ried and sought to save himself by abandoning
the lynx's territory, so had struck across the open lake. But here the
snow was too soft to bear him at all, and the lynx could still skim
over. So it proved a fatal error. He was strong and brave. He fought at
least another hour here before the much stronger, heavier lynx had
done him to death. There was no justification. It was a clear case of
tyrannical murder, but in this case vengeance was swift and justice came
sooner than its wont.

Chapter 41. The Enemy's Fort

It pays 'bout once in a hundred times to git mad, but there
ain't any way o' tellin' beforehand which is the time.
--Sayings of Si Sylvanne.

It generally took two days to run the west line of traps. At a
convenient point they had built a rough shack for a half-way house. On
entering this one day, they learned that since their last visit it had
been occupied by some one who chewed tobacco. Neither of them had this
habit. Quonab's face grew darker each time fresh evidence of the enemy
was discovered, and the final wrong was added soon.

Some trappers mark their traps; some do not bother. Rolf had marked all
of theirs with a file, cutting notches on the iron. Two, one, three, was
their mark, and it was a wise plan, as it turned out.

On going around the west beaver pond they found that all six traps had
disappeared. In some, there was no evidence of the thief; in some, the
tracks showed clearly that they were taken by the same interloper that
had bothered them all along, and on a jagged branch was a short blue
yarn.

"Now will I take up his trail and kill him," said the Indian.

Rolf had opposed extreme measures, and again he remonstrated. To his
surprise, the Indian turned fiercely and said: "You know it is white
man. If he was Indian would you be patient? No!"

"There is plenty of country south of the lake; maybe he was here first."

"You know he was not. You should eat many pekan hearts. I have sought
peace, now I fight."

He shouldered his pack, grasped his gun, and his snowshoes went "tssape,
tssape, tssape," over the snow.

Skookum was sitting by Rolf. He rose to resume the march, and trotted
a few steps on Quonab's trail. Rolf did not move; he was dazed by the
sudden and painful situation. Mutiny is always worse than war. Skookum
looked back, trotted on, still Rolf sat staring. Quonab's figure was
lost in the distance; the dog's was nearly so. Rolf moved not. All the
eve