Could you follow an otter in such a place, you might see him rout out a fish, catch it after a breathless chase, and speed away to the nearest place for eating it. That place may be a den of his own in the bank, or a beaver’s tunnel under the lodge, or a cave under a hummock where the expanding ice crowds up over a half-submerged rock, making a roomy air-chamber in which otter, mink or muskrat may eat or rest in perfect security. The rock offers them a floor, and the roof of ice hides them from all prying eyes. It is in such places, I think, that Keeonekh sometimes meets the beaver and makes an enemy of him.
The winter comedy, as one follows it in imagination, may be something like this. Keeonekh enters a lake that the beavers are using for winter quarters, and glides like a shadow over the fishing grounds. In deep water beyond the inlet he jumps his game, and follows it hither and yon through the gloom under the ice. The chase may take him far from the opening; but for that he has no concern, feeling sure of himself and of his locality. It is his business to know every den and air hole in the lake, as it is a wolf’s business to know every rabbit swamp and deer yard within forty miles, since his life may at any moment depend on knowing just such things. Almost out of breath, he grips his fish and heads swiftly for the nearest breathing place, coming out above water in the beavers’ tunnel, and climbing instantly into the lower room.
The beavers, hearing something in their tunnel, something that comes with a rush, naturally scramble into their upper room to get away from it. They are not looking for trouble; like all other wood folk, they are keen to avoid it. After listening a moment, one big beaver comes cautiously down the passage; but before he can get into his hall Keeonekh has blocked the way.
Now an otter always eats where he lands his catch. He never carries a burden on land; and should you surprise him with a fish, he drops it and escapes, knowing that he can catch another. But he has no fear of the beaver, and so humps his back to eat in Hamoosabik’s hall, unmindful of angry muttering in the passageway above, or of beady eyes that glare down on this mannerless barbarian who brings smelly fish into a house that is very clean.
The smell is the worst feature of the outrage, I think, since it drowns the odor of musk, in which beavers delight. They are curious creatures in this respect; though they carry musk with them, and their lodge is at all times filled with its aroma, they will yet go out of their way for a fresh sniff of the delicacy. For most other odors they have strong aversion. You can drive them from their lodge, for example, or away from any dam they are building (a thing which must be done sometimes, when they flood a trail you are using), by scattering the contents of a carbide lamp or other strong-smelling stuff where they must pass over it or get it on their feet.
Here then is a lively situation, Keeonekh eating fish not only in the house, but under the very noses of beavers that cannot abide a fishy smell. Nor can they stop the nuisance, however angry they may be. A grown otter is a match for any single beaver; a downward rush of the whole family is impossible, because there is room in the passage for only one beaver at a time, and the passage is blocked by Keeonekh with a chip on his shoulder. Like other beasts, he is in fighting mood when his dinner is threatened. So he eats his fish where he lands it, leaving slime, scales, fragments of skin or flesh, an abominable mess, in the beavers’ hallway; and their first concern when he departs is to be rid of what he leaves behind him. Throw it out they cannot, there being no door or window to the lodge; their only way is to take the offensive stuff in their teeth and carry it through the underwater tunnel. One can imagine their emotions as they clean up the litter, and what they would like to do to the wretch who left it.
Keeonekh is far away by the time the lodge is again shipshape, and the beavers can never overtake him. He is faster at swimming than they are. Should they follow as far as the opening by which he entered the lake, there they must halt and turn back. They dare not venture afield in winter, while otters travel boldly in the open at any season.
We have followed the little comedy imaginatively thus far, but not without certain signs or hints that give our fancy the right direction. One day, full twenty years after witnessing the beaver-otter fight, Simmo and I stood beside a beaver lodge that the owners had abandoned for their summer roving. The lake was a natural one, not an artificial pond made by a beaver dam, and in the deeper water fish were still fairly plentiful. The beavers had not yet driven them away. Peering curiously into the still water under the bank on which the lodge stood, I noticed some bones, gill covers and other fishy litter, which Simmo thought was the refuse left by an otter. At first that seemed very queer, since an otter always eats on land, and the refuse was scattered on the bottom of the lake near an outlet of the beavers’ tunnel. When we laid the lodge open to examine its interior arrangement, the Indian pointed to some dried fish scales in crevices of the beavers’ hallway.