oad, and is turned up at one end. It is extremely light, and Indians
invariably use it when visiting their traps, for the purpose of dragging
home the animals or game they may have caught. Having attached this
sledge to his back, he stoops to receive his gun from his faithful
_squaw_ [see note 2], who has been watching his operations through a
hole in the tent; and throwing it on his shoulder, strides off, without
uttering a word, across the moonlit space in front of the tent, turns
into a narrow track that leads down the dark ravine, and disappears in
the shades of the forest. Soon he reaches the termination of the track
(made for the purpose of reaching some good dry trees for firewood), and
stepping into the deep snow with the long, regular, firm tread of one
accustomed to snow-shoe walking, he winds his way rapidly through the
thick stems of the surrounding trees, and turns aside the smaller
branches of the bushes.

The forest is now almost dark, the foliage overhead having become so
dense that the moon only penetrates through it in a few places, causing
the spots on which it falls to shine with a strange phosphoric light,
and rendering the surrounding masses darker by contrast. The faint
outline, of an old snowshoe track, at first discernible, is now quite
invisible; but still Stemaw moves forward with rapid, noiseless step, as
sure of his way as if a broad beaten track lay before him. In this
manner he moves on for nearly two miles, sometimes stooping to examine
closely the newly-made track of some wild animal, and occasionally
giving a glance at the sky through the openings in the leafy canopy
above him, when a faint sound in the bushes ahead brings him to a full
stop. He listens attentively, and a noise, like the rattling of a
chain, is heard proceeding from the recesses of a dark, wild-looking
hollow a few paces in front. Another moment, and the rattle is again
distinctly heard; a slight smile of satisfaction crosses Stemaw's dark
visage, for one of his traps is set in that place, and he knows that
something is caught. Quickly descending the slope, he enters the bushes
whence the sound proceeds, and pauses when within a yard or two of his
trap, to peer through the gloom. A cloud passes off the moon, and a
faint ray reveals, it may be, a beautiful black fox caught in the snare.
A slight blow on the snout from Stemaw's axe-handle kills the
unfortunate animal; in ten minutes more it is tied to his sledge,