Jack the Young Trapper: An Eastern Boy's Fur Hunting in the Rocky Mountains

by George Bird Grinnell

CHAPTER XVII

TRAPPING THE MINK

The next morning it was full daylight before the camp was astir, and the sun had risen before breakfast was over. Jack had brought in the horses and put the saddles on them, and they stood tied to the brush waiting for their loads.

Neither Jack nor Hugh seemed to be in a hurry, and after the packs had been pretty well made up, Hugh said, "Now, son, let us cut up this antelope and throw away the bones that we don't need and put the meat in a couple of sacks. No use to pack anything more than we have to, even if the horses are lightly loaded."

Accordingly they set to work and very soon had the meat stripped from the antelope's bones, cut into pieces of convenient size, and put in the sacks. The night had been cool and the meat had become chilled all through. While they were at work, the gray jays gathered about them in considerable numbers, hopping up within a few feet of them, and sometimes flying down close over the carcass. Occasionally Hugh and Jack would cut off a little piece of waste meat and throw it to one side, when it was instantly pounced upon by a bird and carried off. The fortunate one would be followed by half a dozen of his fellows, which would try to snatch his prize from him. So fearless were the birds that Jack took great pleasure in watching them and in throwing bits of food to them.

"You don't have the name of Whiskey Jack for these birds out here, do you, Hugh?" said Jack. "I have never heard it."

"No," said Hugh; "I've heard the Indians away up north call them by a name that sounds something like that, but I reckon it's not the same name. The one I have heard is an Indian word—'Wis-kaysh-on.' Maybe the word you are talking of is only another way of pronouncing it. Out here we call them meat hawks and camp robbers. They're so cheeky that I always rather liked them, but they're a mean bird in winter, especially if a man is trapping marten; they will spring his traps, steal his bait, and maybe tear his pelts, but they are nowhere near as bad as the magpies, or even as the blue jays. It always amuses me to see how, after they have eaten what they want to, they will pack off all the food they can get and cache it in the trees, in the crevices in the bark, and in the moss that grows on the limbs. They are great fellows to hide things. Look at that one there," he went on, pointing, and Jack saw a jay picking up shred after shred of meat that had been thrown out, and noticed that the bird, instead of swallowing it, seemed to hold it in its throat. Presently it flew up into the branches of the pine tree, and after moving about a little, went to a bunch of the gray moss, and, after seeming to make a hole in it with its bill, deposited there the contents of its mouth and throat, and then flew back and began to gather more meat.

"Well," said Jack, "what do you suppose they do that for? Do they store up food in that way and go back to it when they are hungry?"

"You can't prove it by me," said Hugh. "I've an idea that they're just natural thieves and misers, and love to steal and hide things."

The work of loading the animals was soon finished, and they set out up the stream. The trail which they followed was a faint one and kept on the hillside on the north bank of the stream, always through heavy pine forests. There was little underbrush. The ground under foot was soft; the air was fragrant with odors of spruce, pine, and balsam, and with the perfume of the many wild flowers that brightened the gloom of the dense woods with vivid colors of red, blue, and yellow. As they advanced, it was evident the snow had not been very long gone; the ground became more and more damp, little rills that trickled down the hillsides were full of water, and occasionally when an open spot in the timber gave them a view of the peaks toward which they were journeying they could see that they were still snowclad. Occasionally Hugh started a brown pine rabbit which hopped away from the trail far enough to avoid the horse's feet, and sat up on his haunches with his huge ears erect, watching the procession that passed before him with an air of meditation. Pine squirrels were everywhere, and their chattering was heard almost continually. Another familiar sound of the mountains was the shrill whistle of the mountain woodchuck, called from its cry, "whistler." It could not have been so very long since these animals came out from their winter homes, but they were now abroad and in full voice, and each one as he saw the train, or indeed as he saw any other unusual object, gave vent to his shrill cry. Altogether, the day's journey, while it lacked any especial incident, was one of very great pleasure to Jack.

Late in the afternoon they camped in a beautiful opening surrounded by giant spruces and firs, where rich grass stood waist high, and the steep sides of the mountains rose sharply from the narrow valley.

After camp had been made and supper eaten, Hugh said to Jack, "Now, son. I'm going up the creek a little way to see if I can see any sign of beaver or other fur. What are you going to do?"

"Well," said Jack, "I don't know; I think I'll go up this little valley through which this side creek comes and see whether I can see anything there."

"All right," said Hugh; "we'll get back here, then, before dark;" and they started on their different ways.

Hugh went slowly up the stream and before he had gone very far came to a place where the valley widened out and there were meadows on either side of the stream. Here was beaver work, and fresh. A dam across the stream held back the water until it was several feet deep, making a pond that was long and narrow, but not high enough to flood the meadows. Along the banks were willows on which the beaver had been working lately, and many freshly cut twigs and barked sticks were floating in the water. Hugh saw no beaver, but found abundant signs of them, and made up his mind that it would be well for them to stop here and trap for a day or two. There were mink sign along the stream, and at its head he saw fresh elk tracks, those of cows and calves. Going quietly through undergrowth he came at length to a place where the trees stood apart, and here suddenly he saw three cow elk, which a moment later saw him and crashed off through the trees, but at which he did not shoot.

Jack, on his part, had followed up the still narrower valley of the side stream. The mountains rose steeply on either hand, and to walk with any comfort he was obliged to keep either in the bed of the creek or close to it. On little sand bars by the stream he saw many tracks of small animals which he thought might be mink, and in one place where there was a deep pool he came upon what he believed to be the slide of an otter.

All along the stream dippers were feeding, the curious little slate-colored birds with which he had been so familiar in other parts of the mountains. Here they were as active as he had always seen them, flying up or down the stream or diving in the water or walking briskly about on the rocks, or, if for a moment they stayed in one place, making the curious bobbing or dipping movement from which, perhaps, the name dipper has been given them. They were singing now with a sweet, clear note that reminded Jack somewhat of the robin's song.

From time to time Jack stopped to watch these little friends, and then went on. He moved as quietly as he could, and for the most part the babble of the stream drowned the slight noises that he made, but, as bad luck would have it, as he was rounding a point of the stream and had to make a long spring to cross the water, he caught an alder stem on the other side, and it came away in his hand with a sharp crack. Instantly there was a crash in the brush just above him on the stream, and as he turned his head he saw a good-sized bear plunge across the stream and disappear into the undergrowth. He had no time to whirl around, and still less to throw his gun to his shoulder, and yet he wanted to shoot. He ran twenty or thirty steps up the hillside as hard as he could to a little open place from which he thought he might possibly see the game, but nothing was visible save the undergrowth and the trees, and he was reluctantly obliged to come down the slope without seeing the bear. What made him feel the worse about it was that he felt that it was his own carelessness that had made the noise that had startled the bear. If he had kept on in his silent, stealthy way he might have had the shot.

Very much disgusted and disappointed, he turned about and went down the valley again, reaching camp just as Hugh got there.

"Well, son, what luck?" said Hugh.

"Bad," replied Jack. "I got quite close to a bear, and, not expecting any game, I made a little noise and he dodged off, giving me only a glimpse, at which I didn't have time to fire."

"That's bad," said Hugh. "A man always feels worse if he knows that it was through some carelessness of his own that he missed a chance."

"Yes," said Jack, "that's what I was thinking only a little while ago. If I had done my best, and the wind had changed, or something had frightened the bear, I wouldn't mind it so much. What did you see, Hugh?"

"Well," said Hugh, "I found some beaver, and I saw a little bunch of cow elk. I expect there are calves hidden in the valley just above us, but they don't interest us much."

"No," said Jack, "we don't need any calf elk, certainly."

"I think, son," said Hugh, "we'd better stop here for a day or so and set some traps. We may get a few beaver, and there are some mink here, too."

"All right," said Jack; "I'll go you; but we haven't time to set the traps to-night, have we?"

"No," said Hugh, "we'll have to wait until to-morrow for that, but I'll tell you what we can do. We can start in to rigging our dead-falls for mink to-night. It'll take us some little time to fix them. We ought to have at least a half a dozen of them scattered up and down the creek here."

"Well," said Jack, "what do you want me to do? I'm ready for anything."

"Get the ax," said Hugh, "and we'll go up on the hillside and cut down some of these small, dead pines and get them ready for work to-morrow."

The two went up on the hill, and Hugh soon cut down a dozen slim, dead, young pines, not much thicker than his wrist at the butt, and trimmed the branches off. Jack taking a part of them on his shoulders and Hugh following with the rest, they carried them down to camp.

Here the butts of the trees were carefully trimmed and smoothed so that they were well rounded. Half a dozen smooth, round sticks nearly as thick as the butts of the pine trees and about fifteen inches long were cut out for bed-sticks, and then a considerable number of sharp-pointed, stout sticks prepared. Then—for by this time it had become dark—Hugh explained to Jack at some length how these traps were to be set. "You see, son," he said; "as I have told you before, a mink is a pretty simple-minded creature. He hasn't much sense or keenness, and probably these mink here have never been trapped. We have got to rig the bait in these dead-falls so that a mink will come at it from the right end, and so that the log will fall on him and kill him. Now, we drive these sharp-pointed sticks into the ground, close together, in the shape of a V. The only way the mink can get in is to go through the open part of the V. Just inside of that open part we put down the bed-stick and on both arms of the V we leave out a stick or two so that the bed-stick goes through these open spaces, and it's down through these open spaces that the fall-log comes—in fact the sticks on either side of the open spaces are guides so that it falls square on the bed-log. The fall-log must be heavy enough so that it will come down hard and kill the mink at once. The bait is put on the end of a smooth spindle which supports the trigger-stick. When the animal passes in and pulls at the bait, he jerks out the spindle, the trigger-stick falls out of place and lets the fall-log down. The fall-log comes down onto the bed-log, and if the mink's there he's bound to be crushed flat. The success of the trap depends altogether on the speed with which the fall-log comes down. If it does not drop quickly the mink has time to see it coming and to get away. I reckon we'll have to use beaver medicine for bait for these traps; maybe put a little of it on some antelope meat or on some frogs if we can catch any."

"Well, Hugh," said Jack, "I expect this is all right about the dead-falls, but I don't know as I understand just exactly how it's to be set, but I reckon if you will show me to-morrow I'll do what I can to help."

"Well, it's mighty simple," said Hugh, "and just as soon as you've seen it done once, you'll know how to do it. Now, we've got to fix some spindles and some trigger-sticks to-night, and I'm going to make one of each now, and after you've seen me do it you can take hold and make some yourself."

Hugh took out his jack-knife and began to whittle, and before long he had made a slender stick shaped not unlike a lead pencil and about eight inches long. It was round and smooth. Then taking a much thicker stick, one perhaps an inch in diameter, he smoothed this off, removing all bark, twigs, and inequalities, making it as nearly round as possible and pointing it bluntly at both ends. Then he took a bed-stick, put it on the ground between his feet, and laying the butt of the spindle upon it and at right angles to it, he placed upon the butt of the spindle the trigger-stick, and pressed it down on the spindle with his left hand. Then giving the spindle a little pull toward the bed-stick it slipped out from under the trigger-stick and the trigger-stick fell over. "There, son," he said, "do you see the philosophy of it now? Suppose my hand had been a heavy log and that it had fallen across the body of a mink, wouldn't it have killed him?"

"Yes, that's so, Hugh," Jack replied. "I think I begin to see now how the thing will work."

For an hour or two after dark Jack and Hugh whittled faithfully and by that time they had prepared a dozen spindles and as many trigger-sticks, and Hugh said that the first thing in the morning they would set a lot of mink traps along both streams.

After the work was done, they sat dreamily before the fire, Hugh smoking vigorously, and Jack saying and doing nothing, but just giving himself up to the charm of his surroundings.

There is a great delight in a camp among the green timber. The fragrant needles of the evergreens spread thick upon the ground form a soft, dry couch, which would woo sleep to any traveler. A great fire of resinous logs sends up spouts of flame which almost reach the tufted twigs of the great firs that overhang the camp, while clouds of black smoke, and sometimes showers of sparks wind in and out among the branches. The yellow and brown trunks of the trees flicker in the changeful glow of the red light and send queer shadows out behind them into the depths of the timber. Just at the edge of the circle of light are seen the shadowy and uncertain forms of some of the horses which have ceased feeding and have moved closer to the camp to share the cheery sociability of the fire.

Soon after darkness fell in the valley it grew colder, and both Jack and Hugh drew closer to the fire, and before very long both sought the warmth of their blankets.

The morning sun peeping over the snowy tops of the neighboring mountains found Jack and Hugh eating their breakfast and almost ready to start out on their trapping expedition. Soon after they had finished eating, Hugh hung his bottle of beaver medicine about his neck, filled his pockets and those of Jack with trigger-sticks and spindles, and then with half a dozen of the fall-logs under his arm and a bundle of bed-sticks on his back, he started down the stream, followed by Jack, similarly loaded. Hugh pointed out to Jack places along the stream where mink had passed, and before the morning was half gone they had set twelve falls, eight on the main stream and four on the little creek that Jack had followed up the day before.

Hugh set the traps in the way he had explained the night before. He drove the sharpened sticks into the ground near the border of the creek, sometimes up above in the grass, and at others down at the very margin of the water. When his V was about a foot long he left an opening two inches wide in each arm, and then in each arm drove three or four more sticks close together. On the ground and passing through the openings in the arms he placed the bed-stick, setting it well into the soil so that its top was nearly level with the ground. Sometimes he had to dig out a place for the bed-stick and at others he could pound it down to the proper level. Now he placed the fall-log, which passed through both openings in the arms, on top of the bed-stick and then put a spindle and a trigger-stick on the ground by them. Now he tied a stone, if he could find a good one, to the thicker end of the fall-log, or if he could not find a stone, he got three or four slender tree trunks which he rested on the butt of the fall-log at right angles to it.

Meantime he had sent Jack off down the creek to look for frogs, and presently Jack returned with a dozen that he had killed with a stick. Hugh now impaled one of the dead frogs on the pointed end of a spindle, which was notched so that the bait could not be pulled either way. Then with a willow twig he dropped a little of the beaver medicine on the frog, and then telling Jack to raise the fall-log, he placed the butt of the spindle on the bed-log, one end of the trigger-stick on the spindle, and then told Jack to very carefully lower the fall-log until it rested on the trigger-stick. Before this, with his knife he had smoothed away the sides of the fall-log where it passed between the upright sticks in both arms of the V, and had smoothed off the sticks between which the fall-log passed and which were to serve as the guides to the fall-log, which would meet the bed-stick with an even blow.

"There," said Hugh, as he very carefully removed his hands from the spindle and trigger-stick, "that ought to catch a mink if he'll only come and give a tug at that bait."

"Yes," said Jack, "I think it ought. It seems to me there's a good deal more science and pleasure in setting a trap of that kind than there is in just spreading the jaws of a beaver trap."

"Maybe you're right, son," said Hugh, standing back and looking at his trap. "It does look fairly ship-shape, doesn't it?"

"Yes," said Jack, "that looks to me like something that had some science and style about it."

The greater part of the day was devoted to setting these traps, but toward evening Jack and Hugh put on their rubber boots and walked off up to the beaver pond, where four traps were set. After they had finished this, Hugh said, "Son, I believe we might as well go down and look at those mink traps of ours. If anything has been caught we want to take it out and reset. Just as like as not we'll find something."

Jack was eager to learn the result of their morning efforts and wanted to press ahead of Hugh, but did not do so until they had almost reached the first of the dead-falls. Then he ran ahead a few steps, stopping and calling back to Hugh, "That first trap is sprung." When they got up to it they could see a pair of brown hips and a tail sticking out from under the fall-log, and lifting it, a good dark mink was found there, caught just as he should have been.

The next two traps yielded nothing; the fourth another mink; the last two on the main stream were empty, but the four set on the little side creek had each a mink.

They reset all of their traps and returning to camp began to skin the mink, which Hugh explained must not be skinned open, but must be cased.

"Oh, yes, Hugh, I know what you mean," said Jack. "You split them between the hind legs and then turn the skins inside out. You don't split them along the belly."

"That's right," said Hugh, "and then you've got to have stretchers to dry them on. Of course, what we ought to have is boards, but I guess we'll have to do with willow twigs. They don't make quite so nice looking a skin, but they'll serve our purpose, I guess. You may think, son," he went on, "that skinning mink is worse than skinning beaver. These little fellows can smell fearful bad if you're careless about skinning them and cut into these glands that lie near the tail. Be careful not to do that. If you do you won't get rid of the smell in a long time. Watch me skin this first one and then you can go ahead for yourself. You won't lose anything by watching me do it."

The sun had disappeared over the mountains before they had stripped the pelts off their mink, and it was dusk by the time they had eaten supper.

"Now," said Hugh, "we ought to have finished this job up before supper, but I wanted to cook by daylight. Suppose you go over to that bunch of willows there and cut me a dozen straight and pretty stiff willow shoots, then bring them back here."

Jack went over as directed, and in a little while returned with the shoots.

"It was pretty dark, Hugh," he said, "and I had to do it all by feeling. I don't know whether these are what you want." Hugh took the twigs in his hand and looked them over, and after discarding two or three said, "These are all right. Now let's strip the leaves and twigs off them and make them as smooth as we can. It is not necessary to take off the bark."

When the twigs had been stripped off, Hugh showed Jack how to gradually bend them so that the two ends of the bent twig came together in the shape of a very long and flattened O. He took one of the mink skins—all of which were, of course, wrong side out—and slipped the middle of the doubled twig into the opening in the skin, slowly pushing it down toward the animal's head. The opening of the mouth was too small for the doubled twig to pass through, and the spring of the bent twig kept the sides of the pelt pushed out and stretched. This operation was repeated with each of the skins, and to overcome any shrinking of the pelt, Hugh cut a number of short sticks which he forced between the two ends of each twig which projected from the skin where the hind legs of the mink had been.

The operations had taken but a short time, and when they were over Hugh bundled the skins together and placed them just within the tent. "There," he said, "now, to-morrow morning we'll hang those out where the air will get at them, and before night they will be dry."

They were sitting by the fire, saying but little, when suddenly Hugh, who for some moments had been staring into the darkness in the direction of the horses, leaned over and held his ear near to the ground as if listening.

"What is it, Hugh?" asked Jack.

"Why," said Hugh, "there's some people coming. Put your ear to the ground and listen."

Jack did so, and could hear faintly the tread of something on the ground. "Yes, I hear it," he said. "Are those horses coming?"

"Sure," said Hugh, "I've been watching Pawnee and that black of mine for quite a little while, and I knew that they heard or smelt something. They've been looking off down the creek for some minutes. I reckon this is a party of travelers, and they'll either come here or camp just below us to-night."

As they sat there, presently the tramp of horses began to be heard and occasionally a call from some man shouting at the animals, and after a little while the people could be heard talking and making remarks about the camp that they saw just ahead of them. A few moments later the horses seemed to come to a standstill, and a man rode up to the circle of the fire and said, "Good-evening."

"Good-evening," said Hugh, "won't you light down and sit?"

"Thank you," said the stranger; "we've got our pack train just here, and we would like to camp by you, if you have no objection."

"Not the least in the world," said Hugh. "The bottom is free to anybody that wants to camp here, and we would like to have you stop. Is there anything we can do for you?"

"It's a little dark to find a good camping place, but the wood and water are handy, and I guess our animals will find the grass. Good-evening"; and he rode away.

After the horse's footsteps had died away, Hugh turned to Jack and said: "Englishmen, I reckon. Likely out here hunting. We'll know more about them in the morning."

"Well," said Jack, "I hope they won't interfere with any of our traps."

"No, I guess not," said Hugh. "The worst they could do would be to blunder into them, and I don't believe they'll do that."

A little later another fire shone out in the little park and lit up another tent not far from theirs. Still later, they received another call from their new neighbors, who turned out to be an Englishman and his son, a boy about Jack's age, and a packer, a young man from one of the little towns in the mountains west of Denver. The Englishman was a very pleasant-spoken man, greatly interested in the country and all that it contained. His son sat down by Jack, and for a time the two listened to the conversation of their elders, but gradually the English boy's curiosity overcame his shyness and he began to talk to Jack, and ask him questions about the mountains and the hunting. The packer sat by the fire and said little for a time, only occasionally volunteering a remark, but at last he said to Hugh: "Partner, I'd like to have you tell me where we are. I've never been in this part of the country before, and don't claim to know anything about it, but I know east and west and north and south when the sun is shining. Mr. Clifford here hired me to pack for him, not to guide, because I told him that I wasn't a guide in a strange country. He wants to get back to the other side of the mountains, and I told him that I thought maybe if we followed up this creek we'd find a pass over onto the head of one of the streams running the other way. Can you tell me if we'll do that, because unless we do we better get back down onto the flat and hunt some other way across the mountains?"

"Yes," said Hugh, "you can get across this way. This creek is called the Michigan, and if you follow it up you'll come to a pass that will take you onto the head of the Grand River. Of course, now you're on the east side of the main range, that is to say, the water you're on now flows into the Atlantic Ocean; when you get across these mountains you'll be on water flowing into the Pacific Ocean; but all the same you'll be over in Middle Park, and if you want to get back to Denver, that's the way you've got to go."

"Yes," said the Englishman; "I told our friend Jones that I felt sure that if we could get across this spur of the mountains, our way back would be an easy one, and we would see something of mountain travel, which is what I wish. You see, America is wholly new to my boy and myself, and this part of America, so wild and free and independent, and so full of beautiful forms of animal life, is quite unlike anything that we have ever seen. We find it very interesting."

"Why, yes," said Hugh, "I should think you would. It surely is a pleasant country, and with good weather anyone ought to have a mighty pleasant trip."

The Englishman had many questions to ask Hugh about distances and about the time required for going from one point to another. Meantime, his son was questioning Jack.

"I say," he said, "do you live out here?"

"No," said Jack, "I'm only out here for the summer. My home is in New York."

"Oh," said the English boy, "then perhaps all these things are as strange to you as they are to me."

"No, not quite, I guess," said Jack; "because this is the fifth summer that I've been coming out into this western country and traveling around with Hugh—that's my friend over there. Every summer since I was a little fellow I've been coming out and we've traveled back and forth over a great deal of country."

"Is it possible!" said the English boy. "Why, you are pretty nearly what they call an 'old timer' out here, aren't you? I notice that the people out here are divided into two sorts, 'pilgrims,' who don't know anything about the country, and 'old timers,' who know all about it."

Jack laughed as he said, "That's about right, and I think that maybe I'm an 'old timer.'"

"Where are you going now?" said the English boy. "But first tell me your name, and I'll tell you mine. I am Henry Clifford of Chester, England, and my father and I are going around the world. We're going to spend this summer in America, and then go to China and India."

"My," said Jack, "that's a nice trip. I would like to make it, but, of course, what I've got to do is to get ready to go to college."

"Yes," said Henry, "I've got to do that, too, but not until I get back to England."

"My name is Jack Danvers," said Jack, "and Hugh and I have come down here from my uncle's ranch to spend the summer trapping here in the mountains. There is quite a lot of fur here, and we've got quite a pack of beaver already. We've got some traps set out here in the creek now, and if we have any luck you'll see us skin some beaver to-morrow morning."

"How awfully interesting," said Henry. "Of course, I've read about trapping beaver, but I never expected to see it done."

"Well, you'll see it to-morrow morning, unless you pull out mighty early."

"I hope we won't," said Henry; "I shall ask my father to lie over here to-morrow if he feels like it. How long are you going to be here?"

"Oh, well," said Jack, "of course, I don't know about that. It'll depend on what luck we have trapping. If we have any luck, we may be up here for several days, if not, we may go on. We were talking about going up to the head of the stream and perhaps hunting there for a day or two. There ought to be sheep up there."

"Sheep," said Henry. "What are those?"

"Why," said Jack, "don't you know the wild mountain sheep?"

"Those fellows that have the big horns? You mean bighorns?" said Henry.

"Yes, sometimes they are called bighorns."

"I know, I know," said the English boy; "I saw some heads in Denver, but I never supposed that we could get anywhere near where they lived."

"Well," said Jack, "there are plenty of them in these mountains, I guess; in fact, there is lots of game here. Only this morning Hugh ran across a little bunch of cow elk only two or three hundred yards from the camp."

"Is it possible!" said Henry. "We've seen lots of antelope on the prairie, and I shot at them a good many times, but I could not seem to hit them. I don't know why."

"What sort of a gun is yours?" asked Jack.

"It's a Sharp's rifle," was the reply.

"Why," said Jack, "that's a first-class gun. You ought to be able to hit anything with that, if you know the gun. Have you tried it at a target?"

"No," said Henry, "I never shot it off, except at these antelope, and neither my father nor I were able to hit them."

"Well," said Jack, "you can't expect to hit anything unless you have tried your gun and know just how to hold your sights to make your bullet go to a particular spot. That's one of the first things I was taught in rifle shooting, to fire my gun at a mark until I understood just how the sights ought to look to hit the mark at different distances. If we were going to travel together for a while, I could teach you how to shoot, I expect, just as Hugh taught me a good many years ago."

"My word," said Henry. "I wish we were going to travel together. I'm going to see what my father means to do to-morrow."

While the boys were talking, Mr. Clifford had been questioning Hugh, as his son had been questioning Jack, and had expressed to Hugh so much interest in what he and Jack were doing that Hugh had suggested that they lie over a day and rest their horses.

After the strangers had left the camp and gone back to their own, Hugh told Jack what he had suggested to the Englishman. "You see, son," he said, "these people are regular pilgrims, and they don't know anything about the country, and they want to know a heap. That young fellow they have with them is a nice young chap, but he doesn't know any more than they know. The man is mighty pleasant spoken for an Englishman, and just as common as you and me. He don't put on any lugs at all. If they choose to lie over to-morrow and watch you and me doing our chores round camp, it won't do us any harm, and it may give them some pleasure and teach them something. If after a day or two they aren't just the kind of people we want to have 'round, we're always free to pack up and strike out. They can't follow us."

"How do you mean can't follow us, Hugh?" said Jack.

"Why, what I mean is," said Hugh, "if they want to stick with us, and we don't want them, it wouldn't take us half a day to lose them in this timber, and we could go off where we wanted to."

"Well," said Jack, "I like that boy Henry very much. He seemed to want to know all about things, and didn't seem to be ashamed to say that he didn't know anything. He's very much interested in trapping, and wants to see us at work, and I told him if they didn't pull out too early to-morrow they would probably see us skin beaver."

"Well," said Hugh, "I don't know what they're going to do, but whatever they do, it won't make much difference to us. Now, we've done a whole lot of visiting to-night, and you and I had better go to bed."

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