they were but slightly alarmed. This was too much for Quonob; he levelled his flintlock; snap, bang, it went, pointed at the old male, but he dived at the snap and escaped. Down the bank now rushed the hunters, joined by Skookum, to attack the otters in the pool, for it was small and shallow; unless a burrow led from it, they were trapped.
But the otters realized the peril. All six dashed out of the pool, down the open, gravelly stream the old ones uttering loud chirps that rang like screams. Under the fallen logs and brush they glided, dodging beneath roots and over banks, pursued by the hunters, each armed with a club and by Skookum not armed at all.
The otters seemed to know where they were going and distanced all but the dog. Forgetting his own condition Skookum had almost overtaken one of the otter cubs when the mother wheeled about and, hissing and snarling, charged. Skookum was lucky to get off with a slight nip, for the otter is a dangerous fighter. But the unlucky dog was sent howling back to the two packs that he never should have left.
The hunters now found an open stretch of woods through which Quonab could run ahead and intercept the otters as they bounded on down the stream bed, pursued by Rolf, who vainly tried to deal a blow with his club. In a few seconds the family party was up to Quonab, trapped it seemed, but there is no more desperate assailant than an otter fighting for its young. So far from being cowed the two old ones made a simultaneous, furious rush at the Indian. Wholly taken by surprise, he missed with his club, and sprang aside to escape their jaws. The family dashed around then past him, and, urged by the continuous chirps of the mother, they plunged under a succession of log jams and into a willow swamp that spread out into an ancient beaver lake and were swallowed up in the silent wilderness.
Chapter 26. Back to the Cabin
The far end of the long swamp the stream emerged, now much larger, and the trappers kept on with their work. When night fell they had completed fifty traps, all told, and again they camped without shelter overhead.
Next day Skookum was so much worse that they began to fear for his life. He had eaten nothing since the sad encounter. He could drink a little, so Rolf made a pot of soup, and when it was cool the poor doggie managed to swallow some of the liquid after half an hour’s patient endeavour.
They were now on the home line; from a hill top they got a distant view of their lake, though it was at least five miles away. Down the creek they went, still making their deadfalls at likely places and still seeing game tracks at the muddy spots. The creek came at length to an extensive, open, hardwood bush, and here it was joined by another stream that came from the south, the two making a small river. From then on they seemed in a land of game; trails of deer were seen on the ground everywhere, and every few minutes they started one or two deer. The shady oak wood itself was flanked and varied with dense cedar swamps such as the deer love to winter in, and after they had tramped through two miles of it, the Indian said, “Good! now we know where to come in winter when we need meat.”
At a broad, muddy ford they passed an amazing number of tracks, mostly deer, but a few of panther, lynx, fisher, wolf, otter, and mink.
In the afternoon they reached the lake. The stream, quite a broad one here, emptied in about four miles south of the camp. Leaving a deadfall near its mouth they followed the shore and made a log trap every quarter mile just above the high water mark.
When they reached the place of Rolf’s first deer they turned aside to see it. The gray jays had picked a good deal of the loose meat. No large animal had troubled it, and yet in the neighbourhood they found the tracks of both wolves and foxes.
“Ugh,” said Quonab, “they smell it and come near, but they know that a man has been here; they are not very hungry, so keep away. This is good for trap.”
So they made two deadfalls with the carrion half way between them. Then one or two more traps and they reached home, arriving at the camp just as darkness and a heavy rainfall began.
“Good,” said Quonab, “our deadfalls are ready; we have done all the work our fingers could not do when the weather is very cold, and the ground too hard for stakes to be driven. Now the traps can get weathered before we go round and set them. Yet we need some strong medicine, some trapper charm.”
Next morning he went forth with fish-line and fish-spear; he soon returned with a pickerel. He filled a bottle with cut-up shreds of this, corked it up, and hung it on the warm, sunny side of the shanty. “That will make a charm that every bear will come to,” he said, and left it to the action of the sun.
Chapter 27. Sick Dog Skookum
Getting home is always a joy; but walking about the place in the morning they noticed several little things that were wrong. Quonab’s lodge was down, the paddles that stood against the shanty were scattered on the ground, and a bag of venison hung high at the ridge was opened and empty.
Quonab studied the tracks and announced “a bad old black bear; he has rollicked round for mischief,
