He learned how to interpret the signs of game, also, how to approach it successfully, and where to expect to find the wood denizens under the ever varying conditions. And when they were successful with gun or traps, Martin taught him how to skin and dress the game, and to care for the pelts.
“We’ll have to leave all these good furs behind us, I know,” the old man would say; “but we won’t waste them; and perhaps some other fellow will come along some day and find them. There’s just one pelt that we won’t leave, if we get it. That’s the silver fox.”
But this silver fox is a wily fellow. He seems to realize the value of his coat; or at least he knows that it is very valuable to himself, and uses his cunning to retain it. Week after week Martin used his knowledge and Larry’s increasing skill to trap one of these fine fellows, only to be disappointed on each occasion. They would find where Reynard had hovered about their trap, sometimes actually stepping over it to steal the bait, knowing in some occult manner just where the fatal jaws were concealed. It was in vain that Martin coated the trap with wax to disguise the scent, covering his hands and feet with the skins of the wild animals in setting or approaching the trap. Reynard refused to be deceived.
But perhaps success made him careless, although it was probably the fault of the thin covering of wet snow that fell one day late in the spring. For at last, after Larry had almost given up hope of getting even a single silver fox skin, the inevitable happened. Poor Reynard walked deliberately into a trap that had been set rather carelessly to catch a marten.
When Larry discovered this long sought prize held securely by one foot in the jaws of the trap, he gave a shout of delight at his unexpected success. The little animal had evidently been caught several hours before, and from the appearance of the ground about the trap had struggled fiercely to free itself. But now it seemed resigned to its fate, and stood crouching, watching Larry’s approach without making any further effort to escape. Even when the boy raised a heavy stick to despatch the captive, the little animal made no attempt to evade the blow, acting more like a dog resigned to take punishment from its master than a denizen of the wilderness accustomed to battle for its existence. But its wide, intelligent eyes, seemed to beg mutely for mercy.
The actions of the little animal completely unnerved the boy: he could not strike the crouching figure. If the fox had struggled fiercely, or attempted to fight for its life as a mink or marten always did, Larry could have despatched it at once; but that submissive attitude completely disarmed him. He could not resist the mute appeal in those eyes.
He lowered the club and turned away, ashamed of his weakness. But when he turned again, determined to overcome his scruples, the eyes met his with their mute plea, and again he lowered the club.
What would Martin think of such girlishness? he asked himself. Would Martin, or any good hunter, hesitate to snatch the prize that he had been struggling for all winter? He was sure they would not, and he despised himself for his weak-heartedness.
The longer he hesitated the surer he felt that he could not strike. Then the thought obtruded itself: Who would ever know if he did not strike? Who would there be to judge him but his own conscience if he were to set the little animal free instead of killing it? The moment these thoughts passed through his mind he knew that the fox had won its freedom. He should have struck at once: now it was too late.
But freeing the captive foot from the jaws of the trap without encountering the animal’s sharp, white teeth was no easy task; for he could not expect the fox to interpret his humane action correctly, and stand mutely while he forced down the trap spring. So it was not until after several fruitless attempts that he succeeded in placing a heavy limb across the spring, and by bending it down, allowed the jaws to fall open and release the foot.