TRAILING THE MOCCASIN

“At least both traps are still here,” Joel noted, looking at the beaver trap through the tree’s snow-covered roots. He reached under, yanked the chain, and saw that the grappling hooks were still securely attached to the tree’s underside. Othello studied the site carefully. “They’re both here, all right, but they’ve both been sprung and reset.”

“What about them bear tracks, Ottie?” Abel said, tilting his head toward the log. Othello’s beard masked his expression, but his forehead clearly showed a change when he saw them. “Damn it to hell, Abel, can’t believe you didn’t know what animal made those tracks!” Then he added under his breath, “…if bears wore moccasins!”

Abel scratched his head and moved closer, examining the tracks more carefully. His gaze traveled downward toward the beaver trap. He studied the rushing water underneath as it swerved and cascaded over rocks and chunks of water-sculptured ice, and he felt as cold as Gus-da-go Creek looked. After all this time, how could he mistake moccasin prints for bear tracks? “Maybe you ought to hide behind the tree over there and wait for ol’ bruin to come back and try to get an interview with ‘im.”

Not me, Othello! Shaking his head slowly, Abel said, “I ain’t gonna stay here alone.” “Well…tell you what. Me and Joel’s going to hide nearer the traps, and you get back of that tree. We’ll just wait a while and see what kind of ‘bear’ comes back to ‘em. I’ve a hunch he’s visitin’ our other traps downstream and just might come back this way.”

They had been lying quietly with their rifles ready, listening, staying concealed for over half an hour. They heard only the hardiest of winter birds chattering and the gurgling stream as it passed before their place of concealment.

They sprang fully alert when a sudden flurry of wings sent a covey of ruffed grouse into the air on the stream’s far side.

“Stay down…be quiet,” Othello whispered. “I think we’re about to see us our ‘bear’ in moccasins.” Peering over the brush, they watched the far end of the toppled tree-bridge. They heard an ever so slight click of metal against metal.

“Damn it, Abel…” Othello murmured.

Still unseen, the figure stopped. It had caught the sound and, listening, bent forward, Surveying every surrounding object. He stood there, head erect and motionless. His eyes moved slowly…right, front, left, trying to penetrate the heavy brush on the far side of the creek. All was again silent except the murmur of water over ice and rock. Reassured that he was alone, that the sound was probably made by a squirrel or other small animal breaking a twig, Abel’s “bear” moved forward. Onto the fallen-tree bridge he stepped, eyes now directed to the trap anchored beneath it on the other side of the creek.

Othello held up his finger to his mouth and shook his head.

The “bear” wore moccasins, all right. He was tall, with long black straight hair encased in a red cap. He had on buckskin leggings and was wrapped in a caped leather hunting shirt fastened with a wide, beaded waistband. Slipped through it on the left side was a sheathed skinning knife, and in his right hand, a tomahawk. His left hand was beneath his skin cloak and apparently held two beaver pelts, for two tails hung out below it. A red fox was slung around his neck like a collar.

Othello slowly held his hand up to Joel, then to Abel, pointing at his rifle, and shook his head as a signal to them not to shoot.

Carefully Othello raised his rifle and drew a bead on the “bear” from the time he started walking forward until his reached the center of the log bridge.