Lost in the Cañon

by Herbert Strang

  A FIGHT IN THE WOODS.

  Some years ago, while in the northern part of Maine, I spent the monthof September and a portion of October at a "hay-farm" on the borders ofChamberlain Lake--Lake Apmoogenegamook, the Indians used to call it. Thewhole region was almost an unbroken wilderness. Game was plenty, and byway of recreation from my duties as an assistant engineer I had set up a"line of traps" for mink and sable--"saple," as old trappers say--alonga small but very rapid, noisy stream called Bear Brook, which comes downinto the lake through a gorge between two high spruce-clad mountains.

  Huge boulders had rolled down the sides, and lay piled along the bed ofthe gorge. The brook, which was the outlet of a small pond, pent upamong the ridges above, foamed and roared and gurgled down among rocksshaded by thick, black spruces, which leaned out from the sides of theravine.

  It was a wild place. I had stumbled upon it, one afternoon, whilehunting a caribou (a kind of deer) some weeks before, and knew it mustbe good trapping ground; for the rocks and clear, black pools, in shortthe whole place had that peculiar, fishy smell which bespoke anabundance of trout; and where trout abound there are sure to be mink.

  My traps were of that sort which hunters call "figure four" traps, madeof stakes and poles, with a figure-four spring. Perhaps some of our boyreaders may have caught squirrels in that way. For bait I used troutfrom the brook. I carried my hook and line with me, and after setting atrap, threw in my hook and pulled out trout enough to bait it. My lineextended about a mile up the gorge, and comprised some twenty-five orthirty traps.

  After setting them, I shot a number of red squirrels for a "drag," andthus connected the traps together. Perhaps I should explain that a_drag_ is a bundle of squirrels or partridges newly killed and fromwhich the blood is dripping, which are dragged along by a withe fromtrap to trap to make a trail and scent, so that the mink and sable willfollow it.

  It is customary to visit mink traps once in two or three days. But as Ihad plenty of time just then, I went to mine every forenoon.

  During the first week after setting them I had excellent luck. I caughteleven mink and three sable--about fifty dollars' worth, as I reckonedit. My hopes of making a small fortune in the fur business were verysanguine, until one morning I found every trap torn up! The poles andstakes were scattered over the ground, spindles were broken to pieces,and at one or two places where there had been a mink in the trap, thehead and bits of fur were lying about as if it had been devoured.

  At first I thought that perhaps some fellow who had intended to trapthere had done the mischief to drive me away (a very common trick amongrival trappers); but when I saw that the minks had been torn to pieces,I knew the destruction was the work of some animal--a fisher, mostlikely, or as some call it, a "black-cat."

  I had never yet seen one of these creatures, but had often heard huntersand trappers tell what pests they were, following them on their rounds,robbing and tearing up their traps almost as rapidly as they could setthem. Indeed, I had read in Baird's--I believe it was Baird's--Works onNatural History, that the fisher-cat, or _mustela canadensis_, is a veryfierce carnivorous animal of the weasel family, a most determinedfighter and more than a match for a common hound.

  Well, I had nothing to do but to set the traps again, a task which I didin the course of the day, really hoping that the beast had merely paidthe place a transient visit, and gone on upon his wanderings.

  But the next morning showed my hopes were vain, for he had "gonethrough" my _line_ again, and every trap was upset. It really seemed asif the "varmint" had taken a malicious delight in tearing them topieces.

  At one of the traps a fine sable had been caught, and as if for verymischief the marauder had torn the beautiful skin, which was worth tenor a dozen dollars, to shreds.

  Surely, if there is a business in the world that demands patience andperseverance, it is trapping. At least it took about all I could summonto go resignedly to work, make new spindles, catch fresh bait, and setthe traps again, especially with the prospect of having the same task toperform the next morning.

  I went at it, however, and by eleven o'clock had them all reset saveone, the upper one, where the sable had been caught, when, onapproaching it through the thick spruces, I saw a large raccoon gnawingthe sable's head. Seeing me at the same instant, he caught up the head,and before I could unsling my gun scuttled away out of sight.

  Was it possible that a 'coon had been doing all this mischief? I knewthem to be adepts at a variety of woods tricks, but had never heard oftheir robbing traps before. Here was one caught gnawing a sable's headin the vicinity of the broken traps. Circumstantial evidence, as theysay in court, was strong against him.

  I determined to watch--that trap, at least.

  Going over to our camp on the lake, I took a hasty lunch, and putting afresh charge into my gun went back to the ravine. A few rods from theplace where I had surprised the 'coon there was a thick clump of lowspruces. Here I hid myself and began my watch.

  The afternoon dragged away. Crows and hawks cawed and screamed;kingfishers and squirrels chickered and chirred, but no animal came nearthe traps. The sun was setting behind the high, black mountain, twilightbegan to dim the narrow valley.

  Thinking I had had my labor for my pains, I was about crawling out of myhiding-place, when a twig snapped in the direction of the traps, andturning quickly I saw the 'coon coming up the bank of the brook, thesame one, I was sure, that I had seen before, because of its unusualsize.

  With a glance around, to see that there was no danger near, he ambledalong to the spot where the sable's head had been, and began sniffing atthe shreds and bits of fur which lay about. Wishing to see if he wouldtouch the trap, I did not stir, but watched his movements.

  After picking up the bits of skin, he walked round the trap severaltimes, with his queer, quizzical face askew, examining it. Thenhappening to scent one of the sable's legs which lay at a littledistance, he ran to it and began to eat it. I could hear his sharp teethupon the bones. Suddenly he stopped, listened, then growled. Very muchto my surprise, there was an answering growl. Then another and anotherresponse. In a moment more, from behind a great rock in the bank, therestole out a large, black animal, an object of the 'coon's utterabhorrence, evidently.

  Fresh growls greeted the appearance of the intruder, who came stealthilyforward. He was a wicked looking fellow, and had evidently hostileintentions.

  The 'coon rose to his feet, lifting his back like a bear or a cat, andgrowling all the while. The newcomer crouched almost to the earth, butcontinued to steal up to the 'coon until within a yard or two.

  There they stood facing each other, getting more angry every moment; andevidently intended to have a big "set to." I had no wish to interfere,and was contented to remain a spectator. The two thieves might settletheir quarrels between themselves. I wasn't at all certain to which ofthem I stood indebted for my extra labor, and concluded to keep mycharge of shot for whichever of them survived the fray.

  The growls rose to shrieks; the fisher, for such I judged it to be,wriggling his black tail, and the 'coon getting his back still higher.Then came a sudden grab, quick as a flash, and a prodigious scuffle.Over and over they rolled, grappling and tearing; now the gray tailwould whisk up in sight, then the black one. The fur flew, and thatstrong, disagreeable odor, sometimes noticed when a cat spits, waswafted out to my hiding-place.

  It was hard to tell which was the best fighter. Gray fur and black furseemed to be getting torn out in about equal snatches. Suddenly the'coon got away from his antagonist, and running to the foot of a greatspruce tree standing near, went like a dart up the trunk to the lowerlimbs. There he faced about.

  The fisher followed to the tree and looked up. He saw his late foe,growled, and then began to climb after him. He was not so good a climberas the 'coon, but scratched his way up with true weasel determination.The moment he came within reach the raccoon jumped at him, regardless ofthe height from the ground, and fastened upon his back. The shock causedthe fisher to lose
his hold, and down both animals dropped withtremendous force, sufficient to knock the breath out of them, I thought.But they clung to each other, and dug and bit with the fury of maniacs.'Coons are noted fighters; and as for the fishers, they never give upwhile the breath of life is in them.

  Presently the 'coon broke away again, and once more ran to the tree,this time going up its trunk, out of sight, among the branches at thevery top. It looked as if he was getting about all the fight he cared tohave.

  Not so with the big weasel. He instantly followed his antagonist,clumsily but surely clawing his way up the trunk. It took him some timeto reach the top, but he got there at last. Another grapple ensued amongthe very topmost boughs, and they both came tumbling to the ground,catching at the limbs as they fell; but grappling afresh they rolleddown the steep bank to the edge of the water.

  Meanwhile it had grown so dark that I could but just see their writhingforms. The growling, grappling sound continued, however, and I couldhear them splash in the water. Then there came a lull. One or the otherhad "given in," I felt sure. Which was the victor?

  Cocking my gun, I crept to the bank. As nearly as I could make out thesituation, the fisher was holding the 'coon by the throat.

  I took a step forward. A twig snapped under my foot. Instantly a pair offiery eyes glared up at me in the gloom; and with a harsh snarl thefisher raised himself. But the 'coon didn't stir; he was dead.

  It seemed almost too bad to shoot the victor of so desperate a fight;but thinking of my traps I hardened my heart and fired. The fisherreared up, fell over, then recovering its legs, leaped at me with allthe ferocity of its bloodthirsty race. But the heavy buckshot had surelydone its work, and with another attempt to spring at me the animal fellback dead.

  I had no more trouble with my traps.

  THE END.