The next morning the trapper proposed that I should accompany him upon his daily round. I complied, while Nat remained behind.
The day was as warm and pleasant as the preceding one, and the forest and stream as delightful. Biddon paddled slowly up the unrippled surface, and in a short time reached the first trap; it had not been disturbed. Still hopeful, he passed on to the second and third and all the others. But there were no signs of beaver in any.
“Shoot me, that’s quar’!” he exclaimed, thoughtfully, as he saw the last one. “I don’t understand it; I must git out and take a look round.”
He sprang ashore, and minutely examined the ground around. A few seconds sufficed. He looked up with a gleam of deep meaning, and said:
“Here’s the track of a thunderin’ moccasin. The reds have found us out.”
He stepped into the canoe, and taking the paddle moved it carefully back again. He touched at each trap on the way. The footprints of a stranger were visible at each.
“Thar’s been a beaver taken out of that one!” he remarked, as the last one was reached. “It’s lucky for the sneakin’ coward that I didn’t see him. He wouldn’t ’sturbed any more gentlemen’s traps.”
“Are you sure it is an Indian who has been annoying you?”