Rolf In The Woods - Ernest Thompson Seton (interesting books to read for teens .TXT) 📗

Or Seven Yards.  A Few More Leaps Now,  And The

Victory Would Be Won.  But Somehow He Could Not Close That Six Or

Seven Yard Gap.  No Matter How He Strained And Leaped,  The Great

Black Brush Was Just So Far Ahead.  At First They Had Headed For

The Shore,  But The Fox Wheeled Back To The Ice And Up And Down.

Skookum Felt It Was Because Escape Was Hopeless,  And He Redoubled

His Effort.  But All In Vain.  He Was Only Wearing Himself Out,

Panting Noisily Now.  The Snow Was Deep Enough To Be A Great

Disadvantage,  More To Dog Than To Fox,  Since Weight Counted As

Such A Handicap.  Unconsciously Skookum  Slowed Up.  The Fox

Increased His Headway; Then Audaciously Turned Around And Sat

Down In The Snow.

 

This Was Too Much For The Dog.  He Wasted About A Lungful Of Air

In An Angry Bark,  And Again Went After The Enemy.  Again The

Chase Was Round And Round,  But Very Soon The Dog Was So Wearied

That He Sat Down,  And Now The Black Fox Actually Came Back And

Barked At Him.

 

It Was Maddening.  Skookum's Pride Was Touched.

 

He Was In To Win Or Break.  His Supreme Effort Brought Him Within

Five Feet Of That White-Tipped Brush.  Then,  Strange To Tell,  The

Big Black Fox Put Forth His Large Reserve Of Speed,  And Making

For The Woods,  Left Skookum Far Behind.  Why?  The Cause Was

Clear.  Quonab,  After Vainly Watching For A Chance To Shoot,  That

Would Not Endanger The Dog,  Had,  Under Cover,  Crept Around The

Lake And Now Was Awaiting In A Thicket.  But The Fox's Keen Nose

Had Warned Him.  He Knew That The Funny Part Was Over,  So Ran For

The Woods And Disappeared As A Ball Tossed Up The Snow Behind

Him.

 

Poor Skookum's Tongue Was Nearly A Foot Long As He Walked Meekly

Ashore.  He Looked Depressed; His Tail Was Depressed; So Were His

Ears; But There Was Nothing To Show Whether He Would Have Told

That Reporter That He "Wasn't Feeling Up To His Usual,  To-Day,"

Or "Didn't You See Me Get The Best Of Him?"

 

 

Chapter 40 (The Rarest Of Pelts)

They Saw That Silver Fox Three Or Four Times During The Winter,

And Once Found That He Had Had The Audacity To Jump From A High

Snowdrift Onto The Storehouse And Thence To The Cabin Roof,  Where

He Had Feasted On Some White Rabbits Kept There For Deadfall

Baits.  But All Attempts To Trap Or Shoot Him Were Vain,  And

Their Acquaintance Might Have Ended As It Began,  But For An

Accident.

 

It Proved A Winter Of Much Snow.  Heavy Snow Is The Worst

Misfortune That Can Befall The Wood Folk In Fur.  It Hides Their

Food Beyond Reach,  And It Checks Their Movements  So They Can

Neither Travel Far In Search Of Provender Nor Run Fast To Escape

Their Enemies.  Deep Snow Then Means Fetters,  Starvation,  And

Death.  There Are Two Ways Of Meeting The Problem: Stilts And

Snowshoes.  The Second Is Far The Better.  The Caribou,  And The

Moose Have Stilts; The Rabbit,  The Panther,  And The Lynx Wear

Snowshoes.  When There Are Three Or Four Feet Of Soft Snow,  The

Lynx Is King Of All Small Beasts,  And Little In Fear Of The Large

Ones.  Man On His Snowshoes Has Most Wild Four-Foots At His

Mercy.

 

Skookum,  Without Either Means Of Meeting The Trouble Was Left

Much Alone In The Shanty.  Apparently,  It Was On One Of These

Occasions That The Silver Fox Had Driven Him Nearly Frantic By

Eating Rabbits On The Roof Above Him.

 

The Exasperating Robbery Of Their Trap Line Had Gone On

Irregularly All Winter,  But The Thief Was Clever Enough Or Lucky

Enough To Elude Them.

 

They Were Returning To The Cabin After A Three Days' Round,  When

They Saw,  Far Out On The White Expanse Of The Lake,  Two Animals,

Alternately Running And Fighting. "Skookum And The Fox," Was The

First Thought That Came,  But On Entering The Cabin Skookum

Greeted Them In Person.

 

Quonab Gazed Intently At The Two Running Specks And Said: "One

Has No Tail.  I Think It Is A Peeshoo (Lynx) And A Fox."

 

Rolf Was Making Dinner.  From Time To Time He Glanced Over The

Lake And Saw The Two Specks,  Usually Running.  After Dinner Was

Over,  He Said,  "Let's Sneak 'Round And See If We Can Get A Shot."

 

So,  Putting On Their Snowshoes And Keeping Out Of Sight,  They

Skimmed Over The Deer Crossing And Through The Woods,  Till At A

Point Near The Fighters,  And There They Saw Something That

Recalled At Once The Day Of Skookum's Humiliation.

 

A Hundred Yards Away On The Open Snow Was A Huge Lynx And Their

Old Friend,  The Black And Shining Silver Fox,  Face To Face; The

Fox Desperate,  Showing His Rows Of Beautiful Teeth,  But Sinking

Belly Deep In The Snow As He Strove To Escape.  Already He Was

Badly Wounded.  In Any Case He Was At The Mercy Of The Lynx Who,

In Spite Of His Greater Weight,  Had Such Broad And Perfect

Snowshoes That He Skimmed On The Surface,  While The Fox's Small

Feet Sank Deep.  The Lynx Was Far From Fresh,  And Still Stood In

Some Awe Of Those Rows Of Teeth That Snapped Like Traps When He

Came Too Near.  He Was Minded,  Of Course,  To Kill His Black

Rival,  But Not To Be Hurt In Doing So.  Again And Again There Was

In Some Sort A Closing Fight,  The Wearied Fox Plunging

Breathlessly Through The Treacherous,  Relentless  Snow.  If He

Could Only Get Back To Cover,  He Might Find A Corner To Protect

His Rear And Have Some Fighting Chance For Life.  But Wherever He

Turned That Huge Cat Faced Him,  Doubly Armed,  And Equipped As A

Fox Can Never Be For The Snow.

 

No One Could Watch That Plucky Fight Without Feeling His

Sympathies Go Out To The Beautiful Silver Fox.  Rolf,  At Least,

Was For Helping Him To Escape,  When The Final Onset Came.  In

Another Dash For The Woods The Fox Plunged Out Of Sight In A

Drift Made Soft By Sedge Sticking Through,  And Before He Could

Recover,  The Lynx's Jaws Closed On The Back Of His Neck And The

Relentless Claws Had Pierced His Vitals.

 

The Justification Of Killing Is Self-Preservation,  And In This

Case The Proof Would Have Been The Lynx Making A Meal Of The Fox.

Did He Do So?  Not At All.  He Shook His Fur,  Licked His Chest

And Paws In A Self-Congratulatory Way,  Then Giving A Final Tug At

The Body,  Walked Calmly Over The Snow Along The Shore.

 

Quonab Put The Back Of His Hand To His Mouth And Made A Loud

Squeaking,  Much Like A Rabbit Caught In A Snare. The Lynx

Stopped,  Wheeled,  And Came Trotting Straight Toward The Promising

Music.  Unsuspectingly He Came Within Twenty Yards Of The

Trappers.  The Flint-Lock Banged And The Lynx Was Kicking In The

Snow.

 

The Beautiful Silver Fox Skin Was Very Little Injured And Proved

Of Value Almost To Double Their Catch So Far; While The Lynx Skin

Was As Good As Another Marten.

 

They Now Had Opportunity Of Studying The Tracks And Learned That

The Fox Had Been Hunting Rabbits In A Thicket When He Was Set On

By The Lynx.  At First He Had Run Around In The Bushes And Saved

Himself From Serious  Injury,  For The Snow Was Partly Packed By

The Rabbits.  After Perhaps An Hour Of This,  He Had Wearied And

Sought To Save Himself By Abandoning The Lynx's Territory,  So Had

Struck Across The Open Lake.  But Here The Snow Was Too Soft To

Bear Him At All,  And The Lynx Could Still Skim Over.  So It

Proved A Fatal Error.  He Was Strong And Brave.  He Fought At

Least Another Hour Here Before The Much Stronger,  Heavier Lynx

Had Done Him To Death.  There Was No  Justification.  It Was A

Clear Case Of Tyrannical Murder,  But In This Case Vengeance Was

Swift And Justice Came Sooner Than Its Wont.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 41 (The Enemy's Fort)

 

It Pays 'Bout Once In  A Hundred Times To Git Mad,  But There

Ain't Any  Way O' Tellin' Beforehand Which Is The Time

- Sayings Of Si Sylvanne.

 

It Generally Took Two Days To Run The West Line Of Traps.   At A

Convenient Point They Had Built A Rough Shack For A Half-Way

House.  On Entering This One Day,  They Learned That Since Their

Last Visit It Had Been Occupied By Some One Who Chewed Tobacco.

Neither Of Them Had This Habit.  Quonab's Face Grew Darker Each

Time Fresh Evidence Of The Enemy Was Discovered,  And The Final

Wrong Was Added Soon.

 

Some Trappers Mark Their Traps; Some Do Not Bother. Rolf Had

Marked All Of Theirs With A File,  Cutting Notches On The Iron.

Two,  One,  Three,  Was Their Mark,  And It Was A Wise Plan,  As It

Turned Out.

 

On Going Around The West Beaver Pond They Found That All Six

Traps Had Disappeared.  In Some,  There Was No Evidence Of The

Thief; In Some,  The Tracks Showed Clearly That They Were Taken By

The Same Interloper That Had Bothered Them All Along,  And On A

Jagged Branch Was A Short Blue Yarn.

 

"Now Will I Take Up His Trail And Kill Him," Said The Indian.

 

Rolf Had Opposed Extreme Measures,  And Again He  Remonstrated.

To His Surprise,  The Indian Turned Fiercely And Said: "You Know

It Is White Man.  If He Was Indian Would You Be Patient?  No!"

 

"There Is Plenty Of Country South Of The Lake; Maybe He Was Here First."

 

"You Know He Was Not.  You Should Eat Many Pekan Hearts.  I Have

Sought Peace,  Now I Fight."

 

He Shouldered His Pack,  Grasped His Gun,  And His  Snowshoes Went

"Tssape,  Tssape,  Tssape," Over The Snow.

 

Skookum Was Sitting By Rolf.  He Rose To Resume The March,  And

Trotted A Few Steps On Quonab's Trail.  Rolf Did Not Move; He Was

Dazed By The Sudden And Painful Situation.  Mutiny Is Always

Worse Than War.  Skookum Looked Back,  Trotted On,  Still Rolf Sat

Staring.  Quonab's Figure Was Lost In The Distance; The Dog's Was

Nearly So. Rolf Moved Not.  All The Events Of The Last Year Were

Rushing Through His Mind; The Refuge He Had Found With The

Indian; The Incident Of The Buck Fight And The Tender Nurse The

Red Man Proved.  He Wavered.  Then He Saw Skookum Coming Back On

The Trail.  The Dog Trotted Up To The Boy And Dropped A Glove,

One Of Quonab's.  Undoubtedly  The Indian Had Lost It; Skookum

Had Found It On The Trail And Mechanically Brought It To The

Nearest Of His  Masters.  Without That Glove Quonab's Hand Would

Freeze.  Rolf Rose And Sped Along The Other's Trail.  Having

Taken The Step,  He Found It Easy To Send A Long Halloo,  Then

Another And Another,  Till An Answer Came.  In A Few Minutes Rolf

Came Up. The Indian Was Sitting On A Log,  Waiting.  The Glove Was

Handed Over In Silence,  And Received With A Grunt.

 

After A Minute Or Two,  Rolf Said "Let's Get On," And Started On

The Dim Trail Of The Robber.

 

For An Hour Or Two They Strode In Silence.  Then Their Course

Rose As They Reached A Rocky Range.  Among Its Bare,  Wind-Swept

Ridges All Sign Was Lost,  But The Indian Kept On Till They Were

Over And On The Other Side.  A Far Cast In The Thick,  Windless

Woods Revealed The Trail Again,  Surely The Same,  For