The first live marten was in one of the "ground set" traps and upon the approach of the trappers he arched his back and stood at bay, emitting sharp squalls and growls of anger. 'Merican Joe simply planted his snowshoe on him, pressing him into the snow, then with one hand he reached down and secured a firm hold on the animal's neck and gradually worked the fore part of his body from under the snowshoe, taking care to keep the hinder part held fast by the web. Snapping the mitten from his other hand, the Indian felt just behind the lower ribs for the animal's heart, and grasping it firmly between thumb and fingers he pulled quickly downward. The heart was thus torn from its position and the animal died instantly and painlessly. The mink which was suspended by the tossing pole, and the other marten which had fallen victim to one of the "tree sets," of course, could not be held by the snowshoe. As both were caught by the fore leg, a loop of copper wire was slipped about their hind legs and the animals thus stretched out and dispatched in the same manner as the first.
As these three animals were not frozen, 'Merican Joe skinned them at the noon camp, thereby doing away with the weight of the useless carcasses.
"What are we going to do when we finish up this trap line?" asked Connie. "It won't be time to look at the snares again."
"No. We tak' a day an' res' up, an' skin de martens an' stretch um. Den we mus' got to git som' dog feed. We put out de fish nets an' hunt de caribou. Leloo, he be'n killing caribou wit' de wolf pack—he ain' hongre w'en we feed de dogs."
But the revelation of the next few miles drove all thought of a day of rest or a caribou hunt from the mind of the Indian, for real trouble began with the second trap visited in the afternoon. This trap which had been set upon the trunk of a leaning tree, was found dangling empty by its chain, and held firmly between its jaws was the frozen leg of a marten. The keen eyes of 'Merican Joe saw at a glance that the animal had neither gnawed nor twisted its own way out of the trap but had been torn from it by violence. The Indian scowled darkly at certain telltale tracks in the snow, and an exclamation of anger escaped him.
Connie laughed. "Now who's growling about the loss of a skin? One marten more or less won't make much difference."
'Merican Joe continued to scowl. "No, one marten don't mak' mooch differ', but we ain' goin' to git no more marten on dis trap line s'pose we ain' kill dat carcajo! He start in here an' he clean out de whole line. He steal all de marten, an' he bust up de deadfalls. An' we got to ketch um or we got got to move som' nodder place!" And in all truth, the Indian's fears were well justified. For of all the animals of the North, the carcajo is the most hated by the trappers. And he has fairly earned every bit of hatred he gets because for absolute malicious fiendishness this thick-bodied brute of many names has no equal. Scientists, who have no personal quarrel with him, have given him the dignified Latin name of gulo luscus—the last syllable of the last word being particularly apt. In the dictionaries and encyclopædias he is listed as the glutton. In the United States he is commonly known as the wolverine. The lumberjacks call him the Injun devil. While among the trappers and the Indians themselves he is known as the carcajo, or as bad dog—which is the Indian's idea of absolute cussedness and degeneracy.
Connie broke the silence that had fallen upon the two as they stared at the empty trap. "Well, we won't move!" he cried. "There's no measly carcajo going to run me out of here! We'll get busy, and in two or three days from now we'll have that scoundrel's hide hanging up on the cache with the lynx skins!"