Chapter 16. Life with the Dutch Settler

The Indians slept in the luxuriant barn of logs, with blankets, plenty
of hay, and a roof. They were more than content, for now, on the edge of
the wilderness, they were very close to wild life. Not a day or a night
passed without bringing proof of that.

One end of the barn was portioned off for poultry. In this the working
staff of a dozen hens were doing their duty, which, on that first night
of the "brown angels' visit," consisted of silent slumber, when all at
once the hens and the new hands were aroused by a clamorous cackling,
which speedily stopped. It sounded like a hen falling in a bad dream,
then regaining her perch to go to sleep again. But next morning the body
of one of these highly esteemed branches of the egg-plant was found in
the corner, partly devoured. Quonab examined the headless hen, the dust
around, and uttered the word, "Mink."

Rolf said, "Why not skunk?"

"Skunk could not climb to the perch."

"Weasel then."

"Weasel would only suck the blood, and would kill three or four."

"Coon would carry him away, so would fox or wildcat, and a marten would
not come into the building by night."

There was no question, first, that it was a mink, and, second, that he
was hiding about the barn until the hunger pang should send him again
to the hen house. Quonab covered the hen's body with two or three large
stones so that there was only one approach. In the way of this approach
he buried a "number one" trap.

That night they were aroused again; this time by a frightful screeching,
and a sympathetic, inquiring cackle from the fowls.

Arising, quickly they entered with a lantem. Rolf then saw a sight that
gave him a prickling in his hair. The mink, a large male, was caught by
one front paw. He was writhing and foaming, tearing, sometimes at the
trap, sometimes at the dead hen, and sometimes at his own imprisoned
foot, pausing now and then to utter the most ear-piercing shrieks, then
falling again in crazy animal fury on the trap, splintering his sharp
white teeth, grinding the cruel metal with bruised and bloody jaws,
frothing, snarling, raving mad. As his foemen entered he turned on them
a hideous visage of inexpressible fear and hate, rage and horror.
His eyes glanced back green fire in the lantern light; he strained in
renewed efforts to escape; the air was rank with his musky smell. The
impotent fury of his struggle made a picture that continued in Rol