"Those traps look pretty small for foxes," opined Connie, as he reached to pick one up from the snow.
'Merican Joe pushed back his hand before it touched the trap. "Don't pick 'em up!" he cried, "Dey git de man-scent on 'em. W'at you t'ink I'm keep 'em out on de cache for? W'en you touch dem trap you got to put on de mitten lak I got—de mitten dat ain' be'n in de cabin. An' dem trap ain' too leetle. If you set de beeg trap for de fox, dat ain' no good. She git caught high up on de leg, an' de beeg spring bre'k de leg an den de leg freeze an' in wan hour de fox giv' de pull an' de leg twist off, an' de fox run away—an' nex' tam you bet you ain' ketch dat fox no mor'. Any fox she hard to ketch, but de t'ree legged fox she de hardes' t'ing in de worl' to trap—she too mooch smart. You got to git de trap jes right for de fox. You got to ketch 'em right in de pads where de foot is thick an' strong an' don' bust an' freeze. Den you hol' 'em good."
Slipping on the outside moccasins over their others, the two trappers struck out for a small lake they had passed on the caribou hunt—a lake that lay between the foot of a high ridge and the open tundra upon which they had struck the trail of the two caribou bulls. Connie carried the light rifle, and Leloo accompanied them, running free.
That night they camped comfortably upon the shore of the lake, with their blankets spread beneath a light fly. They slept late and it was long after sunrise the following morning when they started out with their traps. Fox tracks were numerous along the shore, some of them leading back onto the ridge, and others heading across the lake in the direction of the open tundra. Connie was beginning to wonder why 'Merican Joe did not set his traps, when the Indian paused and carefully scrutinized a long narrow point that jutted out into the lake. The irregularity of the surface of the snow showed that the point was rocky, and here and there along its edge a small clump of stunted willows rattled their dry branches in the breeze. The Indian seemed satisfied and, walking to the ridge, cut a stick some five or six feet long which he slipped through the ring of a trap, securing the ring to the middle of the stick. A few feet beyond one of the willow clumps, nearly at the end of the point, the Indian stooped, and with his ax cut a trench in the snow the length of the stick, and about eight or ten inches in depth. In this trench he placed the stick, and packed the snow over it. He now made a smaller trench the length of the trap chain, at the end of which he pressed the snow down with the back of his mitten until he had made a depression into which he could place the trap with its jaws set flat, so that the pan would lie some two inches below the level of the snow. From his bag he drew some needles which he carefully arranged so that they radiated from the pan to the jaws in such manner as would prevent snow from packing down and interfering with the springing of the trap. Then he broke out two pieces of snow-crust and, holding them over the depression which held the trap, rubbed them together until the trap was completely covered and the snow mounded slightly higher than the surrounding level. He then rubbed other pieces of crust over the trenches which held the clog, and the trap-chain. When that was finished he took from the bag a brush-broom, which he had made of light twigs as he walked along, and dusted the mounded snow lightly until the whole presented an unbroken surface, which would defy the sharpest-eyed fox to discover it had been tampered with. All this the Indian had done without moving from his tracks, and now from the bag he drew many pieces of bear meat which he tossed on to the snow close about the trap. Slowly, he backed away, being careful to set each snowshoe in its own track, and as he moved backward, he dusted the tracks full of snow with the brush-broom. For fifty or sixty feet he repeated this laborious operation, pausing now and then to toss a piece of meat upon the snow.
Connie surveyed the job with admiration. "No wonder you said foxes are hard to trap if you have to go to all that trouble to get 'em," smiled the boy.
"It ain' hard to do. It is, w'at you call careful. You mak' de trouble to be careful, you git de fox—you ain' mak' de trouble you ain' git no fox. Odder peoples you kin git mebbe-so, if you ain' so careful, but de fox, an' de wolf, you ain' git."
Leloo circled in from the ridge, and Connie called to him sharply. "Wish we hadn't brought him along," he said. "I'm afraid he'll get to smelling around the bait and get caught."
'Merican Joe shook his head. "No. Leloo, he ain' git caught. He too smart. He know w'at de bait for. He ain' goin' for smell dat bait. If de meat is 'live, an' run or fly, Leloo he grab him if he kin. If de meat dead Leloo he ain' goin' fool wit' dat meat. You feed him dead meat—me feed him dead meat—he eat it. But, if he fin' dead meat, he ain' eat it. He too mooch smart. He smart lak de wolf, an' he smart lak de dog, too."