CHAPTER IX.
TO THE DEATH
The forest gloom is broken by gladdening beams of sunlight. They sketch a mazy fretwork pattern of light and shade on the dank underlay of rotting vegetation which the melting snow has laid bare. The air is weighted down with heavy, resinous odours, and an enervating warmth has descended to the depths of the lower forests. But Winter has not yet spread its wings for its last flight. Spring’s approach has been heralded by its feathered trumpeters, garbed in their sober plumage. It is on its way, that is all. The transition of the seasons is at hand. Winter still resists, and the gentle legions of Spring have yet to fight out their annual battle. The forests are astir with wild, furred life; the fierce life which emphasizes the solitude of the mountain world. The pine-cones scrunch under the feet of the prowling beast as he moves solemnly upon his dread way; there is a swish of bush or a snapping of wood as some startled animal seeks cover; or a heavy crashing of branches, as the mighty-antlered moose, solemn-eyed, unheeding, thrusts himself through the undergrowth.
Ralph was bending over a large trap. It was still set although the bait had been removed. It had been set at the mouth of a narrow track where it opened out in a small, snow-covered clearing. The blood stains of the raw meat with which it had been baited were still moist, but the flesh itself had been taken. He turned from his inspection. There were footprints in the snow, evidently the tracks of a timber-wolf. His face expressed his disgust as he rebaited the trap. Wolves were the pest of his life. Their skins were almost worthless, and they were as cunning as any dog-fox. A trap had no terrors for them. He moved away to continue on his journey. Suddenly he drew up and scanned the white carpet. His trailing instincts were keenly alert.
The snow was disturbed by other marks than those made by the wolf. In places the ground was laid bare, and broken pine-cones were displayed upon its surface as though some great weight had crushed them. Moose suggested itself. He looked keenly at the marks. No, the snow displayed no imprint of cloven hoofs. It looked as though it had been raked by a close-set harrow. To him there was much significance in what he saw. Only one creature could have left such a track. There was but one animal in that forest world that moved with shambling gait, and whose paws could rake the snow in such a manner. That animal was the grizzly, the monarch of the mountain forest.
The man looked further over the snow, and, in a few moments, had learned all he wished to know. There were two distinct trails, one approaching, the other departing. But there was a curious difference between them. The approach had evidently been at a slovenly, ambling pace. The raking of the trailing feet showed this. But the departing track displayed every sign of great haste. The snow had been flurried to an extent that had obliterated all semblance of footprints.
Ralph unslung his rifle. Ahead of him was the track, ahead of him also was a further break in the forest where the sun shone down with dazzling brilliancy. He passed on and looked up at the perfect sky. Then he took the direction of the track. It struck out for the northeast.
“I wonder if Nick’s lit on it,” he muttered. “It ’ud be his luck, anyway.”
He further examined the tracks, and the whiteness of the snow warned him they were quite fresh.
“Ain’t been made more’n an hour,” he added, in further soliloquy. “Guess, I’ll trail him.”