“Fox, and I think silver fox; he so black. I think he lives there.”
“Why?” “I have seen many times a very big fox track, and they do not go where they do not live. Even in winter they keep their own range.”
“He's worth ten martens, they say?” queried Rolf.
“Ugh! fifty.”
“Can't we get him?”
“Can try. But the water set will not work in winter; we must try different.”
This was the plan, the best that Quonab could devise for the snow: Saving the ashes from the fire (dry sand would have answered), he selected six open places in the woods on the south of the lake, and in each made an ash bed on which he scattered three or four drops of the smell-charm. Then, twenty-five yards from each, on the north or west side (the side of the prevailing wind) he hung from some sapling a few feathers, a partridge wing or tail with some red yarns to it. He left the places unvisited for two weeks, then returned to learn the progress of act one.
Judging from past experience of fox nature and from the few signs that were offered by the snow, this is what had happened: A fox came along soon after the trappers left, followed the track a little way, came to the first opening, smelled the seductive danger-lure, swung around it, saw the dangling feathers, took alarm, and went off. Another of the places had been visited by a marten. He had actually scratched in the ashes. A wolf had gone around another at a safe distance.
Another had been shunned several times by a fox or by foxes, but they had come again and again and at last yielded to the temptation to investigate the danger-smell; finally had rolled in it, evidently wallowing in an abandon of delight. So far, the plan was working there.
The next move was to set the six strong fox traps, each thoroughly smoked, and chained to a fifteen-pound block of wood.