The racket made by three shots in the early morning had suddenly interrupted the camp chorus, and I was greeted with the inquiry, "Where's the deer?"
"That deer," said I, "is a bear, and he's big as a horse. I left him up in the woods. We'll go and get him after breakfast."
Bige allowed that "if it really was a bear, he wasn't hurt much. You couldn't kill a bear with that pop-gun. (I was using a Winchester 30). Why, a bear's hide is thicker than sole-leather and this time of year he has an armor-plate of fat under it, six inches thick. You might as well try to shoot a hole through a feather pillow. If you are going to hunt bear, take an elephant-gun — a 45-90."
After breakfast, we all started out on the trail of the bear. We found blood spots in the log-road. We also measured a foot print in a soft place in the path. It was twelve inches in diameter. Broken bushes, blood spots on fallen trees and on leaves marked his route up the steep slope. Half way up the mountain on a big ledge of rocks, covered with moss, the bear had been lying down. A pool of blood marked the spot. Also, numerous tufts of moss torn from the rock and saturated with blood were scattered about. Apparently the bear had pulled up handfuls of the soft moss and used it in the same manner that a surgeon uses lint.
Bige suggested, "This is a first aid station for bears; but if you should tell anyone what you have seen here, you will be put in the class of Nature Fakirs."
We followed the bear's trail from the mossy rock up to the top of the mountain and had started down the other side when it began to rain. In a few minutes the rain had washed away the red stains and we lost the trail and returned to camp. But that bear is going yet. Also, he is carrying with him three bullets that belong to me. Some day, somewhere in the woods, I expect to meet him again, when I shall take those bullets away from him.
It is now seventeen years since we first met the Chief Engineer. He still retains the monopoly of his trade mark. Within our knowledge, no other beaver has appeared with a white spot on his head. But the Chief shows his age. His brown coat of fur looks faded and grey, and the white spot is less conspicuous. The Chief was a member of the first colony installed for the purpose of restocking the northern forests; and he has contributed his share, both to increasing the inhabitants and to rebuilding beaver industries. Every season a new family of four to seven beavers have been sent out from his home to start other families, and so they have multiplied in a sort of geometrical progression until now they cover many hundreds of square miles of forest land and water. Early in 1920 the Conservation Commissioner of the State of New York estimated that there were more than twenty thousand beavers in the Adirondack region. My guess is that this estimate is much too low.
One day last summer, Bige and I saw the Chief Engineer dive and enter a tunnel leading to his house. We silently paddled up close to the house and listened. Presently we heard a murmur of beaver conversation inside. "Gosh!" said Bige, "the old Chief is giving instructions to the kid beavers. He's telling 'em how to handle the job they have to do tonight."